[Fic] Hustle (BSG)
Title: Hustle
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Kara/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the day of her disembarkment from Galactica, Kara finds that her favorite bar in Delphi has been taken over by some unsavory characters.
Notes: Set in the no-attacks AU I began in Get to Sea. Finished because of the bsg_kink "Clue" prompt "Kara (or Sam, tbh), in a bar, with a mirror."
Delphi, Caprica, was listed on her discharge papers as her hometown. It was more or less true, even if she didn’t grow up there or have any particular fondness for the city in general or her apartment in specific.
She did like the bars, though.
She’d woken up this morning on Galactica. Her disembarkment meeting wasn’t until 0830, so by her clock she still had twenty-six minutes left of shut-eye when the frakking museum guys had shown up at 0800 to drill in plaques around the locker about “The Lives of the Viper Pilots.” In a stunning bit of irony, the plaque slated for her rack was about sleep schedules, and to add insult to injury, the plaque ended with “The final occupant of this bed was Viper pilot Lt. Sara “Starbuck” Thrace.”
So needless to say, she was in a bad mood from that point on: her evaluation with Dipper, getting her discharge papers from Tigh (at least she’d never have to see that bastard again), exchanging her flight suit for her stuff in storage.
She tried to let off a little bit of steam in the workout room with Helo, but they were already in civvie clothes, and he had to run off to the Aquaria shuttle after just a few minutes anyway. They didn’t have a big, heartfelt goodbye-they never did. Their next billets weren’t on the same battlestar, but they had faith they’d see each other again soon. Fly long enough, you start to realize how small a community the Fleet really is. Still, he hugged her close before he left, and slipped a lollipop in her pocket with a wink.
The long shuttle ride back to Caprica, the immigrations line at the base, all long and boring. Walking through the reuniting crowd: parents with children, brothers and sisters, lovers, that was terrible. Kara had none of that, just a wait by the curb for her landlord to come get her, sucking on Karl’s lollipop, the sweetness of it comforting but gone far too soon. He dropped her off at the building, but she didn’t even make it up to her apartment, just threw her duffel in the back of her truck and checked to make sure she had just enough gas to make it to the bar.
This was, frakked up or not, the closest thing Kara had to “home.”
So she drank. To get rid of the day, to get rid of Galactica, to get rid of the heavy sadness in the Adama’s voice as he’d said goodbye to the old girl. She’d see Helo again, but she didn’t know about Adama. He’d been like a father, but what did that mean she didn’t see him every day? She had first-hand knowledge that an absent father is pretty much the same thing as no father at all.
Hopefully there was enough beer in the bar to make her get rid all of that.
She took a long pull on her beer.
“Picon neat, and another bottle for the lady,” she heard a voice say off her left elbow.
“Don’t want it,” she growled, not even bothering to look up.
“Go ahead and put it on our tab, Bags,” the guy said, and that did make her look up. This was the kind of bar where the regulars kept to themselves, drowning themselves with proper isolation. Who the frak was this chatty newcomer who knew Bags well enough to use his nickname? She really had been gone too long.
Blue eyes, nice smile. He was good-looking, if you liked the civvie look, which Kara as a general rule did not. Something about a man’s hair being longer than a buzz cut-which his was, artfully tousled in a way that probably took hours and was supposed to make girls think about running their fingers through it. Or something.
But he wasn’t soft, at least. She wouldn’t call him tough-looking, but any means, but he was cut, arm muscles like he worked out more than she did. She thought she recognized him from somewhere, but the memory wasn’t coming. She was only mostly sure he wasn’t some local she’d frakked the last time she’d been in town.
“Hi,” Pretty Boy said, smiling at her.
“Frak off,” she replied.
“It’s just a drink,” he told her. “Not expecting anything out of it, except maybe your name.”
“I can buy my own drinks,” she said. “And my name is none of your business.”
