yuletide fics!
I forgot my yuletide fics which I can now admit I wrote. Both first time fandoms! (my opinion of my own awesomeness is pretty high today).
Title: Midsummer's Eve
Rating: teen (for talk of sex)
Pairing: Legend of the Seeker: Cara and Zedd, friendship
Word Count: 1286
Summary: Cara and Zedd have a chat about sex and old lovers. Cara's POV.
Notes: written for meridian_rose for
yuletide 2010. I was really nervous because I've never written Seeker fic. Luckily, it did not suck.
The more distant fires and the raucous laughter from the nearby village carried into camp, just soft enough to be heard in harmony with the crackling of their campfire. Cara stirred the coals, blowing on them as Zedd dropped a larger log onto the fire. With Richard and Kahlan off enjoying the midsummer festivities, it was only the two of them, and it was quiet.
Cara didn't mind the quiet. Not having a conversation was often more pleasant than having one and all the awkwardness that followed. So far, Zedd hadn't commented on the silence, and she'd made eye contact with him a few times to make sure he was content. He'd smiled that quiet, lazy smile of his, and she'd returned to what she was doing.
Checking all her armour: oiling the leather and polishing the buckles, Cara rarely had the time to do it properly without being attacked by Banelings, or woken in the middle of the night to fight off some terrible beast. As long as Richard and Kahlan remained out of trouble, she might be able to really take the time with everything and have it in pristine condition. Which was something that she'd rarely been able to do since she started following Richard and his "let's help everyone and save the world campaign". Helping the world was easier with properly oiled leathers.
She'd just finished her holsters for the agiels when the light changed. The golden glow of the fire shifted towards blue and she looked up, curious.
Zedd grinned at her over the fire. "Sorry, just trying something out."
"I need light, it doesn't matter what colour it is."
"Good. Light I can promise you. The colour is a work in progress."
Cara watched for awhile, letting her hands work their way across the leather as Zedd danced his through the air. The fire twisted and shimmer, changing from blue flames to a golden dragon bursting out of the logs, surrounded by blue sparks. His smile broadened, and he was pleased when the dragon returned to the logs and curled back up, forming an egg.
"Shouldn't it be a phoenix instead of a dragon?"
Zedd chuckled. "The feathers are difficult. Scales are easier."
"Dragons could live in a fire. I've never seen one that didn't."
"You've never seen what that did."
Shrugging, she moved a little closer to the fire, sitting on the log instead of behind it.
"I'm focusing on positive."
Zedd offered her a wineskin, grinning. "You hate it when Richard tells you to do that."
"If the situation involves fantasy creatures, focusing on the positive is appropriate. In real life, I find it less so."
The wine was sweet and light, something that fit the summer and the lazy heat still in the air.
Zedd waved his hands again, stirring the fire into a thicket of wild roses, then a horse: rearing out of the embers and finally a school of fish. While the firefish circled in the smoke, Zedd took the wine back and took a long drink.
"Midsummer is for lovers, which is fine and good when you have one, but desperately lonely when you don't."
Cara studied him, wondering if he really was lonely. He didn't lack for company when he wanted it. When they'd last stayed at an inn, the cook had taken quite a fancy to him, and there'd been a stablekeeper before that, and a charming blacksmith with very strong hands. She'd given Zedd a bruise or two but he'd worn them with pride. She admired that about him.
"I'm sure you could have found a lover prior to tonight if companionship were truly important to you."
Zedd sat back against his log, laughing up towards the sky. "If I didn't put in the effort, why regret it now?"
"Yes."
"I've always liked that about you, Cara. There's no middle ground, no wishing or hoping, just the space between wanting and having and if you want without having, well, then you're an idiot."
"I did not imply you were less than intelligent."
He passed the wine back to her, eyes twinkling in the firelight.
"You didn't."
Taking the wine, she drank instead of engaging with him. It seemed easier.
"So, why are you alone on midsummer's eve?"
She kept the wineskin and took another drink.
"I'm not alone."
"You and I are hardly lovers."
"I've had less appealing ones."
