Suerte (Runaways - Karolina/Xavin)
Author: daughtersofisis.
Title: Suerte.
Prompt: "She has never been with a girl before, and Xavin has never been a girl; but, somehow, it all falls into place."
Word Count: 1446.
Fandom: Runaways [comic].
Rating: R for vague sexual activity.
Genre: Angst, romance, smutfic.
Summary: Xavin wants what sie thinks Karolina doesn't want, but Karolina actually does want it, which of course leads to puddles and puddles of angst.
Warnings: Femslash, genderbending (it is Xavin), vague lesbosex.
Pairings/Characters: Karolina/Xavin, mentions of Nico (euw).
Author's Note: This pretends to have a plot, but it's lying. For yuri_challenge, Round 1, 2008. I wanted this to be super-smutty, but then I a) realised it's not allowed for the under-18s and b) ran out of time, so now it's just angsty and ridiculous and is titled after a Shakira song. Sorry, requester-person, hope it's all right anyhow. Thanks as always to Twitch for the epic beta and title and . . . things. Crossposted to ibisandjacquel, my fic journal. (I'll delete that if it's not allowed . . . )
---
SUERTE.
---
We sleep chastely still, like babies huddled together for warmth and comfort; I lay my arm lightly across her shoulders, and she shifts under the weight of it. I will not push her, though she squirms and mutters in her sleep and something in me shifts at her whispers of desire. The girl whose name she whispers is not and will never be me, no matter how I may change, so why do I torment myself?
Sometimes she shifts in her sleep, turns over in my arms during one of her deep and inscrutable dreams, and presses herself against me. I only worry about what floats through her mind in her slumber when she has turned away from me again; for those brief minutes in the night, I sink into the sensations that are her warm breasts pressed against these borrowed ones of mine, and I relinquish my control to the bright night and whisper in her ear that I am who I am not.
She moves now, turns over to me, and opens her eyes; just like that, the switch is on and I must focus or lose myself again. I must not look to the exquisite blush forming on her cheeks or the way she presses herself against me, nor her hand on my unnaturally soft waist. Her shining eyes, those I can focus on, if I am careful and don't fall too far in.
"Xavin." She breathes my name onto the skin of my neck like a benediction, wraps her arms around me. I choke on her scent, obscure and alien flowers, and say nothing; what would I say, even if I could speak?
"Xavin," she says again, sighing, smiling. "Can I ask you for a favour?"
"Anything you desire, my love." Anything. Anything.
Her blush spreads to her ears. Intriguing. Enchanted, I almost miss her next words. "I w-want to . . . make love to you."
I have a sufficient understanding of earthly idioms to understand that perfectly. I sit up.
"Xavin?" she whispers to me, almost a squeak. "Xavin, I'm sorry, I - was that rude? I only meant - "
"I know what you meant," I say. Her eyes fill up - was my tone that brusque? I lean down, stroke her hair, kiss her brow (still slightly flushed). "I know what you meant," I say again, hoping, praying that my voice holds more tenderness than I can detect over my racing pulse. "But I do not think that you want - " I stop, frustrated. She wants. I can see in her eyes, in her fidgeting hands and twisting fingers, precisely how much she wants. " - I do not think that you want this from me," I manage to gasp out, shame bitter on my tongue, my legs releasing their tension with disappointment, my anticipation leaking miserably away.
"What are you talking about?" She looks so confused, eyes open wide, arms clutched around her middle. I want to take it away, what I've said, tell her not to mind and take her in my arms and kiss her, long and slow, but I can't. I've made myself promise, and I will not break a promise.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. "You don't want me," I tell her, wishing I could be anywhere else, wishing what my words weren't true. "I know you desire my body, this body - " I gesture, frustrated, at the softness at my chest and waist, where she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking. " - but you don't love me, Karolina. Not yet. Maybe - " Maybe you never will. Because there will always be - "You love that girl," I tell her. "You love Nico."
I won't look at her, my bethrothed, bright as the sun and full of colour that flashes into the corners of this dark room - our room, though I don't call it that out loud - with her back against the pillows and her legs crossed at the ankle. I can feel her eyes on me, her hand sneaking up to my shoulder. I stand up.