But of course Bags chose that moment to return with the drinks. “Here’s your rum, Sam, and a beer for Kara.”
“Kara,” he said, as if he were trying out the name on his tongue.
“Now you have it, so you can go.”
“It was nice to meet you, Kara.”
He smiled one last time as he left. He went back to his table, a big, rowdy crowd. Which could have been the end of it, except each time she got close to the bottom of her beer, another one would show up.
His persistence was really getting under her skin. He looked over and their eyes met. She was just about slam her cubits down on the bar just to spite him when he walked over.
“You’re really ruining my quiet night at the bar,” she told him.
“It must have been a real shit day if getting your beer for free is enough to ruin it,” he said. “How about this? Let’s make a bet. You win, I’ll stop buying. I win, you come over with me and my friends and I’ll see if I can cheer you up.”
She didn’t want to be cheered up. But, then again, she didn’t lose bets.
“What are we betting on?”
“Name your drinking game.”
Well, that was definitely in her wheelhouse. Kara considered her options. Power Hour-she had no doubt she could drink a civvie under the table, but as the name implied it'd mean an actual hour with this yahoo. Beer pong-they weren’t in college. Canceron Kings-it’d defeat the point, to play a game that would require him to bring his friends over. But she had an ace up her sleeve.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re on. But we’re playing bar pyramid,” as she pointed to the machine in the corner, her old friend.
“Pyramid?” he asked. He looked at the machine, momentarily a little nervous, and that’s when Kara knew this was absolutely the game to push. “That’s not a drinking game.”
“We’re drinking. It’s a game,” she replied. “There’s nothing stopping me from just walking out of the bar.”
He sized her up, and she smirked. He had no idea what was coming. “Fine,” he said. He stretched his arm across his chest, limbering, suddenly all manly swag. “Let’s do this.”
He slid a cubit into the machine. His friends whooped from their table, and he gestured back at them. By the time he was looking back at the machine, she’s already grabbed the ball and squared up in a starting position, narrowing her eyes at the basket.
She made her first shot easily, and he whistled. “You play a lot of pyramid?” he asked.
“I don’t take bets I intend on losing,” she replied. “Played in college and had a couple of offers for the minors.”
“Minors,” he replied. “Impressive. What happened?”
“Shattered my knee. Luckily bar pyramid doesn’t require a lot of footwork. Last chance to back out of this wager with your ego intact, Pretty Boy.”
He smiled. “Oh,” he said. “Even if I lose, I get to spend a little more time around your radiant presence.”
She smiled to herself. This was on.
He took the ball from the catch, and squared up. To her surprise, his form was perfect, the muscles in his arms playing under his skin like this is what they’d been developed to do. He released the ball, and even without looking at the basket, Kara would have known it would go in.
Not that she’d want him to know that. “Little sloppy on the release,” she said.
“You don’t honestly believe that,” he said.
And she couldn’t really dispute him, so she prepared for her shot. And maybe she was distracted, or maybe it was the beer, but she missed by a mere inch. He leaned back, folding his arms, but didn’t say anything.
“What, no gloating?” she asked.
“I think the sound of the ball hitting the rim is enough,” he replied. “But if you’re looking for tips, I’d say next time watch your elbow extension.”
“Strange choice, giving me tips to help me win,” she said.
He spread his hands on the machine, leaning into it and giving her a big, self-assured grin. “You’re not going to win. You’ve already missed one, and I’m not going to miss any.”
And she hated herself for how incredibly magnetic-how sexy-she found his confidence.
And-well. She played pretty good, especially considering she hadn’t played bar pyramid since her last leave. She made about 75%, which was fairly impressive.
Except that he was right. He made them all. Every. Single. One.
A red-headed woman approached as Sam sunk his last shot, his arms raised in victory. “Did you just really hustle this poor girl, T?” she asked.
He folded his arms, smug. “Looks like it. Jean, Kara. Kara, Jean. By that I mean Jean Barolay, power center for the Caprica City Buccaneers.”
