Fic: BSG: You Can't Always Get What You Want
Title: You Can't Always Get What You Want
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Kara/Helo
Rating: R
Disclaimers: Set pre-series. Spoilers through first season, probably. This isn't for profit, just for the fun of bsg_pornbattle. All characters & situations belong to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries. Title from a song belonging to the Rolling Stones, which I also had nothing to do with.
Prompts: gym, pre-mini, not the one I want
A/N: Thanks to leiascully for help when I got stuck.
The third time Kara insults the XO, Helo is the one to drag her out of the rec room before Saul can work out what she said.
"You've gotta cut this out," Helo tells her, hands on his hips, staring down at her with concern as he watches her pummel the shit out a punching bag in the gym. She doesn't reply, she just keeps throwing punch after punch, the bag rattling and creaking from the force of her anger. "Hey. Starbuck."
"I heard you the first frakking time, Helo," she says, jabbing viciously at the bag. "He just pisses me off, okay?"
Helo crosses his arms over his chest. "What's your deal with him, anyway?
"He's a frakking drunk," Kara bites out, between punches. "Thinks we're supposed to respect him just because he's the Old Man's frakking war buddy."
"You're gonna get court-martialed," Helo warns her. "You've gotta stop."
She leans back and delivers a strong, angry roundhouse to the bag. "Yeah? I think your girlfriend Boomer's got more of a problem with that than I do, if she keeps blowing her landings."
"You know what?" Helo snaps, throwing his palms up. "Forget it. You're on your own."
"No shit," she says, and kicks the bag again, but he hears something break in her voice, and it keeps him standing there, waiting, concerned.
"You want to talk about it?" He knows before he says it that it's the wrong thing to say, but he feels like he has to try.
She's staring at him like he's just asked her to fly a Raptor. "I'm good at three things, Helo," she tells him, wiping sweat off her face. "Fighting." She punches the bag again. "Flying. Frakking. Now, one of those things, I can't do in here. So unless you wanna go a coupla rounds in the ring, or up against the wall, get out."
"Look, Kara, I don't want to fight with you, okay?"
Helo meets her eyes for a moment, and she raises her eyebrows defiantly.
"That doesn't leave a lot of choices," she says evenly, dangerously. Kara pretending to be reasonable always ends in some kind of explosion. But it's been a long time since his last shore leave, and she's not wrong about Boomer, and the hours in the Raptor pretending not to want her.
"You wanna take my bird for a couple of loops around Galactica? I know you're cleared for Raptors," he offers, knowing that's not how this is going to go. If his cock could talk, it would be shouting at him.
"I really don't," she says, smirking at him and spinning to throw another vicious punch at the bag. He moves up behind her.
"Kara?"
"I gave you a choice," she says. "Get up or get out, Helo."
"All right," he agrees, and his hands are on her hips, and her teeth are tugging on his lips, and it doesn't take long for his body to respond to the way her hands are pushing against him through his duty blues.
"Frak, Kara," he says, dragging his mouth away from hers.
Kara slaps a hand over his mouth, the force of it so hard that his lips feel like there are hundreds of tiny needles pressing in on them. "Don't call me that," she commands. "Kara's your friend. I'm not your friend. Not if we're frakking." She kisses him again, before he has time to respond, to register concern, and it feels like an age before his mouth is his again.
"Look, if I'm not what you want--" he begins.
"I can't have who I want," she reminds him. He wonders how she can manage to look so casual, so uninvolved, while her hands are unbuttoning his pants, slipping between skin and underwear. "You can't have who you want. Doesn't mean we can't get laid."
"Why can't I just call you--"
Kara jerks her hand out of his trousers. "Because you'll care," she snaps. "I don't want you to care. I just want to get off, I just want to forget," she says. "I want to forget that I cared. I want to stop feeling like I'm the one who isn't coming back."
"You're still alive," he tells her.
"I want to remember that," she says, stepping closer to him again. "You wanna be my friend, Helo? Help me remember that."
Helo isn't sure if it's the right thing to do, but he is sure that in the short time that they've been on Galactica, he's never seen Kara look lost, and he's never seen her ask for anything, and he's never seen her depend on anyone else. Kara is an island to most of the ship, he knows. They all understand that she's obnoxiously loud and occasionally drunk and arguably the best pilot anyone's ever seen, but no one really sees Kara Thrace, because she doesn't let them close enough, and Helo thinks that if she's willing to trust him this much, he's willing to do what she asks.
