Losing - R - Mag/Amber (Carmela)
This is for tasareswrist in response to the request meme - I did tell you it was turning epic, right? Additionally, this is for finesharpedge, who wanted to see more about Carmela's Olympic career.
Title: Losing
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mag/Amber
Rating: R
Word Count: 995
Summary: There had been so many people, so many hugs and handshakes and flowers, but there was no use in hoping Carmela hadn't noticed. Her sharp little eyes didn't miss much, and she was quick to take offense, especially from Mag.
Warnings: Girlsex.
Mag had her hand on her hotel room key when it occurred to her that she hadn't congratulated Carmela. She thought about it for a moment, fingering the hard plastic. There had been so many people, so many hugs and handshakes and flowers, but there was no use in hoping Carmela hadn't noticed. Her sharp little eyes didn't miss much, and she was quick to take offense, especially from Mag. Add a spiteful streak, her eleven-year grudge, and Rotti's ear, and the girl could make Mag's life decidedly unpleasant if she chose to.
She slipped the key back into her purse. In, a few words of congratulations - genuine, for once - and out again. Ten minutes, tops.
Carmela, at her own insistence, was staying by herself in a suite three doors down from Mag - something about sharing space making it hard to focus before a competition. Rotti, as always, was happy to indulge his youngest. The door was cracked, held open by a half-turned deadbolt, so Mag let herself in.
It was dark, and Mag froze, wondering if Carmela was celebrating her victory with the boy who'd been pressed against her since she'd come off the ice. Anyone else might have missed the stifled sob, but Mag had relied on senses other than sight for most of her life.
She wondered with a flash of irritation what minor issue had upset the girl. She was always crying or screaming about something - on the other hand, there was no one in the room to pay attention to her, so she wasn't putting on a show. Mag stepped forward, eyes automatically adjusting to the dark. Something soft brushed the top of her foot, and she reached down and found a thick silk ribbon with something heavy at the end of it. She held it up, catching a gleam of bronze. Her sensitive hands confirmed what her eyes had guessed at - it was Carmela's medal. She stepped further into the dark room, blinking twice to switch to night vision.
Carmela Largo, the bronze medalist for women's singles at the 2050 Olympic Games, had apparently dropped her prize on the floor and was curled up a few feet beyond it, shoved against the foot of the bed, sobbing. This was not a typical brat attack; this was genuine distress.
"Carmela? What's wrong?"
The dark head came out of the folded arms. "Mag?"
She crouched down beside her employer's daughter. "I came to congratulate you - I didn't get to do it earlier, there were just so many people who wanted to talk to you."
"To congratulate me? For what?" She rubbed a hand over her face. Twenty years old, and she still looked like a little girl when she cried.
Mag held up the medal. "Winning, of course."
"Oh." There was a pause, while Carmela took a deep breath and stopped her shoulders from shaking. "Thank you, Mag. That's very kind."
"Here's your medal, dear. You don't want to ribbon to get damaged. What - may I ask what's wrong?"
Carmela took the medal back, turning it over, and running her thumbs across the shining surface. "Nothing. I'm fine."
She was a good liar, Mag had to admit. "I understand if you don't want to tell me."
"It's not that," she said. "It's just - no one will understand."
Ladies and gentlemen, the mating cry of the North American teenager. Technically Carmela wasn't a teenager any more, but she was close enough. Heavens knew she still frequently performed the other song of the teenager, "It's not fair!"
"Try me," Mag coaxed. Really, she didn't know why she was trying. She should leave Little Miss Carmela Whom No One Understands to her rich-bitch sulking. But there seemed to be something there, something Mag couldn't quite put her finger on, and she wanted to figure it out.
"It's this," she said, looking down at the medal in her hands. She flung it across the room, where it thumped heavily against the far wall, and buried her head in her arms again.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, halfway expecting a complaint about the ribbon color.
"I failed, Mag," Carmela replied, muffled voice soft enough that Mag could barely hear it. "I had the opportunity and I fucked it up. I failed, and I'm not going to get another chance."
"Carmela, you won the bronze medal. At the Olympics."
Her head jerked up and she looked at Mag with shining, desperate eyes. "And four years ago I won the silver. I was supposed to win the fucking gold, or why even bother coming? Bronze? Fuck bronze!" Her shoulders slumped, and Mag had a sudden agonizing flash of truth. Rotti had raised his children to be neurotic perfectionists, all three of them. Rotti wouldn't say a word about his precious daughter "only" winning the bronze; he'd praised her as effusively as if she'd taken the gold - but she felt it as a failure.
Mag gathered the girl into her arms without thinking about it; it had been a long time since she'd held little Carmela, but certain old habits died hard. She resisted for a second, then melted, sobbing into Mag's shoulder while Mag stroked her curling dark hair, lay gentle kisses along her cheek, rubbed her back with her other hand. She couldn't put her finger on the moment the kisses changed from maternal to something else - the girl had never had a mother; perhaps she didn't know how to recognize a kiss as anything but wanting. Mag slipped her clothes off, right there on the floor, without shifting Carmela from her embrace. She had an athlete's body, lean and hard, firm little breasts that responded to Mag's touch; smoothly shaven cunt that arched into her hand. She opened like a flower, crying out, thrusting against her, tears drying on her cheeks. "Maybe," Mag whispered into the dark hair, "you could sing."
