Rating: ...18+? Language, sex Genre: Angst. PWP. Angst.
Length: 1,055+ Spoilers: Big honkin' ones, all the way through to the end of the season. Some of it's spec based off spoilers. Definitely spoilers for Maelstrom.
Pairings: Tory Foster/Sam Anders, Kara Thrace/Sam Anders
Getting More Lost by ALC Punk!
Tory doesn't feel like Kara.
It's something Sam can't help but think as she sighs beneath him. He doesn't want to be thinking about his wife--his supposedly dead wife--while frakking another woman, but he can't help it. Thinking about Kara grounds him, cements him in the moment so that his mind doesn't wander off, so that he catches the cues from the way Tory gasps.
Because otherwise, he'd expect one thing, and get another. The point that has stood out in his mind, clear as a bell, from the beginning of this encounter: Tory is not Kara.
All he can taste and feel is Tory, though. Taste being relative, since she's no fan of oral sex--Kara liked it; sometimes, that was all she needed. So he's got Tory's mouth and skin and the scent of her arousal coating the back of his throat.
The tiny little vocalizations she makes aren't loud enough, for him. Not what he's used to (Kara could be quiet, but not always). Still, he tries to fill his ears with the sound of her skin pulling at his, the gasps and the soft little sighs.
She climaxes, suddenly and quietly, as though it's no big event. Sam holds himself still against her, letting her take her pleasure and recover. Kara would have been noisy, would have pressed up against him more, whining at the back of the her throat and trying to drag him with her until he caved and tightened his hands on her skin.
Tory post-orgasm is limp, eyes wide and dark as she stares up at him.
Kara had never believed in a refractory period, although she'd been happy to grab for the ambrosia and wait for him to recover.
He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be comparing a dead woman to a live one. It's not fair to the one in his arms. Kara would have never let him live it down if he'd told her she was his measuring-stick for women. If he'd been the type to stray, at least.
The irony that he's straying now, when she's dead (and he doesn't believe that for an instant, but Tory was there, and she was amusing and witty and charming. And Jean has been telling him for weeks to get over his dead wife and move the frak on, and so he took the hot woman who smiled at him up on his offer) doesn't escape him.
Kara had been the master of the hit and run frak, but then, she'd always been horny. Sometimes, her libido had worn even him out.
It took him longer to arouse Tory, more kissing and petting than he was used to. She wasn't as wet as Kara, for the first several thrusts, and then it got better. He never considered asking if he was hurting her. Kara would have told him if she was.
"Sorry," Tory murmurs, smiling sleepily up at him. "You're still..."
The sleepy smile is too open. It's not Kara's predatory smirk, that knowing look in her eyes that she only had to do this and that and he'd be over the edge and gone.
"Yeah..." Closing his eyes, he thrusts again, getting his own rhythm working, finding that angle that suits him most, and it doesn't take him long. He's clamping his lips closed, tongue behind his teeth. He knows why his eyes are closed, who he's thinking of, and it's not the woman beneath him.
And saying Kara's name aloud would be rude. Although Kara herself would laugh her ass off if he ever told her. He clenches his jaw and prays to the Gods that he gets her back so she can.
"Wow." Tory rocks her hips one last time, and when he opens his eyes, she's still smiling sleepily.
"Yeah." Get up. Go.
Now he's the one being Kara. Sam needs a shower, needs to be gone from this room, from this bed--it's a real bed, even. Not a rack. Another difference. And they certainly couldn't break it.
He pulls free of her, moves to drape his legs over the side and grabs a towel from the floor.
Definitely not the bargain basement, half-assed 'luxury' of the Galactica's storage rooms and racks. The movement causes the dog tag on its cord to swing, and the metal feels cold against his skin. "I should go."
"Sam?" Tory is hesitant, her hand touching his back.
"Don't make this more than it is." Standing, he drops the towel now he's used it and grabs his pants, pulling them on quickly.
"And what is it?"
"Sex with a man who doesn't believe his wife is dead." The words are cold and clinical, and Sam flinches as they cut him, too.
"What?" Tory throws the towel at him. "Get out."
It's a half-hearted order, almost playful. Sam grabs his shirt and turns to look at her. Kara would have been on her feet, stalking towards him, ready to punch him for being an ass. "Don't worry." He steps into his boots, not bothering to tie the laces. "I won't be back."
The hatch closes behind him with a soft snick of metal on metal. Sam pauses halfway down the hallway, feet almost buried in the plush carpeting of Colonial One, and pulls his shirt on. It takes only a little time to make himself presentable again, and then he returns to the party that they'd snuck away from. People are still drinking, laughing together, happy.
Sam heads straight to the bar and asks for the bottle of whiskey. The bartender doesn't even ask why as he hands it over. Which is good, because Sam might have had a fight if he hadn't. Kara wasn't the only one in their marriage who could throw a punch.
The first shot goes down like fire, chasing the five he'd had before the little interlude. The second and third feel smoother. He can't even taste the fourth.
He doesn't stop drinking until Jean drags the bottle away from him, cursing that he's looking for an early grave, and she's going to bring Kara Thrace back to life just to kill her again.
"Please." Sam says, or thinks he says. It all goes rather sideways; he doesn't remember making it into a bed.