"Xavin."
I stop, sigh. "Karolina. Please."
"Xavin," she says, and I can't do anything but sit down again, because this is the voice of a queen, the voice that no one, even - especially - not I, can resist. She grabs my hand; hers is still damp and hot from clutching at the blankets in her sleep, while mine are cool and limp in her tight grasp.
"What do you wish to tell me?" I am weary. I want to sleep this night away. Our wedding is in one month. She does not love me.
"You're brooding," she says, giving me a little smile and pushing the hair out of my eyes. "You think too much."
I look away.
"Xavin."
I look back. I can see she will cry soon. I want to feel worse about this than I do.
"I love you, Xavin."
I snort without meaning to. She jabs me in the chest with one long, delicate finger.
"That's not fair," she says, all smiles gone, eyes dark and serious as she wraps her fingers tighter around mine. "You're not even listening."
"I am sorry, my love," I tell her, "but I know you too well for you to deceive me."
"Shut up, Xavin," she snaps. Breathes. Sighs. "Xavin," she begins again, "I love Nico. I always will. But she doesn't love me. I'm trying to move past that. Can't you understand?"
I rip my hand out of her grasp. "Do you think I am a simpleton?" I hiss. "I love you, Karolina, but you are here only because you feel you have to be! Do you think that hurts any less than what you're going through? I will not be your . . . your . . . "
"My rebound?"
"Yes!" Using earthly idioms is so much more useful for this sort of thing, I think to myself. Arguments. Rage. Pain.
She shakes her head and smiles at me again. Her smile has never made me so angry. I get up to leave again, turn my back on her again, and she says, in a small but very clear voice:
"Your hair is thick and flows in waves. When we sleep, it curls across the pillow to my face, and I can smell cinnamon and coffee and something else I can't quite name, something that's just you. You walk with confidence in public, more casually in our private rooms. When you lie down on the bed, you lean back like you're afraid you'll break it if you're not incredibly careful. You negotiate like a king, but you're a gentleman, Xavin." She laughs. "Gentlewoman. That's why you torture yourself like this every night, isn't it? You come in here, lie down next to me, and hold me, just so I can have comfort, so I don't have to be alone. But you've never said anything that you think might hurt me, never kissed me, never touched me. You think I'm china, don't you?"
"I don't know what a china is, bethrothed," I mutter, eyes on the floor.
"It doesn't matter. It really doesn't." The bed creaks as she stands up, her bare feet padding on the floor as she walks over to me. "What I'm trying to say is that I won't break. I'm tougher than I look, just like you are. And I'm telling you - I'm telling you, Xavin, not asking you - I'm telling you to kiss me. Because I love you." She pauses behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, and whispers in my ear, "Please."
It's not fair, I want to tell her. It's not fair, this, whatever you're doing. You will regret it, and I will be alone again. I can't resist you. But I turn in her arms, and I kiss her anyway, and when our lips meet she presses herself to me and I can't recall my protests anymore.
Karolina is small and thin, hot and strong, lithe like a wire wrapping around me as I hold her in my arms, back her up to the bed, fall sideways and down as she kisses me with her whole body. I am lost and confused, in a strange body I don't know how to use, but she tells me what is right with her eyes and her face. She seems to smell the way herself, eyes closed, mouth searching down my abdomen, reading my body with her tongue and smiling against my skin with every jump and gasp I make. We turn the tables, her and I, and turn them again, until we are both mad and satisfied and ready again, and she teaches me all about this body I am in.
Title: Suerte.
Prompt: "She has never been with a girl before, and Xavin has never been a girl; but, somehow, it all falls into place."
Word Count: 1446.
Fandom: Runaways [comic].
Rating: R for vague sexual activity.
Genre: Angst, romance, smutfic.
Summary: Xavin wants what sie thinks Karolina doesn't want, but Karolina actually does want it, which of course leads to puddles and puddles of angst.
Warnings: Femslash, genderbending (it is Xavin), vague lesbosex.
