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fic: au, Kara/Sam, Summer of Loooove, R
disclaimer: not mine
pairing: Kara/Sam
rating: R, language, sex
genre: au
notes: This is a continuation of the universe in this Kara fic I wrote for the Kara gen ficlet battle. And, yes, it could be Woodstock. =D
Summer of Love
by ALC Punk!
He's been on the run for months, hair shoulder-length by now, wavy and tangled in sweat ten minutes after he's been in the crowd. He's got a story like a good third of the men there, of course: draft-dodger, evasion, he doesn't believe in this war. Catching odd jobs when he can, and begging when he can't, always on the look-out for someone who might recognize him, who might think he's suspicious enough to lock up and run a check on.
Problem is, Sam is too-tall for even this crowd. He doesn't quite stick out like a sore thumb, thanks to his ripped jeans and purple and swirl shirt. But he wonders if they can see the uniform he should be wearing, weighting him, dragging him down until he trips on something and lands face-down on someone's blanket.
"Watch yourself."
Sam knows fucking better than to get close--he'll be out of town in two days. But he can't resist the firecracker in her blue dress and braids, glaring at him across the paintings he almost spoiled.
There's half a dozen other people on the blanket, and where they're not, it's crowded with paint-pots and her brushes.
"Hi," he says, trying for something like normal.
"Hey, baby," she laughs, her head tilted back and eyes closed like she's drinking in the sun shining down on them. Or maybe concentrating on the music that pours from the stage.
Sam can't tell which. "Nice work," he offers, shifting until he's sitting, a rueful look at his mud-streaked jeans.
That makes her laugh, her hazel eyes nailing him with a gaze full of disbelief and amusement. Then she jumps upwards, her skirts flashing tanned legs and bare feet at him. She's nimble among the jumble on the blanket as she moves, leaning down to offer him her hands. "Dance with me."
"Kara," one of her friends says, a tall man, who looks uneasily at Sam.
"I'm Sam," sticking out his hand, smiling. That's how it's done. You introduce yourself, they don't think you're there to kill babies.
"Karl," he accepts Sam's hand, nods towards the woman against his side, her eyes closed in sleep, "Sharon. And you're going to be very careful with Kara."
"Watch my stuff, daddy," Kara teases, tugging Sam up off the blanket. She's off through the crowd, twisting and turning in an instant, weaving her way between the throng like she's greased.
Sam stumbles over his feet, barely able to keep up with her, glad she's got his hand, or he wouldn't even know where she'd gone. "Hey," he pulls at her, reeling her in close to avoid a line of linked dancers running in front of them. "Hey, you don't have to run."
"I like running," she murmurs, turning into him, hands sliding under his shirt.
"Dancing," he reminds her, laughing a little as he swings her around, hands on her waist. There's no rhythm to their movements, not until the song changes.
Maybe it's the pot being smoked nearby, maybe it's the electric guitar, or some twang of the chords going to Sam's head. But if he closes his eyes, he can imagine they're not here. That it's an empty room, the two of them alone, waltzing to some ridiculous Tchaikovsky piece, or not moving at all.
"Dancing's nice," she whispers, hand behind his neck, tugging as she pushes up on her toes.
She kisses like she dances--no science, no moment to decide how to breathe or who should tilt, and Sam bangs his nose into hers.
They break apart, Kara's laughter somehow melting into the music.
"C'mon," she teases before breaking away and running again.
Sam can't help but chase her, shoving through people and getting shoved back in return. He can barely keep up, only her laughter and the flash of her skirts or the shine of her hair giving him clues to her direction until he breaks free of the crowd entirely, finding her leaning against the side of one of the buses.
Panting, he doesn't stop until she's trapped between him and the metal, bending his head to kiss her, sloppy and quick.
They find an open space, away from the smell of gas and too many unwashed bodies. She pulls his shirt off of him and he finds out she's bra-less before she leaves her skirts in a pile. Nearly-naked, she laughs at him, hands on her hips, daring him to finish what he's started.
What they've started, he wants to protest, before his shoes and jeans and underwear end up in a heap.
"Kara," he starts, suddenly nervous.
She moves back in against him, almost shy as she pushes up to kiss his mouth, skin to skin in a way that freezes his brain. Then she's pulling him down with her, rolling him beneath her and settling on his stomach. She's so warm, so real, that he thinks he could etch her in his memory forever as his hands trace her curves.
