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Entry tags:
bsg fic: Kara/Anders, devil never met, Rish
disclaimer: not mine
pairing: Kara Thrace/Sam Anders
set: during the Demetrius arc.
rating: R. ish. talk of sex, references, etc.
length: 1000+
notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
prolix_allie on account of it being her birthday. I think this might be weirder and angstier than you wanted. Inspired by Staind's 'Believe'. (also, while I ran spellcheck, I'm running against the clock here. all mistakes are my own)
devil never met
by ALC Punk!
They have sex when Kara needs it, when she has frustration to burn and her hands are shaking too hard to make a straight line. Never when Sam needs it, though he's a lot better at ignoring the craving for her than she is at ignoring her anger and uncertainty. He's heard what the others say, he's been hearing it since New Caprica when it (mostly) wasn't true. He's a pushover and a doormat, letting her dictate everything. If they knew what he was, he knows they'd say more. Call him a battery-operated toy at Starbuck's beck and call. Maybe worse.
He's not surprised. People have been gossiping about him since he hit the smaller leagues (if he really did). It's just one more thing he lets slide off of his back.
Besides, maybe they'd just airlock him and get it over with, like Kara will when she finds out.
Oddly, Sam doesn't think he's letting her get away with anything. He knows how she sounds, tastes, feels, when she's clawing at him for something to connect her to the real world. It's ugly, but there's a sense of satisfaction there, something he'll never articulate to anyone.
There are times she's so covered in smears of paint he almost drags her to the showers, but she doesn't need the water as much as she needs to mark him.
With her head on his shoulder, he feels connected, like he's real and not a copy of a man who never existed.
That's what scares him the most when he's out on recon, with nothing but the stars for company. That Kara and he are right: that Cylons have no souls and never have (he has the suspicion Kara's never really believed that). That when he dies there will be nothing but cold and darkness, and that he'll deserve it, if only by virtue of having been a part of the race which had caused near-genocide.
Fifty-thousand people isn't a marker he wants on his grave.
When he comes back, he can tell, by now. Gaeta has a certain squirrelly look in his eyes, Helo's a bit blunter. Take care of her, Sam. She won't talk to any of us.
He's used to returning and being ambushed, of taking the stairs up to the paint and paper-filled room two at a time to confront her. She mostly throws words at him, though once she threw a pot of paint, not seeming to care that it would spill out everywhere. He caught it, slamming it against an open spot on her desk before catching her hands. Don't do that again.
She hadn't replied verbally, slamming her body against his and shoving them both towards the bed. He'd annoyed her by taking his time: pinning her and kissing her mouth and cheeks so gently she was growling and angrier than before. He'd almost laughed. Maybe he should have responded in the anger she'd demanded.
Don't hurt her, Karl sometimes says. Her oldest friend, and he still worries about her even with the way she treats him--the way she treats all of them.
Sam can't tell him how much he's hurting her just by existing, these days.
But there are times it's worth it. Times when they're too tired to sleep apart, and she forgets (or remembers), and snuggles against him, face buried in his shoulder. Times she laughs at him afterwards, jokes and mocks and pulls him back against her when she should be pushing him away.
He woke, once, to find her playing with his tags, fingers tangled in the ball chain. There wasn't anything he could say or do that didn't seem stupid, so he froze, simply watching her. She finally murmured something, obviously half-asleep, and rolled slightly away from him.
Sometimes, he lets himself trace the ink on their arms, remembering how much it hurt, and how proud and crazy in love with her he was that he went along with her suggestion. Sometimes, he wonders if the crazy was both of them, if they were caught up in something too insane to stop until it broke them. Other times, laying on his back alone, he wonders if he only does this because he's programmed to.
He tries not to let himself consider that when there's nothing but the stars to hold him anywhere.
Sometimes, he wants to hate her. Wants to feel rage and disdain for this shell of a woman who once (pretended to) loved him. Those are the times he buries himself in games of Triad, stripping everyone of their money (and clothes, when they're all too exhausted to think strip Triad is a bad idea).
He usually leaves the table with a sour taste in his mouth and a need to climb the stairs again, boots clanking on the grating until she laughs at him in anger and frustration. You were the easy choice...
Sometimes, he can't believe she's really said that, even as he knows she meant it, in her own way. Maybe she meant it for real and ever. Maybe she's never really needed him like he needed her.
But then, she'll do something, some shift of movement that will bring her against him, back into something like sanity--
And he thinks that maybe it's all facade. Kara's hiding so much, she's trapped inside something neither of them can escape.
There's an inevitability to his thoughts, then, and he feels scared at the idea that he's ok with being her destiny--a part of it, the driving force, or just another body for her to pound in her run from reality.
If it's reality she's running from. He's not sure on that score, either. Sometimes, when she's talking shit, hands buried in paint as she hurls words at him, he sees, maybe, what she means. Music pulled at him, once upon a time. Maybe a feeling can pull at her.
He remembers her in the memorial hall, hands clutched to the side of her head, like it would make whatever it was stop. He'd tried the same, once or twice, when the music first started. Hands on his ears, body curled in his rack while he tried to pretend that it wasn't there. He wasn't hearing words and sounds that made no sense (until later, trapped with three others with reality crashing around them).
It's a dream, sometimes. Fresh air, dirt under his feet, the smell of cut-grass and rain falling on his skin. A mixture of things that make him think, home, even though home is Caprica (if he has a home), and that's arid and dying, full of mis-matched cities broken into cinders and falling into forests wilting into nothing with the radiation fall-out.
But it's Earth. The place Kara talks about when she's so tired she just can't shut up about it. Like she was there, like her fingers dug into the ground and threw clumps up into the blue blue sky.
And it's then, when he's just as tired, that sometimes, he thinks he can feel the pull of Earth, too.
