Fic: "Waiting on the Sun to Go Down," Hart of Dixie, Zoe/Wade, R
I said I was going to write fic and, lo, here it is. Not only that, but I made icons and downloaded the Keith Urban song that was playing during the episode this week. I need help.
This show is NOT GOOD. But I am HOOKED.
Title: “Waiting on the Sun to Go Down” 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Hart of Dixie
Rating/Classification: R, Zoe/Wade, episode tag, adult language, sexual content (basically a PWP).
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not making a profit from their use. Song title is from “Long Hot Summer” by Keith Urban.
Summary: 1175 words. An episode tag for episode 1.4, “In Havoc and Heat.” Zoe’s formerly nonexistent freaky-deaky is desperate for some indulgence
Running the A/C, the fan and her cell charger at the same time is asking for trouble. Adding her electric Hitachi wand is downright irresponsible. But the rain is pounding down on the roof, it’s still hotter than Hell, and Zoe’s formerly nonexistent freaky-deaky is desperate for some indulgence. Indulgence that’s right next door… that was hers to grab, if only she’d gone for it.
“No,” she tells herself, breathlessly flicking the power setting on her vibe up to ‘High’. “You do not need him. You are in charge of your own orgasm, Zoe Hart.”
She’s too organized, too efficient, to not take care of this herself. So she spreads out across her tangled bedsheets, using the safe, comfortable, fantasy of Wade to get herself off. All of that bare, sun-warmed skin. Water clinging to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. The way he drawls her name. The way he looks when he’s about to try and kiss her. The way he tastes when he does kiss her… like sex and liquor and sunshine. “Yes,” she whispers as the vibe buzzes against her clit, as she uses her other hand to tease lower. “Yes, yes, yes.” She lets it turn into a chant timed to the rhythm of the rain.
When she’s almost there, right on the edge, hips coming off the bed and breath catching in her throat… that’s when the fuse blows and everything in the house goes dark. “Dammit!” The wand falls from her suddenly nerveless fingers as a screen door bangs somewhere in the distance. She thumps her head on the pillows, tugging her t-shirt back down and her underwear back up. Of course she can’t even use what’s left of her free pass. She exhales with a huff, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and searching for her flip-flops with her toes.
Just when she’s finding the left one, her own screen door bangs and footsteps come thundering into her bedroom. There’s enough moonlight coming in the windows that Wade doesn’t really startle her. Not unless you count how her breath catches all over again, because he’s naked except for an obscenely thin pair of boxers. It’s also enough light for him to see her.
“Christ on a stick, Doc, what in the Hell were you doin’? And why don’t your lock your door?”
Her hair’s a mess. She’s flushed. Her pajamas are askew. And there’s a vibrator, bright white and attached to a cord in the wall, on top of the covers for all and sundry to take into account. She knows what she looks like: frustration personified. “Dammit,” she repeats. Because, by the glint in his eyes, he now knows exactly what she was doing and who she was probably thinking about while doing it.
“Hell,” he chuckles, chasing it with a low whistle of a appreciation. “If you’re going to blow your circuits, I can think of a dozen more satisfying ways to do it.” And he closes the few feet between them, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and sliding them down over his hips.
“Oh my God.” Zoe wants to look away. To blush. But she’s frozen despite the heat. She’s seen a lot of naked bodies in her time, mostly on the operating table or a pathology slab, but never one so completely gorgeous. Even Wade’s penis is perfectly proportioned… thick at the head, lean everywhere else, nestled in a neat thatch of golden brown hair that he must manscape. It’s close enough to touch. He’s close enough to touch. For real. And there’s no rain to break the heat wave, to stop the insanity.
“Well?” he prompts, tilting his head and grinning at her. “What’s the doctor gonna prescribe for her own disease?”
On some level, she registers that he’s putting himself out there again. Risking another rejection. All while telling her that he’s easy, available and without judgment. Without clothes. A pathetic little moan escapes her lips, and then she’s rising up off the bed.
“Wade.” That’s all she can manage, his name, before she’s pulling him close with both hands and kissing him like she did that first night in his car. Drunk and lonely and scared, she practically devoured him that night. Tonight, she’s just as hungry, and maybe one tenth as scared. Not of him, not of this, but of wanting both too much.