It's not the best sex, but he's not sure it matters, disconnected from his body, feeling the sunlight like another pair of hands on him as she twists and slides.
"Feel like I could fly into the sun," Sam says, hands gripping her hips too-tight.
Naked and proud above him, she laughs, her head falling back. His hands trail up her body, tracing her curves until she's gone and he's gone, and there's nothing but the sound of people and music and the scent of stale camphor and oil paints.
It's not awkward until they're back in their clothes, sitting with their backs against a bus.
"I don't normally," he says, only to stop. Because he doesn't know what he's trying to say, he only knows that he shouldn't have done this.
"Yeah. Look. This isn't going to be me going all picket fence and two kids on you, all right? I mean, I don't even like dogs all that much."
He laughs, because he has to, then swallows and says, "I'm dodging. I should go."
"Oh. OH. Man, that's--" her hand closes on his arm, and she grins at him, "Peace is getting a chance, with you fucking your way across America."
"Hey!" Leaning over, he kisses her cheek, "Not what I've been doing."
"No?" Moving quicker than he expects, she sits on his lap and looks up at him. "I'm just a fluke, then? Your first little peace-nik babe?"
"Yeah." Hands on her waist again, he ducks to kiss her mouth, surprised that she's still here. Hell, that she's letting him.
"Mmmh." she says before pulling away. "I should get back to Karl. You should... I don't know, dance a little, maybe get high a little, sex up some more hot chicks. Maybe a guy or two..." she kisses his cheek and whispers, "And then make a run across the border. Maybe in ten years, they won't want to prosecute anymore."
He should follow her advice--some of it. But he can't help but wonder if running is his only option. "Think I'll stay. At least until the end of the concert."
"With me?"
"Unless you plan on running away and not letting me follow."
She leans up and kisses him. "No. Maybe later."
They settle against each other, talking, sometimes singing, and at some point, naked again. Sam tries not to worry about how close he feels to her, even as the night closes and she falls asleep in his arms, wrapped in the blanket Karl eventually brought them.
-f-
pairing: Kara/Sam
rating: R, language, sex
genre: au
notes: This is a continuation of the universe in this Kara fic I wrote for the Kara gen ficlet battle. And, yes, it could be Woodstock. =D
Summer of Love
by ALC Punk!
He's been on the run for months, hair shoulder-length by now, wavy and tangled in sweat ten minutes after he's been in the crowd. He's got a story like a good third of the men there, of course: draft-dodger, evasion, he doesn't believe in this war. Catching odd jobs when he can, and begging when he can't, always on the look-out for someone who might recognize him, who might think he's suspicious enough to lock up and run a check on.
Problem is, Sam is too-tall for even this crowd. He doesn't quite stick out like a sore thumb, thanks to his ripped jeans and purple and swirl shirt. But he wonders if they can see the uniform he should be wearing, weighting him, dragging him down until he trips on something and lands face-down on someone's blanket.
"Watch yourself."
Sam knows fucking better than to get close--he'll be out of town in two days. But he can't resist the firecracker in her blue dress and braids, glaring at him across the paintings he almost spoiled.
There's half a dozen other people on the blanket, and where they're not, it's crowded with paint-pots and her brushes.
"Hi," he says, trying for something like normal.
"Hey, baby," she laughs, her head tilted back and eyes closed like she's drinking in the sun shining down on them. Or maybe concentrating on the music that pours from the stage.
Sam can't tell which. "Nice work," he offers, shifting until he's sitting, a rueful look at his mud-streaked jeans.
That makes her laugh, her hazel eyes nailing him with a gaze full of disbelief and amusement. Then she jumps upwards, her skirts flashing tanned legs and bare feet at him. She's nimble among the jumble on the blanket as she moves, leaning down to offer him her hands. "Dance with me."
"Kara," one of her friends says, a tall man, who looks uneasily at Sam.
"I'm Sam," sticking out his hand, smiling. That's how it's done. You introduce yourself, they don't think you're there to kill babies.
"Karl," he accepts Sam's hand, nods towards the woman against his side, her eyes closed in sleep, "Sharon. And you're going to be very careful with Kara."