Title: Losing
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mag/Amber
Rating: R
Word Count: 995
Summary: There had been so many people, so many hugs and handshakes and flowers, but there was no use in hoping Carmela hadn't noticed. Her sharp little eyes didn't miss much, and she was quick to take offense, especially from Mag.
Warnings: Girlsex.
Mag had her hand on her hotel room key when it occurred to her that she hadn't congratulated Carmela. She thought about it for a moment, fingering the hard plastic. There had been so many people, so many hugs and handshakes and flowers, but there was no use in hoping Carmela hadn't noticed. Her sharp little eyes didn't miss much, and she was quick to take offense, especially from Mag. Add a spiteful streak, her eleven-year grudge, and Rotti's ear, and the girl could make Mag's life decidedly unpleasant if she chose to.
She slipped the key back into her purse. In, a few words of congratulations - genuine, for once - and out again. Ten minutes, tops.
Carmela, at her own insistence, was staying by herself in a suite three doors down from Mag - something about sharing space making it hard to focus before a competition. Rotti, as always, was happy to indulge his youngest. The door was cracked, held open by a half-turned deadbolt, so Mag let herself in.
It was dark, and Mag froze, wondering if Carmela was celebrating her victory with the boy who'd been pressed against her since she'd come off the ice. Anyone else might have missed the stifled sob, but Mag had relied on senses other than sight for most of her life.
She wondered with a flash of irritation what minor issue had upset the girl. She was always crying or screaming about something - on the other hand, there was no one in the room to pay attention to her, so she wasn't putting on a show. Mag stepped forward, eyes automatically adjusting to the dark. Something soft brushed the top of her foot, and she reached down and found a thick silk ribbon with something heavy at the end of it. She held it up, catching a gleam of bronze. Her sensitive hands confirmed what her eyes had guessed at - it was Carmela's medal. She stepped further into the dark room, blinking twice to switch to night vision.
Carmela Largo, the bronze medalist for women's singles at the 2050 Olympic Games, had apparently dropped her prize on the floor and was curled up a few feet beyond it, shoved against the foot of the bed, sobbing. This was not a typical brat attack; this was genuine distress.
"Carmela? What's wrong?"
The dark head came out of the folded arms. "Mag?"
She crouched down beside her employer's daughter. "I came to congratulate you - I didn't get to do it earlier, there were just so many people who wanted to talk to you."
"To congratulate me? For what?" She rubbed a hand over her face. Twenty years old, and she still looked like a little girl when she cried.
Mag held up the medal. "Winning, of course."
"Oh." There was a pause, while Carmela took a deep breath and stopped her shoulders from shaking. "Thank you, Mag. That's very kind."
"Here's your medal, dear. You don't want to ribbon to get damaged. What - may I ask what's wrong?"
Carmela took the medal back, turning it over, and running her thumbs across the shining surface. "Nothing. I'm fine."
She was a good liar, Mag had to admit. "I understand if you don't want to tell me."
"It's not that," she said. "It's just - no one will understand."
Ladies and gentlemen, the mating cry of the North American teenager. Technically Carmela wasn't a teenager any more, but she was close enough. Heavens knew she still frequently performed the other song of the teenager, "It's not fair!"
"Try me," Mag coaxed. Really, she didn't know why she was trying. She should leave Little Miss Carmela Whom No One Understands to her rich-bitch sulking. But there seemed to be something there, something Mag couldn't quite put her finger on, and she wanted to figure it out.
"It's this," she said, looking down at the medal in her hands. She flung it across the room, where it thumped heavily against the far wall, and buried her head in her arms again.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, halfway expecting a complaint about the ribbon color.
"I failed, Mag," Carmela replied, muffled voice soft enough that Mag could barely hear it. "I had the opportunity and I fucked it up. I failed, and I'm not going to get another chance."
"Carmela, you won the bronze medal. At the Olympics."
Her head jerked up and she looked at Mag with shining, desperate eyes. "And four years ago I won the silver. I was supposed to win the fucking gold, or why even bother coming? Bronze? Fuck bronze!" Her shoulders slumped, and Mag had a sudden agonizing flash of truth. Rotti had raised his children to be neurotic perfectionists, all three of them. Rotti wouldn't say a word about his precious daughter "only" winning the bronze; he'd praised her as effusively as if she'd taken the gold - but she felt it as a failure.
Mag gathered the girl into her arms without thinking about it; it had been a long time since she'd held little Carmela, but certain old habits died hard. She resisted for a second, then melted, sobbing into Mag's shoulder while Mag stroked her curling dark hair, lay gentle kisses along her cheek, rubbed her back with her other hand. She couldn't put her finger on the moment the kisses changed from maternal to something else - the girl had never had a mother; perhaps she didn't know how to recognize a kiss as anything but wanting. Mag slipped her clothes off, right there on the floor, without shifting Carmela from her embrace. She had an athlete's body, lean and hard, firm little breasts that responded to Mag's touch; smoothly shaven cunt that arched into her hand. She opened like a flower, crying out, thrusting against her, tears drying on her cheeks. "Maybe," Mag whispered into the dark hair, "you could sing."