-f
pairing: Kara Thrace/Sam Anders
set: during the Demetrius arc.
rating: R. ish. talk of sex, references, etc.
length: 1000+
notes: This is for
prolix_allie on account of it being her birthday. I think this might be weirder and angstier than you wanted. Inspired by Staind's 'Believe'. (also, while I ran spellcheck, I'm running against the clock here. all mistakes are my own)devil never met
by ALC Punk!
They have sex when Kara needs it, when she has frustration to burn and her hands are shaking too hard to make a straight line. Never when Sam needs it, though he's a lot better at ignoring the craving for her than she is at ignoring her anger and uncertainty. He's heard what the others say, he's been hearing it since New Caprica when it (mostly) wasn't true. He's a pushover and a doormat, letting her dictate everything. If they knew what he was, he knows they'd say more. Call him a battery-operated toy at Starbuck's beck and call. Maybe worse.
He's not surprised. People have been gossiping about him since he hit the smaller leagues (if he really did). It's just one more thing he lets slide off of his back.
Besides, maybe they'd just airlock him and get it over with, like Kara will when she finds out.
Oddly, Sam doesn't think he's letting her get away with anything. He knows how she sounds, tastes, feels, when she's clawing at him for something to connect her to the real world. It's ugly, but there's a sense of satisfaction there, something he'll never articulate to anyone.
There are times she's so covered in smears of paint he almost drags her to the showers, but she doesn't need the water as much as she needs to mark him.
With her head on his shoulder, he feels connected, like he's real and not a copy of a man who never existed.
That's what scares him the most when he's out on recon, with nothing but the stars for company. That Kara and he are right: that Cylons have no souls and never have (he has the suspicion Kara's never really believed that). That when he dies there will be nothing but cold and darkness, and that he'll deserve it, if only by virtue of having been a part of the race which had caused near-genocide.
Fifty-thousand people isn't a marker he wants on his grave.
When he comes back, he can tell, by now. Gaeta has a certain squirrelly look in his eyes, Helo's a bit blunter. Take care of her, Sam. She won't talk to any of us.
He's used to returning and being ambushed, of taking the stairs up to the paint and paper-filled room two at a time to confront her. She mostly throws words at him, though once she threw a pot of paint, not seeming to care that it would spill out everywhere. He caught it, slamming it against an open spot on her desk before catching her hands. Don't do that again.
She hadn't replied verbally, slamming her body against his and shoving them both towards the bed. He'd annoyed her by taking his time: pinning her and kissing her mouth and cheeks so gently she was growling and angrier than before. He'd almost laughed. Maybe he should have responded in the anger she'd demanded.
Don't hurt her, Karl sometimes says. Her oldest friend, and he still worries about her even with the way she treats him--the way she treats all of them.
Sam can't tell him how much he's hurting her just by existing, these days.
But there are times it's worth it. Times when they're too tired to sleep apart, and she forgets (or remembers), and snuggles against him, face buried in his shoulder. Times she laughs at him afterwards, jokes and mocks and pulls him back against her when she should be pushing him away.
He woke, once, to find her playing with his tags, fingers tangled in the ball chain. There wasn't anything he could say or do that didn't seem stupid, so he froze, simply watching her. She finally murmured something, obviously half-asleep, and rolled slightly away from him.
Sometimes, he lets himself trace the ink on their arms, remembering how much it hurt, and how proud and crazy in love with her he was that he went along with her suggestion. Sometimes, he wonders if the crazy was both of them, if they were caught up in something too insane to stop until it broke them. Other times, laying on his back alone, he wonders if he only does this because he's programmed to.
He tries not to let himself consider that when there's nothing but the stars to hold him anywhere.
Sometimes, he wants to hate her. Wants to feel rage and disdain for this shell of a woman who once (pretended to) loved him. Those are the times he buries himself in games of Triad, stripping everyone of their money (and clothes, when they're all too exhausted to think strip Triad is a bad idea).
He usually leaves the table with a sour taste in his mouth and a need to climb the stairs again, boots clanking on the grating until she laughs at him in anger and frustration. You were the easy choice...
Sometimes, he can't believe she's really said that, even as he knows she meant it, in her own way. Maybe she meant it for real and ever. Maybe she's never really needed him like he needed her.
But then, she'll do something, some shift of movement that will bring her against him, back into something like sanity--
And he thinks that maybe it's all facade. Kara's hiding so much, she's trapped inside something neither of them can escape.
There's an inevitability to his thoughts, then, and he feels scared at the idea that he's ok with being her destiny--a part of it, the driving force, or just another body for her to pound in her run from reality.
If it's reality she's running from. He's not sure on that score, either. Sometimes, when she's talking shit, hands buried in paint as she hurls words at him, he sees, maybe, what she means. Music pulled at him, once upon a time. Maybe a feeling can pull at her.
He remembers her in the memorial hall, hands clutched to the side of her head, like it would make whatever it was stop. He'd tried the same, once or twice, when the music first started. Hands on his ears, body curled in his rack while he tried to pretend that it wasn't there. He wasn't hearing words and sounds that made no sense (until later, trapped with three others with reality crashing around them).
It's a dream, sometimes. Fresh air, dirt under his feet, the smell of cut-grass and rain falling on his skin. A mixture of things that make him think, home, even though home is Caprica (if he has a home), and that's arid and dying, full of mis-matched cities broken into cinders and falling into forests wilting into nothing with the radiation fall-out.
But it's Earth. The place Kara talks about when she's so tired she just can't shut up about it. Like she was there, like her fingers dug into the ground and threw clumps up into the blue blue sky.
And it's then, when he's just as tired, that sometimes, he thinks he can feel the pull of Earth, too.
-f