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Entry tags:
BSG fic: The Homewrecker (in 12 Steps), Kara/Sam, R/PG13
Disclaimer: not mine
Pairing/Characters: Kara Thrace/Sam Anders
Rating: R? Mild sexual content, vague violence. Contains sappy domesticity, as well.
Set: New Caprica arc
Notes: *hands* This is what happens when logic-impaired idiots go on about Sam being a home-wrecker.
The Home-wrecker (in 12 Steps)
by ALC Punk!
1.
Kara likes to tell him that the cot breaking every week is his fault. Sam doesn't object to being blamed, since it usually means they've just had fantastic sex that ended somewhere on the floor with Kara sprawled all over him.
There's something incredible about Kara Thrace being exhausted enough to cling like that, so Sam just goes with it.
Sometimes, he objects, and then she mocks him and there's a war to see which of them can say stupider things until they're giggling and half-aroused again. The sex is usually slow and oddly sweet, at that point; Sam thinks it scares her just a little, but never pushes her for more. Not until she's ready.
2.
"You know people move out of this lane because of you?"
Sam looks up at Galen, and half-laughs at the slightly annoyed look in his eyes. "You're just jealous," he suggests, waggling his eyebrows.
That shuts Galen up for a moment, since they both know the last time the Tyrols tried to match the Thrace-Anderses for stamina, noise and content, Cally pulled the tent down around them. He scowls at the reminder and throws a oil-drenched cloth at Sam. "You wish."
Sam dodges it, but keeps from admitting that he and Kara have almost done the same three times now. It wouldn't do to give the man ammunition.
3.
"What the frak is that smell?"
Kara sounds pissed and tired, and Sam can't blame her--he's pissed and tired, though more annoyed with himself than anything else.
The stench of burned food still hasn't cleared, and he's been freezing his ass off to keep the tent flaps up to air the place out. "I was cooking," he mutters. The pot is sitting outside the door, soaking in hot water to clear the last of the stew from it. Most of the congealed mess is already poured in the jakes pit two streets over.
"Cooking. Well, Sammy, smells like you fail at that."
He wants to yell at her, a bunch of little, pent-up annoyances suddenly spilling out of him. He'd fallen asleep, exhausted from a too-early morning after a very late night. Opening his mouth, he surges off the platform. At the look in her eyes, he goes still.
For just an instant, she was afraid of him, then the flicker is gone.
"I fell asleep," he says, instead, his voice almost rusty.
Kara snickers, moves in and shoves at him, "Yeah? And you decided that cooking while sleepy was a good idea, huh?"
"Yeah." He catches her hands and pulls her in, pretending he's falling over and she has to catch him. She does. Barely.
"Jackass."
He kisses her shoulder and moves away to pull out the food he's managed to salvage. "Love you, too."
4.
"Godsdamn homewrecker," Kara rasps, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Sam's head is ringing from where it smacked into the platform their bed is on. He's seriously regretting lifting her up to frak her against the main pole of the tent. "'S not jus' my fault," he mumbles.
Pushing away from him, Kara curses as she struggles with the canvas that fell on them. The stuff is heavy and smells like mildew and smoke. Sam starts laughing when she trips on something and lands back on top of him, bringing even more tent with her.
"This isn't going to work," he says.
"I'll make it work." Her elbow digs into him, and then she starts giggling. "Gods, Sammy--"
He joins her, hands pulling her down underneath his flaps of canvas, feeling the way the laughter shakes her entire body, and hoping that will never stop.
5.
"FRAK YOU."
They are both so pissed they're reduced to over-used phrases and curses. Sam doesn't remember what started the argument, but thinks it was something about toothbrushes that's been a long-time coming. He shouts something stupid back at her, wondering vaguely how he can be this angry at his wife, when just that morning, he was thinking about how hot she was, and how he never wanted to let her go.
He wonders if this is a first for them, if Kara would once have thrown something at him and stormed off. His own hands itch to toss themselves in the air. "This is stupid!"
"You're stupid," she shoots back.