Zedd raised his eyebrows and nodded. "As have I. When I was of the age to be in your realm, I'm afraid I would have been sadly out of it, though, it would not have stopped me from trying."
"You were too arrogant when you were young."
"Oh?"
"I dislike arrogance."
"Funny words from a Mord-Sith."
"It is not arrogance when it is based in fact."
"When I was young, I was attractive and powerful, those were facts."
"But your arrogance went far beyond your allure or power. Even though both were considerable."
"You do know how to wound an old man, don't you?"
Cara frowned. "I did not intend to inflict pain, I meant to explain that you are more attractive now than you were as a youth. I imagine I may be similar, should I live to be of any age of note."
"You will always be beautiful, of that I have no doubt, and you may have a point, your compassion and caring may bloom with age, making you that much more attractive."
"You agree then, youth is not the most important aspect of a lover."
"Trust, compatibility and a good sense of humour go a long way towards cheering the bedchamber. Though as a youth, I would have been the last person to admit it."
"Few of my lovers have had humour." Cara frowned and then fought down the stinging of her eyes as she thought of Leo. "Trust is also rare, if even existent in the Mord-Sith. Someone was always plotting, scheming, trying to get ahead. The sex was good, but the cost of it was much higher than things are now."
"So you have had lovers?" There was no leer on his face, only friendly curiosity.
"A groom, three villages back. He had a kind smile and he smelt of horses."
He waggled his eyebrows, teasing her after he drank. "You like the smell of horses?"
"The good parts. Leather, and grass. Not the parts you're implying."
That made him laugh and this time, perhaps thanks to the wine, she laughed with him. The sound floated up, mixing with the sparks.
"I like the smells of the kitchen, wood smoke and spices, browning meat, flour and gravy. There's something homey about that."
"And cooks tend to be well fed."
"Is it a crime to prefer a woman with a little meat on her bones? Why are humans the only species that find starvation attractive?"
"I don't think it is the bones you look at."
"A little meat on the chest never hurt anyone, certainly not me."
"Not too much." Cara lay down next to him on the ground, letting her eyes drift along from spark to spark. She held up her hands, and demonstrated. "Too much more than two good handfuls and the pie feels overstuffed."
Zedd lifted his hand and put them next to hers. "Good thing my fingers are larger. I can have larger pies."
Cara shook her head, rolling her eyes. "You can."
"Not that I've ever turned down a small one."
"I doubt you've turned down many in your life."
Zedd hit her lightly. "Are you implying I'm less than discerning?"
She hit him back, grinning. "I'm just saying you're well fed."
"As are you."
"I have been."
"Good."
"I think so."
and
Title: Momentar Lapse
Rating: M (sex)
Pairing: Lost Girl: Bo/Lauren
Word Count: 1286
Summary: A moment in the laboratory, seduction, consciousness and surrender. Bo needs Lauren and takes her.
Notes: written for
zvi on dreamwidth (anyone who knows how to link to that properly gets cookies if you tell me). for
yuletide 2010. I was really nervous because Zvi's femslash standards are quite high, and I uh...hadn't written any Lost Girl at all. Luckily, it turned out decent. I love Lauren. She's fantastic. I could definitely write more fic about her.
Sharp, metallic, like old pennies: it's not a sexy scent. Lauren's never associated blood with sex. It's part of her work often enough. Human blood, familiar, ordinary, somehow comforting is easy. It's part of her world, her work. Fae blood has other notes to it, like the fine wine the Ash likes her to be able to talk about. Blood has stories. Infections make it sickly sweet, change the odour the way vinegar or mould spoil a wine.
There's blood on Bo, and as Bo's hands run up Lauren's outer thighs, the blood is theirs: a shared staining that binds them together.
She's usually not like this. She's proper and confined, contained. She does her job; the Ash is pleased with her and lets her in to the world she loves. It's being allowed to see into the dark corners, know what's unknown. The Fae world is a wealth of biology and chemistry: mutations, enzymes, and symbiotic relationships. The magic has tangible footprints, and she follows them dancing.