It hit her.
Sam-T.
Frak.
“You’re one of the frakking C-Bucs,” she said.
He grinned. “Baby, I’m the captain of the frakking C-Bucs.”
***
Truth be told, even though he won the bet, she didn’t give him what he’d asked for.
They didn’t make it as far as his friends’ table.
They stumbled into the head (no-men’s room-so weird to be back in a place where it was separated) more or less connected by the mouths, and he slid the lock closed behind his back. They separated only as she helped strip him out of his shirt, the bare view of his chest only to helping fill out her appreciation of the full package.
“You are such,” and, distracted for a moment, she had to stop for shaky breath, although she wasn’t sure if it was from what his mouth was doing on the side of her neck or the nearness of his fingers to the fly of her jeans, “-a cocky-ass bastard.”
“That’s rich,” he said, “coming from you.”
He slid her pants down to her ankles and hoisted her onto the edge of the sink counter. She finished the job entirely, toeing off her shoes and kicking her jeans to the floor. His pants were next, and she slid a hand under the waistband of his skivvies, stroking him to attention.
The feeling of him sliding inside her was so indescribable, so right, that she found herself boneless, not wanting to give a single bit of attention to any part of her body that wasn’t appreciating how fine a moment this was.
She slid back onto her elbows, her neck craning back, and seeing him in the mirror behind. Concentration but contentment in his expression as he timed his thrusts with the movement of their hips, a surprisingly adept rhythm.
And then she caught a glance of her own expression. And it was precisely the same.
They rode the wave of pleasure together, climaxing nearly in unison, and as they came down he leaned forward, catching his breath with his mouth against her shoulder. She experimentally ran her fingers though his hair, and it was, admittedly, quite nice.
He kissed her one more time as he stood.
“This isn’t because I found out you were famous,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have dreamed that,” he replied. “So, want to give this a go in a bed?” he asked.
Friends or not, he cheered her up after all.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Kara/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the day of her disembarkment from Galactica, Kara finds that her favorite bar in Delphi has been taken over by some unsavory characters.
Notes: Set in the no-attacks AU I began in Get to Sea. Finished because of the bsg_kink "Clue" prompt "Kara (or Sam, tbh), in a bar, with a mirror."
Delphi, Caprica, was listed on her discharge papers as her hometown. It was more or less true, even if she didn’t grow up there or have any particular fondness for the city in general or her apartment in specific.
She did like the bars, though.
She’d woken up this morning on Galactica. Her disembarkment meeting wasn’t until 0830, so by her clock she still had twenty-six minutes left of shut-eye when the frakking museum guys had shown up at 0800 to drill in plaques around the locker about “The Lives of the Viper Pilots.” In a stunning bit of irony, the plaque slated for her rack was about sleep schedules, and to add insult to injury, the plaque ended with “The final occupant of this bed was Viper pilot Lt. Sara “Starbuck” Thrace.”
So needless to say, she was in a bad mood from that point on: her evaluation with Dipper, getting her discharge papers from Tigh (at least she’d never have to see that bastard again), exchanging her flight suit for her stuff in storage.
She tried to let off a little bit of steam in the workout room with Helo, but they were already in civvie clothes, and he had to run off to the Aquaria shuttle after just a few minutes anyway. They didn’t have a big, heartfelt goodbye-they never did. Their next billets weren’t on the same battlestar, but they had faith they’d see each other again soon. Fly long enough, you start to realize how small a community the Fleet really is. Still, he hugged her close before he left, and slipped a lollipop in her pocket with a wink.
The long shuttle ride back to Caprica, the immigrations line at the base, all long and boring. Walking through the reuniting crowd: parents with children, brothers and sisters, lovers, that was terrible. Kara had none of that, just a wait by the curb for her landlord to come get her, sucking on Karl’s lollipop, the sweetness of it comforting but gone far too soon. He dropped her off at the building, but she didn’t even make it up to her apartment, just threw her duffel in the back of her truck and checked to make sure she had just enough gas to make it to the bar.