Sam gives in and throws his hands into the air, a universal gesture of surrender, "Stop being an ass, Kara."
"Frak you."
Back where they started.
6.
Two days later, Sam's sitting on their bed when Kara storms in. His hands are full of the clothing he's folding, his mind sort of drifting, thinking about what to have for dinner, wondering if Kara will ever talk to him again.
"You idiot," she says, striding onto the platform, all crackling energy and movement.
She lands in his lap, hands on his shoulders, mouth on his before he can reply. Shoving the shirt he was folding to the side, he grabs her waist, holding her steady.
A part of him thinks this isn't the right way to go about making up, but Kara pulls her shirt off, and Sam forgets about that in favor of proving he's sorry for the argument with his mouth on her breasts. Just because he enjoys the taste of her doesn't change his intentions. Mostly.
Kara pushes him back, and he slides his hand down her pants.
Afterwards, he stares up at the ceiling of the tent, remembering the taste of canvas on her skin. She's half-sprawled on him, making smug little noises. "Better?"
"Mmm." She rubs her cheek against his shoulder and pushes up a little, "You did the laundry."
"Was my turn."
She wrinkles her nose, "Wasn't."
Brushing his thumb against her cheek, he shrugs, "I needed clean socks."
"Liar," she mumbles, kissing his cheek and mumbling, "'M sorry, too."
7.
There's something about coming home to the same person night after night that makes Sam smile at inappropriate moments. Knocking the ball from Barolay's hands, he hears Kara jeering at his prowess, and thinks about tackling her for something other than pyramid.
The movements of the game pull him out of his thoughts into some sort of strategy, and it's not until the end that he grins again.
"What?"
"Nothin'." He slings an arm around her shoulders, not caring that they're both covered in mud and sweat.
Her elbow catches him in the side, but she doesn't move away from him. Her fingers tug at the back of his pants, "Hey, Sammy?"
"Don't call me that," the words are almost automatic, these days.
She giggles and bumps his hip with hers, "I think I'm gonna have to frak your brains out tonight."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Wipe that smirk off your face."
His lips smirk even more, "Frak no."
She smacks his ass, then giggles a little when someone shouts at them to get a room. "Wanna break in our new table?"
They do, and Sam complains about splinters in unmentionable places.
8.
"I'd never hit you." He says it in the dark, when there's nothing between them but skin.
Kara stiffens, pulling away.
He lets her go, but touches her shoulder with his hand. "I just... A while ago, you..."
It's not something he knows how to say. I won't hurt you, and don't ever be afraid of me, aren't things he's ever even considered a need to say. But Kara had flinched, and it's been at the back of his mind, gnawing away. Something ugly inside wonders why he cares enough to say it.
Her fingers grab for his, but she doesn't move back. "I know."
9.
"Do you ever pick up your dirty socks?"
Kara glares at Sam from where she's sprawled all over their bed, scribbling on some sheets of paper she found, "You leave your underwear around."
Not really caring, and aware he's being an ass, he throws one of the balled-up socks at her. "Not the same. My underwear is in the basket."
"In?" She snorts, setting her pencil down and shoving the sock onto the floor, "You only think it's in-bounds because you're frakking blind."
He's annoyed even more by her flippancy, "Oh, please. Like your aim is any better."
Rolling to her feet, eyes flashing, Kara scoops the sock up and accurately hits him in the chest with it, "Should I try plates next?"
That pisses him off and he grabs for her hands, pulling her closer. She struggles, a foot connecting with his leg, but she can't break away, "Don't you dare," he growls.
"What're you gonna do to stop me, Sammy?" Her foot stomps down on his, and he lets her go, yelping and hopping on his other foot. He's a little frightened about the anger that was boiling through him a moment ago, and he makes himself a promise never to grab her again.
"Idiot." She shoves at him, but doesn't move away, something puzzled in her eyes as he stops hopping and merely looks at her.
He's quiet, staring down at her for a moment before he drops to his knees and tips his head back and wheedles, "Please don't throw dishes at me, baby."
When she starts laughing, he knows he's won. This time.