Research used to be the only steps she knew. Why tango when the waltz consumes you?
Now there's heat on her neck, and Bo's dirty hands in her clean, straight hair, tugging down as they catch on her blouse.
"I need you."
People need her. Lauren is always required for something. Healing the sick, mending the injured, understanding the previous undocumented: she has work. She is necessary, just not like this.
She's a constant. She functions within known parameters. She's as mapped and predictable as the proverbial lab rat.
Except none of her rats sit back on the counter, legs wide and wanting. She shivers, a misplaced response to heat, but it's the correct one. It feels right to tremble, to press against Bo as if she's freezing when she's burning inside.
She could have stitched the long ugly wound on Bo's side, set the dislocated fingers and found something for the bruises. Lauren knows how to heal the wounded.
Instead of her medical kit and knowledge; her cool and precious intellect, Bo wants her. Bo wants the wild, rampant parts of her that defy explanation. Bo wants her to need her back.
Lauren doesn't need anyone. She's quiet and self-contained. Independence is essential. Her work would be impossible to explain to another human, and the Fae are another breed. They're not for her. She belongs to them, she doesn't covet or dream above her position.
Bo's fingers brush her breast, making the linen blouse a prison and her bra as confining as a straightjacket. She's trapped without that skin on hers.
She's seen buttons ripped on television, read of it in novels but she's never done it. She's never wanted to waste the shirt. Tonight the buttons of her blouse bounce along the floor like scattered pebbles. It'll take her days to find them all, and each one will remind her of this moment of abandon. Where she was part of the mysteries, instead of their seeker.
"You're beautiful." Bo whispers it to her like a mantra. Something to be repeated for strength and comfort.
"Not like you."
Bo laughs and nibbles down Lauren's neck. "There aren't many like me, baby. You know that."
When Lauren starts to lose herself, forgetting that there's anything but Bo's mouth on her chest and Bo's steady fingers on her thighs, she grabs the counter. It's cool, solid and everything that she momentarily is not.
Once Bo kisses her, all of that stability is gone. She could be floating in ocean, adrift kilometres from shore. There is no counter, no floor, no laboratory cabinet behind her back and no forgotten lab coat resting idly on the tideless tile.
There's Bo, and sweet, damp heat that returns caresses to soothe grasping hands. Contact is a word reserved for moments that sizzle. It opens circuits, cuts flesh, and parts ribs yet here contact is poetry. Lauren has a secret love for poetry. No mathematics or theories of grammar can find paths in forests of words the way poetry finds all the secret walks.
Bo's lips on her breast, following curves down her stomach while her hands free Lauren's panties from her hips. Pink ones, pinstriped: could she be more predictable and less sexy? Bo's confidence hangs over her like an aura and, of course her panties are black.
Of course.
Bo's stay on for the moment. Lauren's bra, white and patterned, geometric like Escher, falls to the floor to drift with her coat. It is a sea, down there after all. Lauren's shoes will sink when they fall from her feet. The left will go first, it's half-off and the right, well, that hangs on until contact sends that shock too pleasant to be electric straight up her spine.
A succubus can influence energies. She can bend them to her will. Lauren remembers writing that in her report, the way she'd remember buckling her seat belt before a car accident.
Her body hums, alive with energy. She's pushed, played taut like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master. The comparison would be laughable under normal circumstances, but now it works. It fits.
It's the only thing that does. With Bo she's not her plaything, she's part of that work of art she's so long admired. The addictive, seductive refrain of music that's possessed her without having words or being understood.
Now she could sing it.
Panting fills the percussive line, and the subtle, aching vibration of her need to be touched, to be played, to fall into the melody and become.
She's had this before, and she must have forgotten. The human mind is too simple, too fragile to hold on to that kind of experience. Just when she's sure she could think herself into orgasm, Lauren's body takes thought from her.
She doesn't climax, she becomes it. That peak of release and rebirth is the soul of Bo's gift, the core of her energy, and here, now, somewhere between the white tiled ceiling and Bo's blood smeared black stilettos, she lives.