He kisses her back just as wildly, says her name just as needily, winding one hand in her hair and sliding the other down the front of her panties. His fingers are more magical than the wand. He sinks two of them knuckle deep inside her while he flicks her clit with his thumb. She has to return the favor. He’s too beautiful not to explore. And as she strokes him from base to tip, they stumble backwards, nearly missing the mattress entirely because they want to be horizontal so badly.
The Hitachi gets unceremoniously kicked or shoved to the floor. But the condoms from the doctor’s office are on her night table, and they get treated with respect, with reverence even. Wade rips open the first foil package, and she helps him unroll the latex and cover himself. Then she’s straddling him, pushing him back against the pillows and accepting what he’s offering. What she’s wanted all along.
“Yes,” she whispers as she takes him to the hilt. “Yes, yes, yes.” It’s a chant, timed to the rhythm of the rain… and the rhythm of him.
He grips her hips as their bodies slam together like they’re making their own storm. Somewhere in the middle of not coming yet and coming so fast and so hard she can’t think straight, Zoe’s chorus of “yes” changes to “oh my God.” She’s going to be bruised, rubbed raw from his beard stubble, but it’s his eyes that will really leave a mark. They’re dark and earnest and sweet. Not freaky-deaky at all.
“Zoe,” he gasps, when she collapses on top of him and nuzzles his neck. “Trust me, you don’t need something that plugs in. I’ve got enough juice to go as many times as you like.”
I’ll be here when the lights go out, he adds with just one look. With his palm skimming up and down her spine and his mouth meeting hers in the dark. I’ll stay up all night making gumbo for you. Because don’t think she didn’t eventually figure out where it came from. I’ll carry you. I’ll hold you. I’ll kiss you in the rain.
It’s not just an indulgence. She’s the surgeon, the physician, the diagnostician, but he knows exactly what she needs. He flips the breaker. He turns her on. He laughs and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear before stretching out and grabbing the second condom. I’ll believe in you, he promises with a cocky, good ol’ boy’s grin.
Zoe is in charge of her own orgasm. Wade’s already got the key to everything else.
--end--
October 19, 2011
This show is NOT GOOD. But I am HOOKED.
Title: “Waiting on the Sun to Go Down” 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Hart of Dixie
Rating/Classification: R, Zoe/Wade, episode tag, adult language, sexual content (basically a PWP).
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not making a profit from their use. Song title is from “Long Hot Summer” by Keith Urban.
Summary: 1175 words. An episode tag for episode 1.4, “In Havoc and Heat.” Zoe’s formerly nonexistent freaky-deaky is desperate for some indulgence
Running the A/C, the fan and her cell charger at the same time is asking for trouble. Adding her electric Hitachi wand is downright irresponsible. But the rain is pounding down on the roof, it’s still hotter than Hell, and Zoe’s formerly nonexistent freaky-deaky is desperate for some indulgence. Indulgence that’s right next door… that was hers to grab, if only she’d gone for it.
“No,” she tells herself, breathlessly flicking the power setting on her vibe up to ‘High’. “You do not need him. You are in charge of your own orgasm, Zoe Hart.”
She’s too organized, too efficient, to not take care of this herself. So she spreads out across her tangled bedsheets, using the safe, comfortable, fantasy of Wade to get herself off. All of that bare, sun-warmed skin. Water clinging to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. The way he drawls her name. The way he looks when he’s about to try and kiss her. The way he tastes when he does kiss her… like sex and liquor and sunshine. “Yes,” she whispers as the vibe buzzes against her clit, as she uses her other hand to tease lower. “Yes, yes, yes.” She lets it turn into a chant timed to the rhythm of the rain.
When she’s almost there, right on the edge, hips coming off the bed and breath catching in her throat… that’s when the fuse blows and everything in the house goes dark. “Dammit!” The wand falls from her suddenly nerveless fingers as a screen door bangs somewhere in the distance. She thumps her head on the pillows, tugging her t-shirt back down and her underwear back up. Of course she can’t even use what’s left of her free pass. She exhales with a huff, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and searching for her flip-flops with her toes.