"Watch my stuff, daddy," Kara teases, tugging Sam up off the blanket. She's off through the crowd, twisting and turning in an instant, weaving her way between the throng like she's greased.
Sam stumbles over his feet, barely able to keep up with her, glad she's got his hand, or he wouldn't even know where she'd gone. "Hey," he pulls at her, reeling her in close to avoid a line of linked dancers running in front of them. "Hey, you don't have to run."
"I like running," she murmurs, turning into him, hands sliding under his shirt.
"Dancing," he reminds her, laughing a little as he swings her around, hands on her waist. There's no rhythm to their movements, not until the song changes.
Maybe it's the pot being smoked nearby, maybe it's the electric guitar, or some twang of the chords going to Sam's head. But if he closes his eyes, he can imagine they're not here. That it's an empty room, the two of them alone, waltzing to some ridiculous Tchaikovsky piece, or not moving at all.
"Dancing's nice," she whispers, hand behind his neck, tugging as she pushes up on her toes.
She kisses like she dances--no science, no moment to decide how to breathe or who should tilt, and Sam bangs his nose into hers.
They break apart, Kara's laughter somehow melting into the music.
"C'mon," she teases before breaking away and running again.
Sam can't help but chase her, shoving through people and getting shoved back in return. He can barely keep up, only her laughter and the flash of her skirts or the shine of her hair giving him clues to her direction until he breaks free of the crowd entirely, finding her leaning against the side of one of the buses.
Panting, he doesn't stop until she's trapped between him and the metal, bending his head to kiss her, sloppy and quick.
They find an open space, away from the smell of gas and too many unwashed bodies. She pulls his shirt off of him and he finds out she's bra-less before she leaves her skirts in a pile. Nearly-naked, she laughs at him, hands on her hips, daring him to finish what he's started.
What they've started, he wants to protest, before his shoes and jeans and underwear end up in a heap.
"Kara," he starts, suddenly nervous.
She moves back in against him, almost shy as she pushes up to kiss his mouth, skin to skin in a way that freezes his brain. Then she's pulling him down with her, rolling him beneath her and settling on his stomach. She's so warm, so real, that he thinks he could etch her in his memory forever as his hands trace her curves.
It's not the best sex, but he's not sure it matters, disconnected from his body, feeling the sunlight like another pair of hands on him as she twists and slides.
"Feel like I could fly into the sun," Sam says, hands gripping her hips too-tight.
Naked and proud above him, she laughs, her head falling back. His hands trail up her body, tracing her curves until she's gone and he's gone, and there's nothing but the sound of people and music and the scent of stale camphor and oil paints.
It's not awkward until they're back in their clothes, sitting with their backs against a bus.
"I don't normally," he says, only to stop. Because he doesn't know what he's trying to say, he only knows that he shouldn't have done this.
"Yeah. Look. This isn't going to be me going all picket fence and two kids on you, all right? I mean, I don't even like dogs all that much."
He laughs, because he has to, then swallows and says, "I'm dodging. I should go."
"Oh. OH. Man, that's--" her hand closes on his arm, and she grins at him, "Peace is getting a chance, with you fucking your way across America."
"Hey!" Leaning over, he kisses her cheek, "Not what I've been doing."
"No?" Moving quicker than he expects, she sits on his lap and looks up at him. "I'm just a fluke, then? Your first little peace-nik babe?"
"Yeah." Hands on her waist again, he ducks to kiss her mouth, surprised that she's still here. Hell, that she's letting him.
"Mmmh." she says before pulling away. "I should get back to Karl. You should... I don't know, dance a little, maybe get high a little, sex up some more hot chicks. Maybe a guy or two..." she kisses his cheek and whispers, "And then make a run across the border. Maybe in ten years, they won't want to prosecute anymore."
He should follow her advice--some of it. But he can't help but wonder if running is his only option. "Think I'll stay. At least until the end of the concert."
"With me?"
"Unless you plan on running away and not letting me follow."
She leans up and kisses him. "No. Maybe later."
They settle against each other, talking, sometimes singing, and at some point, naked again. Sam tries not to worry about how close he feels to her, even as the night closes and she falls asleep in his arms, wrapped in the blanket Karl eventually brought them.
-f-
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Thank you =D
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Thank you =D
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The fic is great.
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Thank you!