Originally posted on Dreamwidth with
comments. Please comment on either. :)
Title: Midsummer's Eve
Rating: teen (for talk of sex)
Pairing: Legend of the Seeker: Cara and Zedd, friendship
Word Count: 1286
Summary: Cara and Zedd have a chat about sex and old lovers. Cara's POV.
Notes: written for meridian_rose for
yuletide 2010. I was really nervous because I've never written Seeker fic. Luckily, it did not suck.
The more distant fires and the raucous laughter from the nearby village carried into camp, just soft enough to be heard in harmony with the crackling of their campfire. Cara stirred the coals, blowing on them as Zedd dropped a larger log onto the fire. With Richard and Kahlan off enjoying the midsummer festivities, it was only the two of them, and it was quiet.
Cara didn't mind the quiet. Not having a conversation was often more pleasant than having one and all the awkwardness that followed. So far, Zedd hadn't commented on the silence, and she'd made eye contact with him a few times to make sure he was content. He'd smiled that quiet, lazy smile of his, and she'd returned to what she was doing.
Checking all her armour: oiling the leather and polishing the buckles, Cara rarely had the time to do it properly without being attacked by Banelings, or woken in the middle of the night to fight off some terrible beast. As long as Richard and Kahlan remained out of trouble, she might be able to really take the time with everything and have it in pristine condition. Which was something that she'd rarely been able to do since she started following Richard and his "let's help everyone and save the world campaign". Helping the world was easier with properly oiled leathers.
She'd just finished her holsters for the agiels when the light changed. The golden glow of the fire shifted towards blue and she looked up, curious.
Zedd grinned at her over the fire. "Sorry, just trying something out."
"I need light, it doesn't matter what colour it is."
"Good. Light I can promise you. The colour is a work in progress."
Cara watched for awhile, letting her hands work their way across the leather as Zedd danced his through the air. The fire twisted and shimmer, changing from blue flames to a golden dragon bursting out of the logs, surrounded by blue sparks. His smile broadened, and he was pleased when the dragon returned to the logs and curled back up, forming an egg.
"Shouldn't it be a phoenix instead of a dragon?"
Zedd chuckled. "The feathers are difficult. Scales are easier."
"Dragons could live in a fire. I've never seen one that didn't."
"You've never seen what that did."
Shrugging, she moved a little closer to the fire, sitting on the log instead of behind it.
"I'm focusing on positive."
Zedd offered her a wineskin, grinning. "You hate it when Richard tells you to do that."
"If the situation involves fantasy creatures, focusing on the positive is appropriate. In real life, I find it less so."
The wine was sweet and light, something that fit the summer and the lazy heat still in the air.
Zedd waved his hands again, stirring the fire into a thicket of wild roses, then a horse: rearing out of the embers and finally a school of fish. While the firefish circled in the smoke, Zedd took the wine back and took a long drink.
"Midsummer is for lovers, which is fine and good when you have one, but desperately lonely when you don't."
Cara studied him, wondering if he really was lonely. He didn't lack for company when he wanted it. When they'd last stayed at an inn, the cook had taken quite a fancy to him, and there'd been a stablekeeper before that, and a charming blacksmith with very strong hands. She'd given Zedd a bruise or two but he'd worn them with pride. She admired that about him.
"I'm sure you could have found a lover prior to tonight if companionship were truly important to you."
Zedd sat back against his log, laughing up towards the sky. "If I didn't put in the effort, why regret it now?"
"Yes."
"I've always liked that about you, Cara. There's no middle ground, no wishing or hoping, just the space between wanting and having and if you want without having, well, then you're an idiot."
"I did not imply you were less than intelligent."
He passed the wine back to her, eyes twinkling in the firelight.
"You didn't."
Taking the wine, she drank instead of engaging with him. It seemed easier.
"So, why are you alone on midsummer's eve?"
She kept the wineskin and took another drink.
"I'm not alone."
"You and I are hardly lovers."
"I've had less appealing ones."