Just when she’s finding the left one, her own screen door bangs and footsteps come thundering into her bedroom. There’s enough moonlight coming in the windows that Wade doesn’t really startle her. Not unless you count how her breath catches all over again, because he’s naked except for an obscenely thin pair of boxers. It’s also enough light for him to see her.
“Christ on a stick, Doc, what in the Hell were you doin’? And why don’t your lock your door?”
Her hair’s a mess. She’s flushed. Her pajamas are askew. And there’s a vibrator, bright white and attached to a cord in the wall, on top of the covers for all and sundry to take into account. She knows what she looks like: frustration personified. “Dammit,” she repeats. Because, by the glint in his eyes, he now knows exactly what she was doing and who she was probably thinking about while doing it.
“Hell,” he chuckles, chasing it with a low whistle of a appreciation. “If you’re going to blow your circuits, I can think of a dozen more satisfying ways to do it.” And he closes the few feet between them, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and sliding them down over his hips.
“Oh my God.” Zoe wants to look away. To blush. But she’s frozen despite the heat. She’s seen a lot of naked bodies in her time, mostly on the operating table or a pathology slab, but never one so completely gorgeous. Even Wade’s penis is perfectly proportioned… thick at the head, lean everywhere else, nestled in a neat thatch of golden brown hair that he must manscape. It’s close enough to touch. He’s close enough to touch. For real. And there’s no rain to break the heat wave, to stop the insanity.
“Well?” he prompts, tilting his head and grinning at her. “What’s the doctor gonna prescribe for her own disease?”
On some level, she registers that he’s putting himself out there again. Risking another rejection. All while telling her that he’s easy, available and without judgment. Without clothes. A pathetic little moan escapes her lips, and then she’s rising up off the bed.
“Wade.” That’s all she can manage, his name, before she’s pulling him close with both hands and kissing him like she did that first night in his car. Drunk and lonely and scared, she practically devoured him that night. Tonight, she’s just as hungry, and maybe one tenth as scared. Not of him, not of this, but of wanting both too much.
He kisses her back just as wildly, says her name just as needily, winding one hand in her hair and sliding the other down the front of her panties. His fingers are more magical than the wand. He sinks two of them knuckle deep inside her while he flicks her clit with his thumb. She has to return the favor. He’s too beautiful not to explore. And as she strokes him from base to tip, they stumble backwards, nearly missing the mattress entirely because they want to be horizontal so badly.
The Hitachi gets unceremoniously kicked or shoved to the floor. But the condoms from the doctor’s office are on her night table, and they get treated with respect, with reverence even. Wade rips open the first foil package, and she helps him unroll the latex and cover himself. Then she’s straddling him, pushing him back against the pillows and accepting what he’s offering. What she’s wanted all along.
“Yes,” she whispers as she takes him to the hilt. “Yes, yes, yes.” It’s a chant, timed to the rhythm of the rain… and the rhythm of him.
He grips her hips as their bodies slam together like they’re making their own storm. Somewhere in the middle of not coming yet and coming so fast and so hard she can’t think straight, Zoe’s chorus of “yes” changes to “oh my God.” She’s going to be bruised, rubbed raw from his beard stubble, but it’s his eyes that will really leave a mark. They’re dark and earnest and sweet. Not freaky-deaky at all.
“Zoe,” he gasps, when she collapses on top of him and nuzzles his neck. “Trust me, you don’t need something that plugs in. I’ve got enough juice to go as many times as you like.”
I’ll be here when the lights go out, he adds with just one look. With his palm skimming up and down her spine and his mouth meeting hers in the dark. I’ll stay up all night making gumbo for you. Because don’t think she didn’t eventually figure out where it came from. I’ll carry you. I’ll hold you. I’ll kiss you in the rain.
It’s not just an indulgence. She’s the surgeon, the physician, the diagnostician, but he knows exactly what she needs. He flips the breaker. He turns her on. He laughs and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear before stretching out and grabbing the second condom. I’ll believe in you, he promises with a cocky, good ol’ boy’s grin.
Zoe is in charge of her own orgasm. Wade’s already got the key to everything else.
--end--
October 19, 2011