This was, frakked up or not, the closest thing Kara had to “home.”
So she drank. To get rid of the day, to get rid of Galactica, to get rid of the heavy sadness in the Adama’s voice as he’d said goodbye to the old girl. She’d see Helo again, but she didn’t know about Adama. He’d been like a father, but what did that mean she didn’t see him every day? She had first-hand knowledge that an absent father is pretty much the same thing as no father at all.
Hopefully there was enough beer in the bar to make her get rid all of that.
She took a long pull on her beer.
“Picon neat, and another bottle for the lady,” she heard a voice say off her left elbow.
“Don’t want it,” she growled, not even bothering to look up.
“Go ahead and put it on our tab, Bags,” the guy said, and that did make her look up. This was the kind of bar where the regulars kept to themselves, drowning themselves with proper isolation. Who the frak was this chatty newcomer who knew Bags well enough to use his nickname? She really had been gone too long.
Blue eyes, nice smile. He was good-looking, if you liked the civvie look, which Kara as a general rule did not. Something about a man’s hair being longer than a buzz cut-which his was, artfully tousled in a way that probably took hours and was supposed to make girls think about running their fingers through it. Or something.
But he wasn’t soft, at least. She wouldn’t call him tough-looking, but any means, but he was cut, arm muscles like he worked out more than she did. She thought she recognized him from somewhere, but the memory wasn’t coming. She was only mostly sure he wasn’t some local she’d frakked the last time she’d been in town.
“Hi,” Pretty Boy said, smiling at her.
“Frak off,” she replied.
“It’s just a drink,” he told her. “Not expecting anything out of it, except maybe your name.”
“I can buy my own drinks,” she said. “And my name is none of your business.”
But of course Bags chose that moment to return with the drinks. “Here’s your rum, Sam, and a beer for Kara.”
“Kara,” he said, as if he were trying out the name on his tongue.
“Now you have it, so you can go.”
“It was nice to meet you, Kara.”
He smiled one last time as he left. He went back to his table, a big, rowdy crowd. Which could have been the end of it, except each time she got close to the bottom of her beer, another one would show up.
His persistence was really getting under her skin. He looked over and their eyes met. She was just about slam her cubits down on the bar just to spite him when he walked over.
“You’re really ruining my quiet night at the bar,” she told him.
“It must have been a real shit day if getting your beer for free is enough to ruin it,” he said. “How about this? Let’s make a bet. You win, I’ll stop buying. I win, you come over with me and my friends and I’ll see if I can cheer you up.”
She didn’t want to be cheered up. But, then again, she didn’t lose bets.
“What are we betting on?”
“Name your drinking game.”
Well, that was definitely in her wheelhouse. Kara considered her options. Power Hour-she had no doubt she could drink a civvie under the table, but as the name implied it'd mean an actual hour with this yahoo. Beer pong-they weren’t in college. Canceron Kings-it’d defeat the point, to play a game that would require him to bring his friends over. But she had an ace up her sleeve.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re on. But we’re playing bar pyramid,” as she pointed to the machine in the corner, her old friend.
“Pyramid?” he asked. He looked at the machine, momentarily a little nervous, and that’s when Kara knew this was absolutely the game to push. “That’s not a drinking game.”
“We’re drinking. It’s a game,” she replied. “There’s nothing stopping me from just walking out of the bar.”
He sized her up, and she smirked. He had no idea what was coming. “Fine,” he said. He stretched his arm across his chest, limbering, suddenly all manly swag. “Let’s do this.”
He slid a cubit into the machine. His friends whooped from their table, and he gestured back at them. By the time he was looking back at the machine, she’s already grabbed the ball and squared up in a starting position, narrowing her eyes at the basket.