Zedd raised his eyebrows and nodded. "As have I. When I was of the age to be in your realm, I'm afraid I would have been sadly out of it, though, it would not have stopped me from trying."
"You were too arrogant when you were young."
"Oh?"
"I dislike arrogance."
"Funny words from a Mord-Sith."
"It is not arrogance when it is based in fact."
"When I was young, I was attractive and powerful, those were facts."
"But your arrogance went far beyond your allure or power. Even though both were considerable."
"You do know how to wound an old man, don't you?"
Cara frowned. "I did not intend to inflict pain, I meant to explain that you are more attractive now than you were as a youth. I imagine I may be similar, should I live to be of any age of note."
"You will always be beautiful, of that I have no doubt, and you may have a point, your compassion and caring may bloom with age, making you that much more attractive."
"You agree then, youth is not the most important aspect of a lover."
"Trust, compatibility and a good sense of humour go a long way towards cheering the bedchamber. Though as a youth, I would have been the last person to admit it."
"Few of my lovers have had humour." Cara frowned and then fought down the stinging of her eyes as she thought of Leo. "Trust is also rare, if even existent in the Mord-Sith. Someone was always plotting, scheming, trying to get ahead. The sex was good, but the cost of it was much higher than things are now."
"So you have had lovers?" There was no leer on his face, only friendly curiosity.
"A groom, three villages back. He had a kind smile and he smelt of horses."
He waggled his eyebrows, teasing her after he drank. "You like the smell of horses?"
"The good parts. Leather, and grass. Not the parts you're implying."
That made him laugh and this time, perhaps thanks to the wine, she laughed with him. The sound floated up, mixing with the sparks.
"I like the smells of the kitchen, wood smoke and spices, browning meat, flour and gravy. There's something homey about that."
"And cooks tend to be well fed."
"Is it a crime to prefer a woman with a little meat on her bones? Why are humans the only species that find starvation attractive?"
"I don't think it is the bones you look at."
"A little meat on the chest never hurt anyone, certainly not me."
"Not too much." Cara lay down next to him on the ground, letting her eyes drift along from spark to spark. She held up her hands, and demonstrated. "Too much more than two good handfuls and the pie feels overstuffed."
Zedd lifted his hand and put them next to hers. "Good thing my fingers are larger. I can have larger pies."
Cara shook her head, rolling her eyes. "You can."
"Not that I've ever turned down a small one."
"I doubt you've turned down many in your life."
Zedd hit her lightly. "Are you implying I'm less than discerning?"
She hit him back, grinning. "I'm just saying you're well fed."
"As are you."
"I have been."
"Good."
"I think so."
and
Title: Momentar Lapse
Rating: M (sex)
Pairing: Lost Girl: Bo/Lauren
Word Count: 1286
Summary: A moment in the laboratory, seduction, consciousness and surrender. Bo needs Lauren and takes her.
Notes: written for
zvi on dreamwidth (anyone who knows how to link to that properly gets cookies if you tell me). for
yuletide 2010. I was really nervous because Zvi's femslash standards are quite high, and I uh...hadn't written any Lost Girl at all. Luckily, it turned out decent. I love Lauren. She's fantastic. I could definitely write more fic about her.
Sharp, metallic, like old pennies: it's not a sexy scent. Lauren's never associated blood with sex. It's part of her work often enough. Human blood, familiar, ordinary, somehow comforting is easy. It's part of her world, her work. Fae blood has other notes to it, like the fine wine the Ash likes her to be able to talk about. Blood has stories. Infections make it sickly sweet, change the odour the way vinegar or mould spoil a wine.
There's blood on Bo, and as Bo's hands run up Lauren's outer thighs, the blood is theirs: a shared staining that binds them together.
She's usually not like this. She's proper and confined, contained. She does her job; the Ash is pleased with her and lets her in to the world she loves. It's being allowed to see into the dark corners, know what's unknown. The Fae world is a wealth of biology and chemistry: mutations, enzymes, and symbiotic relationships. The magic has tangible footprints, and she follows them dancing.
Research used to be the only steps she knew. Why tango when the waltz consumes you?