10.
Stumbling in one evening, drunk off his ass, he knows Kara is there. Or should be. He ended up with Barolay and Hillard, drinking until they couldn't see straight, commemorating the last of the C-Bucs.
He's not surprised to find her sprawled all over the bed, snoring. She'd never admit she snores, but she does and he thinks it's cute.
As drunk as he is, it takes him several moments to realize that there's no room for him.
"Kara."
She growls, swatting at the hand on her shoulder, "Sleep on the floor. Don't need puke on me."
That seems completely reasonable, and Sam half-falls onto the edge of the platform, curling up around the pillow she drops on him with a soft sigh. Maybe if he'd been more awake, he would have argued.
11.
Kara paints. It's something he wasn't aware of until he came home one day and found her crosslegged on the floor, fingers sliding across a canvas filled with black and red. Since then, he's done his best to find her more colors, pigments, brushes. Sometimes she's thankful, sometimes she almost resents him for the help. Sam isn't sure he blames her.
Painting is one more way to understand her, he decides. He likes sitting nearby, smelling the oil and turpentine, hearing her mumbles and curses. After a painting, she's always energetic, passionate, as though burning off things she'd rather not talk about as she rides him.
He never tells her that the scents and the dried paint on her skin make him harder than he'd thought it would.
Then one day he spills the paint. It's an accident, but she shouts and he shouts and then her hands are wet against his shirt, the paint slick on his skin a moment later.
Hands on her hips, he thinks in snatches and moments, stares over her shoulder at the concentric circles she'd been working on. It's familiar, twisting in his gut and making him close his eyes to block it out. He doesn't know why he knows it, and burying his face in her neck, he forgets it.
12.
There are days when Sam cuddles into her and she pushes him away, nights when she whispers things in the afterglow that make his gut clench. He doesn't know how to take her pain and make it change, he sometimes feels like he can't do anything but listen, fingers touching her hand or shoulder, body curling around hers (if she lets him). Once in a while, she curls into him, hand flat on his belly.
I love you he thinks, tangling his fingers with hers.
She never says it, but she doesn't have to.
-f-
Pairing/Characters: Kara Thrace/Sam Anders
Rating: R? Mild sexual content, vague violence. Contains sappy domesticity, as well.
Set: New Caprica arc
Notes: *hands* This is what happens when logic-impaired idiots go on about Sam being a home-wrecker.
The Home-wrecker (in 12 Steps)
by ALC Punk!
1.
Kara likes to tell him that the cot breaking every week is his fault. Sam doesn't object to being blamed, since it usually means they've just had fantastic sex that ended somewhere on the floor with Kara sprawled all over him.
There's something incredible about Kara Thrace being exhausted enough to cling like that, so Sam just goes with it.
Sometimes, he objects, and then she mocks him and there's a war to see which of them can say stupider things until they're giggling and half-aroused again. The sex is usually slow and oddly sweet, at that point; Sam thinks it scares her just a little, but never pushes her for more. Not until she's ready.
2.
"You know people move out of this lane because of you?"
Sam looks up at Galen, and half-laughs at the slightly annoyed look in his eyes. "You're just jealous," he suggests, waggling his eyebrows.
That shuts Galen up for a moment, since they both know the last time the Tyrols tried to match the Thrace-Anderses for stamina, noise and content, Cally pulled the tent down around them. He scowls at the reminder and throws a oil-drenched cloth at Sam. "You wish."
Sam dodges it, but keeps from admitting that he and Kara have almost done the same three times now. It wouldn't do to give the man ammunition.
3.
"What the frak is that smell?"
Kara sounds pissed and tired, and Sam can't blame her--he's pissed and tired, though more annoyed with himself than anything else.
The stench of burned food still hasn't cleared, and he's been freezing his ass off to keep the tent flaps up to air the place out. "I was cooking," he mutters. The pot is sitting outside the door, soaking in hot water to clear the last of the stew from it. Most of the congealed mess is already poured in the jakes pit two streets over.
"Cooking. Well, Sammy, smells like you fail at that."
