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“You don’t like your hair being pulled?”

The question was not unfounded—after Kara’s had been the only voice that didn’t join the chorus of agreement about the enjoyment of hair being pulled—but asking put a spotlight above her and the alcohol swayed room swirled like vultures. 

Kara didn’t have time to wonder how they had gotten there, how game night had pulled away from competition and ventured into the territory of personal truths—sung with a slurring cadence and a boisterous volume that benefited from the fact that Lena was hosting the night, as noise complaints never were an issue when you have soundproofed walls. Whether it was the natural comfort of those gathered, encouraged to new heights—or perhaps depths—by the looseness of their tequila and Aldebaran rum soaked thoughts, or it was the tensions of too many single people feeding off each other; she had to answer it regardless. 

“Well, it’s not that I dislike it,” she tried to feed the swarm before curiosity took full hold, but even she smelled the blood in the air and she was well and truly outnumbered. “I just can’t really feel it.” 

The admission seemed to satisfy, some of the crowding bodies that had gravitated towards her sank back to rest, content to return to discussing the pleasure they all experienced without her. The security that released a sigh from her chest—born of the thought that she had avoided an interrogation—was premature.

“You could feel Sam.” 

Kara coughed—choked on her suddenly thick tongue—her world spinning as her gaze swept around the room, trying to find the culprit who dragged her from her shelter and left her open to the appetites that surrounded her. 

Alex had her glass tipped sharply back, her eyes wide and her brow high, drinking for both of them in the face of the inevitable course the night was taking. Lena’s smile was poorly hidden behind the rim of her glass as she sipped, but her interest was polite, her brow lifted, her observance mostly passive. Kara didn’t make it to Nia—her true suspect—caught instead on the warmth that rose to greet her gaze, coloring the cheeks of the named party, the innocent bystander dragged into being a part of her fate.

But the curl of Sam’s smirk was not all that innocent the longer Kara stared—more smug, boastful even—assured that her touch really could do the trick. “Care to test it?”

Kara wasn’t opposed to trying, still doubtful that it would make any difference in her opinions, but there was an element of intimacy to the action—hair pulling wasn’t exactly an activity done casually—that had her heart racing ahead of her. Her nerves buzzed enough to make her jittery, and as the room arranged themselves so that Sam was next to her on the couch, she could hardly keep still, her fingers plucking at the seam of her pants where it cut into her knees. 

“I can be gentle,” Sam assured her. 

Kara shook her head even before Lena noted that the point was for her to feel it. She wasn’t afraid of it hurting, and she certainly wasn’t afraid of Sam. Quite the opposite, she was realizing, as she swallowed to discourage her heart from rising any higher in her chest. 

It wasn’t the fog of the rum that warmed her ears as Sam’s fingers brushed delicately across her shoulder, and as the room collectively held their breath, all Kara could hear was the thunder of her heart. She followed the path of Sam’s touch as it traced the muscle that connected shoulder to neck, tried to stay loose enough to not exaggerate the shiver that greeted Sam at her spine. 

“Relax.” 

The whisper of a word was somehow more ruinous than anything else as it echoed in her skull and made clear just how much she had narrowed in on the sensation, how little she remembered of the night that led up to that or even how aware she was of having an audience. 

Kara nodded, and Sam took it as permission to press forward, to ease her hand upward, the gentle scrape of blunt nails against her scalp chasing sparks around her head. Her eyelids fluttered closed—in part to concentrate, but also to hide the way her eyes rolled upward of their own accord. 

Kara had only just registered the cushion of Sam’s palm as it fit against her—briefly noting the snug press—before fingers tightened into a proper grip. 

The bite of it flared hot through Kara, irradiated her expectations and left her at the mercy of her own blank mind. Her head dropped back sharply with the barest tug, a strangled moan wrenching from the straining curve of her throat, and her heart plummeted as she heard her own voice pitch higher still, her lungs emptying with the impact of the indisputable realization. 

“Oh,” Sam breathed beside her, her hold still firm. “You like that?”

It wasn’t what Kara wanted to hear.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The question hit her veins, intoxicated her faster than the rum, but not enough to numb the knowledge that they were not alone, and more importantly that this was only meant to be fun. It was dangerous, slippery in the same way her inhibitions abandoned her and her desires reared their heads. It invited thoughts she didn’t need painted across her cheeks, and while her body had given itself to Sam, she was helpless to keep anything at bay. 