Now there's heat on her neck, and Bo's dirty hands in her clean, straight hair, tugging down as they catch on her blouse.
"I need you."
People need her. Lauren is always required for something. Healing the sick, mending the injured, understanding the previous undocumented: she has work. She is necessary, just not like this.
She's a constant. She functions within known parameters. She's as mapped and predictable as the proverbial lab rat.
Except none of her rats sit back on the counter, legs wide and wanting. She shivers, a misplaced response to heat, but it's the correct one. It feels right to tremble, to press against Bo as if she's freezing when she's burning inside.
She could have stitched the long ugly wound on Bo's side, set the dislocated fingers and found something for the bruises. Lauren knows how to heal the wounded.
Instead of her medical kit and knowledge; her cool and precious intellect, Bo wants her. Bo wants the wild, rampant parts of her that defy explanation. Bo wants her to need her back.
Lauren doesn't need anyone. She's quiet and self-contained. Independence is essential. Her work would be impossible to explain to another human, and the Fae are another breed. They're not for her. She belongs to them, she doesn't covet or dream above her position.
Bo's fingers brush her breast, making the linen blouse a prison and her bra as confining as a straightjacket. She's trapped without that skin on hers.
She's seen buttons ripped on television, read of it in novels but she's never done it. She's never wanted to waste the shirt. Tonight the buttons of her blouse bounce along the floor like scattered pebbles. It'll take her days to find them all, and each one will remind her of this moment of abandon. Where she was part of the mysteries, instead of their seeker.
"You're beautiful." Bo whispers it to her like a mantra. Something to be repeated for strength and comfort.
"Not like you."
Bo laughs and nibbles down Lauren's neck. "There aren't many like me, baby. You know that."
When Lauren starts to lose herself, forgetting that there's anything but Bo's mouth on her chest and Bo's steady fingers on her thighs, she grabs the counter. It's cool, solid and everything that she momentarily is not.
Once Bo kisses her, all of that stability is gone. She could be floating in ocean, adrift kilometres from shore. There is no counter, no floor, no laboratory cabinet behind her back and no forgotten lab coat resting idly on the tideless tile.
There's Bo, and sweet, damp heat that returns caresses to soothe grasping hands. Contact is a word reserved for moments that sizzle. It opens circuits, cuts flesh, and parts ribs yet here contact is poetry. Lauren has a secret love for poetry. No mathematics or theories of grammar can find paths in forests of words the way poetry finds all the secret walks.
Bo's lips on her breast, following curves down her stomach while her hands free Lauren's panties from her hips. Pink ones, pinstriped: could she be more predictable and less sexy? Bo's confidence hangs over her like an aura and, of course her panties are black.
Of course.
Bo's stay on for the moment. Lauren's bra, white and patterned, geometric like Escher, falls to the floor to drift with her coat. It is a sea, down there after all. Lauren's shoes will sink when they fall from her feet. The left will go first, it's half-off and the right, well, that hangs on until contact sends that shock too pleasant to be electric straight up her spine.
A succubus can influence energies. She can bend them to her will. Lauren remembers writing that in her report, the way she'd remember buckling her seat belt before a car accident.
Her body hums, alive with energy. She's pushed, played taut like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master. The comparison would be laughable under normal circumstances, but now it works. It fits.
It's the only thing that does. With Bo she's not her plaything, she's part of that work of art she's so long admired. The addictive, seductive refrain of music that's possessed her without having words or being understood.
Now she could sing it.
Panting fills the percussive line, and the subtle, aching vibration of her need to be touched, to be played, to fall into the melody and become.
She's had this before, and she must have forgotten. The human mind is too simple, too fragile to hold on to that kind of experience. Just when she's sure she could think herself into orgasm, Lauren's body takes thought from her.
She doesn't climax, she becomes it. That peak of release and rebirth is the soul of Bo's gift, the core of her energy, and here, now, somewhere between the white tiled ceiling and Bo's blood smeared black stilettos, she lives.
Originally posted on Dreamwidth with
comments. Please comment on either. :)