He wants to yell at her, a bunch of little, pent-up annoyances suddenly spilling out of him. He'd fallen asleep, exhausted from a too-early morning after a very late night. Opening his mouth, he surges off the platform. At the look in her eyes, he goes still.
For just an instant, she was afraid of him, then the flicker is gone.
"I fell asleep," he says, instead, his voice almost rusty.
Kara snickers, moves in and shoves at him, "Yeah? And you decided that cooking while sleepy was a good idea, huh?"
"Yeah." He catches her hands and pulls her in, pretending he's falling over and she has to catch him. She does. Barely.
"Jackass."
He kisses her shoulder and moves away to pull out the food he's managed to salvage. "Love you, too."
4.
"Godsdamn homewrecker," Kara rasps, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Sam's head is ringing from where it smacked into the platform their bed is on. He's seriously regretting lifting her up to frak her against the main pole of the tent. "'S not jus' my fault," he mumbles.
Pushing away from him, Kara curses as she struggles with the canvas that fell on them. The stuff is heavy and smells like mildew and smoke. Sam starts laughing when she trips on something and lands back on top of him, bringing even more tent with her.
"This isn't going to work," he says.
"I'll make it work." Her elbow digs into him, and then she starts giggling. "Gods, Sammy--"
He joins her, hands pulling her down underneath his flaps of canvas, feeling the way the laughter shakes her entire body, and hoping that will never stop.
5.
"FRAK YOU."
They are both so pissed they're reduced to over-used phrases and curses. Sam doesn't remember what started the argument, but thinks it was something about toothbrushes that's been a long-time coming. He shouts something stupid back at her, wondering vaguely how he can be this angry at his wife, when just that morning, he was thinking about how hot she was, and how he never wanted to let her go.
He wonders if this is a first for them, if Kara would once have thrown something at him and stormed off. His own hands itch to toss themselves in the air. "This is stupid!"
"You're stupid," she shoots back.
Sam gives in and throws his hands into the air, a universal gesture of surrender, "Stop being an ass, Kara."
"Frak you."
Back where they started.
6.
Two days later, Sam's sitting on their bed when Kara storms in. His hands are full of the clothing he's folding, his mind sort of drifting, thinking about what to have for dinner, wondering if Kara will ever talk to him again.
"You idiot," she says, striding onto the platform, all crackling energy and movement.
She lands in his lap, hands on his shoulders, mouth on his before he can reply. Shoving the shirt he was folding to the side, he grabs her waist, holding her steady.
A part of him thinks this isn't the right way to go about making up, but Kara pulls her shirt off, and Sam forgets about that in favor of proving he's sorry for the argument with his mouth on her breasts. Just because he enjoys the taste of her doesn't change his intentions. Mostly.
Kara pushes him back, and he slides his hand down her pants.
Afterwards, he stares up at the ceiling of the tent, remembering the taste of canvas on her skin. She's half-sprawled on him, making smug little noises. "Better?"
"Mmm." She rubs her cheek against his shoulder and pushes up a little, "You did the laundry."
"Was my turn."
She wrinkles her nose, "Wasn't."
Brushing his thumb against her cheek, he shrugs, "I needed clean socks."
"Liar," she mumbles, kissing his cheek and mumbling, "'M sorry, too."
7.
There's something about coming home to the same person night after night that makes Sam smile at inappropriate moments. Knocking the ball from Barolay's hands, he hears Kara jeering at his prowess, and thinks about tackling her for something other than pyramid.
The movements of the game pull him out of his thoughts into some sort of strategy, and it's not until the end that he grins again.
"What?"
"Nothin'." He slings an arm around her shoulders, not caring that they're both covered in mud and sweat.
Her elbow catches him in the side, but she doesn't move away from him. Her fingers tug at the back of his pants, "Hey, Sammy?"
"Don't call me that," the words are almost automatic, these days.
She giggles and bumps his hip with hers, "I think I'm gonna have to frak your brains out tonight."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Wipe that smirk off your face."
His lips smirk even more, "Frak no."