She made her first shot easily, and he whistled. “You play a lot of pyramid?” he asked.
“I don’t take bets I intend on losing,” she replied. “Played in college and had a couple of offers for the minors.”
“Minors,” he replied. “Impressive. What happened?”
“Shattered my knee. Luckily bar pyramid doesn’t require a lot of footwork. Last chance to back out of this wager with your ego intact, Pretty Boy.”
He smiled. “Oh,” he said. “Even if I lose, I get to spend a little more time around your radiant presence.”
She smiled to herself. This was on.
He took the ball from the catch, and squared up. To her surprise, his form was perfect, the muscles in his arms playing under his skin like this is what they’d been developed to do. He released the ball, and even without looking at the basket, Kara would have known it would go in.
Not that she’d want him to know that. “Little sloppy on the release,” she said.
“You don’t honestly believe that,” he said.
And she couldn’t really dispute him, so she prepared for her shot. And maybe she was distracted, or maybe it was the beer, but she missed by a mere inch. He leaned back, folding his arms, but didn’t say anything.
“What, no gloating?” she asked.
“I think the sound of the ball hitting the rim is enough,” he replied. “But if you’re looking for tips, I’d say next time watch your elbow extension.”
“Strange choice, giving me tips to help me win,” she said.
He spread his hands on the machine, leaning into it and giving her a big, self-assured grin. “You’re not going to win. You’ve already missed one, and I’m not going to miss any.”
And she hated herself for how incredibly magnetic-how sexy-she found his confidence.
And-well. She played pretty good, especially considering she hadn’t played bar pyramid since her last leave. She made about 75%, which was fairly impressive.
Except that he was right. He made them all. Every. Single. One.
A red-headed woman approached as Sam sunk his last shot, his arms raised in victory. “Did you just really hustle this poor girl, T?” she asked.
He folded his arms, smug. “Looks like it. Jean, Kara. Kara, Jean. By that I mean Jean Barolay, power center for the Caprica City Buccaneers.”
It hit her.
Sam-T.
Frak.
“You’re one of the frakking C-Bucs,” she said.
He grinned. “Baby, I’m the captain of the frakking C-Bucs.”
***
Truth be told, even though he won the bet, she didn’t give him what he’d asked for.
They didn’t make it as far as his friends’ table.
They stumbled into the head (no-men’s room-so weird to be back in a place where it was separated) more or less connected by the mouths, and he slid the lock closed behind his back. They separated only as she helped strip him out of his shirt, the bare view of his chest only to helping fill out her appreciation of the full package.
“You are such,” and, distracted for a moment, she had to stop for shaky breath, although she wasn’t sure if it was from what his mouth was doing on the side of her neck or the nearness of his fingers to the fly of her jeans, “-a cocky-ass bastard.”
“That’s rich,” he said, “coming from you.”
He slid her pants down to her ankles and hoisted her onto the edge of the sink counter. She finished the job entirely, toeing off her shoes and kicking her jeans to the floor. His pants were next, and she slid a hand under the waistband of his skivvies, stroking him to attention.
The feeling of him sliding inside her was so indescribable, so right, that she found herself boneless, not wanting to give a single bit of attention to any part of her body that wasn’t appreciating how fine a moment this was.
She slid back onto her elbows, her neck craning back, and seeing him in the mirror behind. Concentration but contentment in his expression as he timed his thrusts with the movement of their hips, a surprisingly adept rhythm.
And then she caught a glance of her own expression. And it was precisely the same.
They rode the wave of pleasure together, climaxing nearly in unison, and as they came down he leaned forward, catching his breath with his mouth against her shoulder. She experimentally ran her fingers though his hair, and it was, admittedly, quite nice.
He kissed her one more time as he stood.
“This isn’t because I found out you were famous,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have dreamed that,” he replied. “So, want to give this a go in a bed?” he asked.
Friends or not, he cheered her up after all.