When Kara was released and her head lifted back into place, she was forced to confront the mix of embarrassment and glee that colored the faces that witnessed her. She shifted in her spot, her thighs rubbing together unconsciously, her shoulders high to guard her neck. 

“It’s okay,” she said, barely above a whisper, all she could muster in the wake of the flood of tingles that raced down her body. 

“ ‘Okay’ my ass,” Nia snorted, but mercifully attention drifted away after that.

Kara couldn’t bring herself to glance at Sam, to see her reaction, too mortified by the sheerness of how wrong she was, but she felt the woman’s weight lean into her, their shoulders brushing together before lips settled by her ear. “Let me know if you ever want to try it again,” she drawled lowly, her breath tickling against Kara’s jaw. 

Kara drank to quiet the ceaseless, frantic scream of her thoughts, the mess of fluttering in her gut, the itch of impatience that would haunt her until they could be alone. 


That night—the one that Kara could not force from her thoughts—slipped away without so much as a casual mention, joined the many game nights that bonded their group without standing apart. It left Kara torn—half of her glad that the events wouldn’t shape the jokes in the group chat for the next month, but also half of her was just lost. 

The offer to try it again, to have her hair pulled again, echoed in her ears, tirelessly twisting itself into her every waking thought, and worse still, her dreams. Kara couldn’t be certain if it was a genuine offer, or what was meant by it, or what she wanted from it. She had never felt that rush in her nerves, the way they sang so fully and set her heart dancing to the tune. 

Rationally, Kara understood that there was novelty in the sensation—something she could not find elsewhere and so had no experience with. She told herself it was just that, but the way Sam’s name was on her lips when she stirred from sleep and the phantom touch that lingered on her throat as she rolled out of bed could not be ignored; just as they couldn’t the morning before, and the one before that.

Kara tried to pretend she was unaffected, even accepted an invitation to an evening at Sam’s, without the pretense of a SuperFriends gathering. She debated cancelling right up until she was at Sam’s door with what was left of the Aldebaran rum in hand, her heart refusing to quiet, drowning out the soft knock of her knuckle against the door.

Kara—usually so aware of every little detail of her circumstances and surroundings—hardly noticed that Sam was immediately at the door, waving her in with an easy grin. If anything, it meant she didn’t have time to dwell on the mistake of showing up without Alex or anyone else as a deterrent against her mind circling back to the offer, the itch to take Sam up on it, or to ask for more. 

“Hey, hi!”

With her breath catching in her lungs, Kara practically tripped over the threshold, all too aware of Sam’s eyes on her, and increasingly distracted by how tall she was. It wasn’t that Kara had never noticed—certainly Reign had loved to leverage it against her—but it only served to keep her neck bent slightly, reminiscent of how Sam had pulled it back. A lot of things seemed to bring her back to that. 

The cadence of Sam’s greeting went largely unnoticed, lost in the brilliance of her smile, blinding Kara to anything else. “I brought,” and she lifted the remainder of the bottle of rum. “We really didn’t hold back the other night,” she noted how low it had gotten, after just the two of them drinking it, but the truth was it didn’t take much for her to feel it. 

Kara offered the bottle forward. 

“I held back,” Sam drawled, the lowest notes sinking into Kara’s belly, settling low and heavy within her. 

Kara wasn’t used to feeling slow, but her mind was sluggish and Sam seemed to glide easily, catching her wrist before it could fall back to her side. The brush of Sam’s thumb against her skin was mesmerizing, and it took all her will to not let her eyes drop, to not fall into rapture as she was held, in both hand and gaze. 

The touch was nothing overtly intimate, but perhaps that was the problem. It invited Kara to want without giving much hint of her intentions. Or perhaps it did—perhaps Sam wasn’t being subtle and Kara’s spinning thoughts prevented her from properly judging. 

“Let’s not cloud anything with alcohol.”

There was a gentle tug and Kara stepped without thought, followed without question, nodding in agreement with Sam’s suggestion, desperately trying to pry her thoughts away from Sam’s hand, succeeding only when graced with a warm smile. 

Kara was relieved of the bottle and watched it get set on the counter before they continued to the living room, where Sam pointed her towards the couch. When released, she sat gracelessly, her knees just giving out so she landed heavily. 

“You okay?” 

The air of confidence around Sam wavered, her hand faltering in its rise to brush the hair that had fallen in Kara’s face back behind her ear. The inner wish for that touch to continue around to the nape of her neck reared up above everything else, but all Kara’s throat produced was a strangled whine, shrill in her own ears. 

“Kara?” 