"Okay," he agrees, and she doesn't waste any more time. Kara's hands slip under his tanks and crawl up his back, fingers digging into his muscles, and Helo growls against her lips and drags his mouth away from hers, tracing droplets of sweat down her neck with his tongue. The taste of her skin makes him dizzy. He wants his tongue against more of her than her mouth and the line of her neck, and he tugs on her tanks until she steps back and pulls them over her head. "Move," he grunts, nudging her toward the bench like he's the one in charge.
"You giving me orders?" Kara grins wildly up at him and runs her nails down his back until he hisses. "What if I don't want to take orders?" she asks. Before he can answer Kara grips his tanks and pulls his mouth down against hers, so hard that he thinks his lips will bruise, but then he feels her hand slide against his cock, and his thoughts are lost in the curve of her fingers around him and the increasingly loud drumbeat of the blood in his veins.
He moans something incoherent and starts to push his hand below the waistband of her pants, but she grabs his wrist. "That's not what I want," she growls.
"You're in charge," he groans, pushing against her hand. "Gods, whatever you want."
"I want this," Kara says, sliding her hand as slowly as possible up to his tip, then slips her hand out of his pants and peels them off, dragging his underwear down with them. She pushes on his chest, backing him up to the benchpress until his knees buckle and he's sitting down. Helo's hands are at her waist again, tugging at the drawstring of her pants, but she backs up and takes them off herself, and when she sinks down onto him Helo feels like she's his new center of gravity, like everything else in the universe is suddenly rotating around the two of them. He reaches for her breasts, but she slaps his hand away. "Mouth," she instructs, and he obeys and sucks her nipple into his mouth, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, fixating on this one finite point of her, trying not to come undone before she does.
One of the nuggets comes in, stumbles, stammers something apologetic and embarrassed, but Kara doesn't stop, and Helo can't stop, he won't stop, because she digs her nails into his traps and tells him not to, so he grips her hips and closes his eyes and rocks in time with her until she throws her head back, moaning, hips bucking against him, and he comes with a shout and a muttered oath.
She slumps against him for only a moment before her feet are back on the floor and she's picking up her discarded clothes, hopping back into underwear and pants.
"Still friends?" He thinks he knows the answer, but he really wants to know.
"Yeah," she says easily, tugging her tanks back on. "You up for triad after CAP?"
"If you can stay out of hack," Helo grins, relieved, and she returns the smile.
"I'll take all your money at 1200," she laughs, and she's out the door before he's even dressed.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Pairing: Kara/Helo
Rating: R
Disclaimers: Set pre-series. Spoilers through first season, probably. This isn't for profit, just for the fun of bsg_pornbattle. All characters & situations belong to RDM, David Eick, Sci-Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries. Title from a song belonging to the Rolling Stones, which I also had nothing to do with.
Prompts: gym, pre-mini, not the one I want
A/N: Thanks to leiascully for help when I got stuck.
The third time Kara insults the XO, Helo is the one to drag her out of the rec room before Saul can work out what she said.
"You've gotta cut this out," Helo tells her, hands on his hips, staring down at her with concern as he watches her pummel the shit out a punching bag in the gym. She doesn't reply, she just keeps throwing punch after punch, the bag rattling and creaking from the force of her anger. "Hey. Starbuck."
"I heard you the first frakking time, Helo," she says, jabbing viciously at the bag. "He just pisses me off, okay?"
Helo crosses his arms over his chest. "What's your deal with him, anyway?
"He's a frakking drunk," Kara bites out, between punches. "Thinks we're supposed to respect him just because he's the Old Man's frakking war buddy."
"You're gonna get court-martialed," Helo warns her. "You've gotta stop."
She leans back and delivers a strong, angry roundhouse to the bag. "Yeah? I think your girlfriend Boomer's got more of a problem with that than I do, if she keeps blowing her landings."
"You know what?" Helo snaps, throwing his palms up. "Forget it. You're on your own."
"No shit," she says, and kicks the bag again, but he hears something break in her voice, and it keeps him standing there, waiting, concerned.
"You want to talk about it?" He knows before he says it that it's the wrong thing to say, but he feels like he has to try.
She's staring at him like he's just asked her to fly a Raptor. "I'm good at three things, Helo," she tells him, wiping sweat off her face. "Fighting." She punches the bag again. "Flying. Frakking. Now, one of those things, I can't do in here. So unless you wanna go a coupla rounds in the ring, or up against the wall, get out."
"Look, Kara, I don't want to fight with you, okay?"
Helo meets her eyes for a moment, and she raises her eyebrows defiantly.
"That doesn't leave a lot of choices," she says evenly, dangerously. Kara pretending to be reasonable always ends in some kind of explosion. But it's been a long time since his last shore leave, and she's not wrong about Boomer, and the hours in the Raptor pretending not to want her.
