Kara's smart, kind of crazy, sings like an angel - most recently, he recalls her providing backing vocals for one of the ballads off Archie's first album, her voice is lovely. She's been spectacular on the show, too, very sharp and incisive; he'd been complaining to anyone who'd listen how he'd picked the wrong season to be on Idol. Season 8, with the hot female judge? Totally the season to have been on, no disrespect to sweet Paula, of course.
It's for this amongst a host of reasons that he'd been keen to return to the Idol stage for the Season 8 finale. He sings his song, and when he returns to his seat, red-eyed and looking for a distraction, he finds ample opportunity for the same when Kara takes to the stage and uses her superior vocal pipes in a sing-off with tanned-and-cute-but-forgettable Bikini Girl.
And then, at the end of their song, Kara pulls open the smart black coat-dress she's wearing, and, fuck him running, but she's rocking a tight black bikini, too, and suddenly nobody is looking at Bikini Girl, least of all him.
He corners her backstage, after Kris is crowned, and before they're all swept off to the finale afterparties. She's still wearing the black coat-dress; it's kind of driving him crazy.
"Good song, Dave," she says, without preamble. "Nice outfit, too. You were a great Idol, you know, one of our best. We'll miss your reign."
"Kris is gonna be awesome," he tells her. "Can I also say, good song, and nice outfit? Because they totally are."
She eyes him appraisingly. "This outfit? Or the other one?"
He swallows; remembers slender flanks, round breasts, pale skin the same color as his own. "If I pull the snaps on this outfit, will we get to see the other one?"
Her smile's amused. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm not wearing it any more. Wanna find out?"
And really, he can't help but reach out to trace the line of her lapels, fighting the urge to tug, to uncover, to push her up against a wall somewhere. "Yeah, me and half of America."
"I'd prefer not to share this with half of America," she says, reaching into her cleavage, to where her bikini line is, or isn't. She pulls out a card, tugs him close, tucks it into his vest, and pretends not to notice how fast he's breathing. "Don't lose my number, now. Call me when you're done with press, we'll think of something to do."
He tries to focus. His hands circle her waist, where he's pretty sure she's bare under her dress. "Only if you promise not to judge my performance," he says.
"Me? I always judge," she says, and smiles like a promise that she'll be kind.
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timeasmymeasure
Judging David [PG/R]
Date: 2010-01-20 09:00 am (UTC)It's for this amongst a host of reasons that he'd been keen to return to the Idol stage for the Season 8 finale. He sings his song, and when he returns to his seat, red-eyed and looking for a distraction, he finds ample opportunity for the same when Kara takes to the stage and uses her superior vocal pipes in a sing-off with tanned-and-cute-but-forgettable Bikini Girl.
And then, at the end of their song, Kara pulls open the smart black coat-dress she's wearing, and, fuck him running, but she's rocking a tight black bikini, too, and suddenly nobody is looking at Bikini Girl, least of all him.
He corners her backstage, after Kris is crowned, and before they're all swept off to the finale afterparties. She's still wearing the black coat-dress; it's kind of driving him crazy.
"Good song, Dave," she says, without preamble. "Nice outfit, too. You were a great Idol, you know, one of our best. We'll miss your reign."
"Kris is gonna be awesome," he tells her. "Can I also say, good song, and nice outfit? Because they totally are."
She eyes him appraisingly. "This outfit? Or the other one?"
He swallows; remembers slender flanks, round breasts, pale skin the same color as his own. "If I pull the snaps on this outfit, will we get to see the other one?"
Her smile's amused. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm not wearing it any more. Wanna find out?"
And really, he can't help but reach out to trace the line of her lapels, fighting the urge to tug, to uncover, to push her up against a wall somewhere. "Yeah, me and half of America."
"I'd prefer not to share this with half of America," she says, reaching into her cleavage, to where her bikini line is, or isn't. She pulls out a card, tugs him close, tucks it into his vest, and pretends not to notice how fast he's breathing. "Don't lose my number, now. Call me when you're done with press, we'll think of something to do."
He tries to focus. His hands circle her waist, where he's pretty sure she's bare under her dress. "Only if you promise not to judge my performance," he says.
"Me? I always judge," she says, and smiles like a promise that she'll be kind.