Sam’s hand had retreated, concern etched into the crease of her brow. She was still standing, close enough that Kara was forced to crane her neck, the thought of being even lower flooding her before she could brace for it. 

It was Kara who caught Sam then, fingers clutching. “Wait,” she breathed.

Kara’s cheeks were stained with the heat of her blush, her breath short and expectant, anticipation building before she could even admit to wanting anything. Her gaze could hardly keep on Sam’s face, on the heaviness of her stare, on the flare of her nostrils or the part of her lips, on the storm of fire behind darkened eyes. 

“Please,” was all Kara managed to say, her voice squeaking with a pitiful desperation. “Please.”

Sam’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, and Kara couldn’t help enjoying being drank in like that. “Please what?”

“T-touch me.” And then everything got messy, her hesitations abandoning her faster than her wits, her body loosening without understanding, becoming pliant beneath just the thought of Sam’s hand on her. “I want to feel— to… to feel you.”

They were locked together for a moment, sizing up each other’s desire, caught in the rising beat of their hearts. Kara’s grip slipped, allowed Sam to move—to choose the direction they took. Her eyes fell to watch, and still the measured climb of Sam’s fingers managed to scatter her mind, her thoughts racing and her heart jumping at every inch of progress. 

“You want your hair pulled?” 

Kara heard Sam, but the words jumbled and reordered themselves, taking the meaning of the question and twisting it away from Kara’s comprehension. “Yes— no! No,” she corrected as she finally managed to arrange thoughts properly, the struggle worsening as her body begged to melt into the couch. 

The halting of Sam’s hand and the bunch of her brow prompted clarification. “I already know I like that,” she squeaked, her thoughts flickering like a candle in a breeze, momentarily going dark. 

Kara wanted more. 

“Choke me.”

That set things in motion, brought Sam’s knees to sink into the cushion of the couch on either side of Kara’s thighs, straddling her lap. Her hand continued how it had, slipping up the back of Kara’s neck into her hair. 

Sam’s eyes were darker than she had recalled them—even the red glow of Reign holding a different tone—and as her vision blurred with the warm fog that filled her skull, she could just make out the gleam of amusement. 

“Show me your pretty throat,” but without waiting, Sam tugged. 

Kara’s head fell back sharply and at once her muscles became putty. Her moan was a bursting gasp that then strangled into a delirious slur of wet desire, echoed in the fluttering clench of her cunt.

The pull of her scalp had flared hot at first, but as Kara’s body slipped lower into the couch, it became a dull thud in her veins, drowning out the world. Her hands fumbled forward automatically, found Sam’s waist and held it without the delicate care she always had for humans. 

As Sam’s grip loosened, the sudden lack of sensation was disorienting, tingles raining down Kara’s body, leaving quiet in their wake. But the touch around her throat brought everything crashing into sharp focus, the responding throb settling low in her belly, drawing the heat downward until she felt it spill slick between her legs. 

Kara would meet resistance. When she pushed, there would be something that could stand against her. Fighting for breath wouldn’t be conceptual—something she tried to imagine, to project herself into. She would feel the squeeze, not just a tickle she humored. 

When she looked up, she met Sam’s eye—someone she trusted with more than just her life, but with her desires, and her vulnerability. She would be in Sam’s hands, and she would be safe to walk straight up to the ledge that overlooked ruin itself. 

Kara could stare down into the depths of oblivion and know that Sam was there, with her, for her. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes ready to roll up at the slightest twitch of Sam’s fingers. 

The pressure built gradually, encouraged by the slur of moans that swelled up within her, until her breath cut off. Kara shivered and her jaw hung loose in a muted cry. 

The first hitch of her chest—the reflexive effort to draw breath—lifted her spine away from the couch, her body jerking, but the well of panic was rapidly swallowed by a rushing flood of delirium, her mind swimming in quiet, plunging sharply into the warm numb. 

Dots sprinkled across her vision and Kara forgot everything outside of that room, the thunder of her pulse in her ears chasing everything else from her head. She melted, leaving her slack and pliant in Sam’s grip. 

“Good girl.” Sam’s voice filled the emptiness of her skull. 

The pressure lifted just as Kara was ready to drown, giddy at the idea, the haze slow to dissipate. She blinked slow and dopey up at Sam, fixated on her lips, not even feeling her own hand move to the collar of Sam’s sweater, fisting into it and pulling her down, tongue pushing into the damp heat of her mouth. 

Their moans spilled together, stirred Kara up until she was a roiling mess inside. 

“More,” she panted, and Sam’s kiss promised everything she could ask for.