"You wanna take my bird for a couple of loops around Galactica? I know you're cleared for Raptors," he offers, knowing that's not how this is going to go. If his cock could talk, it would be shouting at him.
"I really don't," she says, smirking at him and spinning to throw another vicious punch at the bag. He moves up behind her.
"Kara?"
"I gave you a choice," she says. "Get up or get out, Helo."
"All right," he agrees, and his hands are on her hips, and her teeth are tugging on his lips, and it doesn't take long for his body to respond to the way her hands are pushing against him through his duty blues.
"Frak, Kara," he says, dragging his mouth away from hers.
Kara slaps a hand over his mouth, the force of it so hard that his lips feel like there are hundreds of tiny needles pressing in on them. "Don't call me that," she commands. "Kara's your friend. I'm not your friend. Not if we're frakking." She kisses him again, before he has time to respond, to register concern, and it feels like an age before his mouth is his again.
"Look, if I'm not what you want--" he begins.
"I can't have who I want," she reminds him. He wonders how she can manage to look so casual, so uninvolved, while her hands are unbuttoning his pants, slipping between skin and underwear. "You can't have who you want. Doesn't mean we can't get laid."
"Why can't I just call you--"
Kara jerks her hand out of his trousers. "Because you'll care," she snaps. "I don't want you to care. I just want to get off, I just want to forget," she says. "I want to forget that I cared. I want to stop feeling like I'm the one who isn't coming back."
"You're still alive," he tells her.
"I want to remember that," she says, stepping closer to him again. "You wanna be my friend, Helo? Help me remember that."
Helo isn't sure if it's the right thing to do, but he is sure that in the short time that they've been on Galactica, he's never seen Kara look lost, and he's never seen her ask for anything, and he's never seen her depend on anyone else. Kara is an island to most of the ship, he knows. They all understand that she's obnoxiously loud and occasionally drunk and arguably the best pilot anyone's ever seen, but no one really sees Kara Thrace, because she doesn't let them close enough, and Helo thinks that if she's willing to trust him this much, he's willing to do what she asks.
"Okay," he agrees, and she doesn't waste any more time. Kara's hands slip under his tanks and crawl up his back, fingers digging into his muscles, and Helo growls against her lips and drags his mouth away from hers, tracing droplets of sweat down her neck with his tongue. The taste of her skin makes him dizzy. He wants his tongue against more of her than her mouth and the line of her neck, and he tugs on her tanks until she steps back and pulls them over her head. "Move," he grunts, nudging her toward the bench like he's the one in charge.
"You giving me orders?" Kara grins wildly up at him and runs her nails down his back until he hisses. "What if I don't want to take orders?" she asks. Before he can answer Kara grips his tanks and pulls his mouth down against hers, so hard that he thinks his lips will bruise, but then he feels her hand slide against his cock, and his thoughts are lost in the curve of her fingers around him and the increasingly loud drumbeat of the blood in his veins.
He moans something incoherent and starts to push his hand below the waistband of her pants, but she grabs his wrist. "That's not what I want," she growls.
"You're in charge," he groans, pushing against her hand. "Gods, whatever you want."
"I want this," Kara says, sliding her hand as slowly as possible up to his tip, then slips her hand out of his pants and peels them off, dragging his underwear down with them. She pushes on his chest, backing him up to the benchpress until his knees buckle and he's sitting down. Helo's hands are at her waist again, tugging at the drawstring of her pants, but she backs up and takes them off herself, and when she sinks down onto him Helo feels like she's his new center of gravity, like everything else in the universe is suddenly rotating around the two of them. He reaches for her breasts, but she slaps his hand away. "Mouth," she instructs, and he obeys and sucks her nipple into his mouth, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, fixating on this one finite point of her, trying not to come undone before she does.
One of the nuggets comes in, stumbles, stammers something apologetic and embarrassed, but Kara doesn't stop, and Helo can't stop, he won't stop, because she digs her nails into his traps and tells him not to, so he grips her hips and closes his eyes and rocks in time with her until she throws her head back, moaning, hips bucking against him, and he comes with a shout and a muttered oath.
She slumps against him for only a moment before her feet are back on the floor and she's picking up her discarded clothes, hopping back into underwear and pants.
"Still friends?" He thinks he knows the answer, but he really wants to know.
"Yeah," she says easily, tugging her tanks back on. "You up for triad after CAP?"
"If you can stay out of hack," Helo grins, relieved, and she returns the smile.
"I'll take all your money at 1200," she laughs, and she's out the door before he's even dressed.