She smacks his ass, then giggles a little when someone shouts at them to get a room. "Wanna break in our new table?"
They do, and Sam complains about splinters in unmentionable places.
8.
"I'd never hit you." He says it in the dark, when there's nothing between them but skin.
Kara stiffens, pulling away.
He lets her go, but touches her shoulder with his hand. "I just... A while ago, you..."
It's not something he knows how to say. I won't hurt you, and don't ever be afraid of me, aren't things he's ever even considered a need to say. But Kara had flinched, and it's been at the back of his mind, gnawing away. Something ugly inside wonders why he cares enough to say it.
Her fingers grab for his, but she doesn't move back. "I know."
9.
"Do you ever pick up your dirty socks?"
Kara glares at Sam from where she's sprawled all over their bed, scribbling on some sheets of paper she found, "You leave your underwear around."
Not really caring, and aware he's being an ass, he throws one of the balled-up socks at her. "Not the same. My underwear is in the basket."
"In?" She snorts, setting her pencil down and shoving the sock onto the floor, "You only think it's in-bounds because you're frakking blind."
He's annoyed even more by her flippancy, "Oh, please. Like your aim is any better."
Rolling to her feet, eyes flashing, Kara scoops the sock up and accurately hits him in the chest with it, "Should I try plates next?"
That pisses him off and he grabs for her hands, pulling her closer. She struggles, a foot connecting with his leg, but she can't break away, "Don't you dare," he growls.
"What're you gonna do to stop me, Sammy?" Her foot stomps down on his, and he lets her go, yelping and hopping on his other foot. He's a little frightened about the anger that was boiling through him a moment ago, and he makes himself a promise never to grab her again.
"Idiot." She shoves at him, but doesn't move away, something puzzled in her eyes as he stops hopping and merely looks at her.
He's quiet, staring down at her for a moment before he drops to his knees and tips his head back and wheedles, "Please don't throw dishes at me, baby."
When she starts laughing, he knows he's won. This time.
10.
Stumbling in one evening, drunk off his ass, he knows Kara is there. Or should be. He ended up with Barolay and Hillard, drinking until they couldn't see straight, commemorating the last of the C-Bucs.
He's not surprised to find her sprawled all over the bed, snoring. She'd never admit she snores, but she does and he thinks it's cute.
As drunk as he is, it takes him several moments to realize that there's no room for him.
"Kara."
She growls, swatting at the hand on her shoulder, "Sleep on the floor. Don't need puke on me."
That seems completely reasonable, and Sam half-falls onto the edge of the platform, curling up around the pillow she drops on him with a soft sigh. Maybe if he'd been more awake, he would have argued.
11.
Kara paints. It's something he wasn't aware of until he came home one day and found her crosslegged on the floor, fingers sliding across a canvas filled with black and red. Since then, he's done his best to find her more colors, pigments, brushes. Sometimes she's thankful, sometimes she almost resents him for the help. Sam isn't sure he blames her.
Painting is one more way to understand her, he decides. He likes sitting nearby, smelling the oil and turpentine, hearing her mumbles and curses. After a painting, she's always energetic, passionate, as though burning off things she'd rather not talk about as she rides him.
He never tells her that the scents and the dried paint on her skin make him harder than he'd thought it would.
Then one day he spills the paint. It's an accident, but she shouts and he shouts and then her hands are wet against his shirt, the paint slick on his skin a moment later.
Hands on her hips, he thinks in snatches and moments, stares over her shoulder at the concentric circles she'd been working on. It's familiar, twisting in his gut and making him close his eyes to block it out. He doesn't know why he knows it, and burying his face in her neck, he forgets it.
12.
There are days when Sam cuddles into her and she pushes him away, nights when she whispers things in the afterglow that make his gut clench. He doesn't know how to take her pain and make it change, he sometimes feels like he can't do anything but listen, fingers touching her hand or shoulder, body curling around hers (if she lets him). Once in a while, she curls into him, hand flat on his belly.
I love you he thinks, tangling his fingers with hers.
She never says it, but she doesn't have to.
-f-