Pairings/Characters: Karolina/Xavin, mentions of Nico (euw).
Author's Note: This pretends to have a plot, but it's lying. For yuri_challenge, Round 1, 2008. I wanted this to be super-smutty, but then I a) realised it's not allowed for the under-18s and b) ran out of time, so now it's just angsty and ridiculous and is titled after a Shakira song. Sorry, requester-person, hope it's all right anyhow. Thanks as always to Twitch for the epic beta and title and . . . things. Crossposted to ibisandjacquel, my fic journal. (I'll delete that if it's not allowed . . . )
---
SUERTE.
---
We sleep chastely still, like babies huddled together for warmth and comfort; I lay my arm lightly across her shoulders, and she shifts under the weight of it. I will not push her, though she squirms and mutters in her sleep and something in me shifts at her whispers of desire. The girl whose name she whispers is not and will never be me, no matter how I may change, so why do I torment myself?
Sometimes she shifts in her sleep, turns over in my arms during one of her deep and inscrutable dreams, and presses herself against me. I only worry about what floats through her mind in her slumber when she has turned away from me again; for those brief minutes in the night, I sink into the sensations that are her warm breasts pressed against these borrowed ones of mine, and I relinquish my control to the bright night and whisper in her ear that I am who I am not.
She moves now, turns over to me, and opens her eyes; just like that, the switch is on and I must focus or lose myself again. I must not look to the exquisite blush forming on her cheeks or the way she presses herself against me, nor her hand on my unnaturally soft waist. Her shining eyes, those I can focus on, if I am careful and don't fall too far in.
"Xavin." She breathes my name onto the skin of my neck like a benediction, wraps her arms around me. I choke on her scent, obscure and alien flowers, and say nothing; what would I say, even if I could speak?
"Xavin," she says again, sighing, smiling. "Can I ask you for a favour?"
"Anything you desire, my love." Anything. Anything.
Her blush spreads to her ears. Intriguing. Enchanted, I almost miss her next words. "I w-want to . . . make love to you."
I have a sufficient understanding of earthly idioms to understand that perfectly. I sit up.
"Xavin?" she whispers to me, almost a squeak. "Xavin, I'm sorry, I - was that rude? I only meant - "
"I know what you meant," I say. Her eyes fill up - was my tone that brusque? I lean down, stroke her hair, kiss her brow (still slightly flushed). "I know what you meant," I say again, hoping, praying that my voice holds more tenderness than I can detect over my racing pulse. "But I do not think that you want - " I stop, frustrated. She wants. I can see in her eyes, in her fidgeting hands and twisting fingers, precisely how much she wants. " - I do not think that you want this from me," I manage to gasp out, shame bitter on my tongue, my legs releasing their tension with disappointment, my anticipation leaking miserably away.
"What are you talking about?" She looks so confused, eyes open wide, arms clutched around her middle. I want to take it away, what I've said, tell her not to mind and take her in my arms and kiss her, long and slow, but I can't. I've made myself promise, and I will not break a promise.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. "You don't want me," I tell her, wishing I could be anywhere else, wishing what my words weren't true. "I know you desire my body, this body - " I gesture, frustrated, at the softness at my chest and waist, where she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking. " - but you don't love me, Karolina. Not yet. Maybe - " Maybe you never will. Because there will always be - "You love that girl," I tell her. "You love Nico."
I won't look at her, my bethrothed, bright as the sun and full of colour that flashes into the corners of this dark room - our room, though I don't call it that out loud - with her back against the pillows and her legs crossed at the ankle. I can feel her eyes on me, her hand sneaking up to my shoulder. I stand up.
"Xavin."
I stop, sigh. "Karolina. Please."
"Xavin," she says, and I can't do anything but sit down again, because this is the voice of a queen, the voice that no one, even - especially - not I, can resist. She grabs my hand; hers is still damp and hot from clutching at the blankets in her sleep, while mine are cool and limp in her tight grasp.
"What do you wish to tell me?" I am weary. I want to sleep this night away. Our wedding is in one month. She does not love me.
"You're brooding," she says, giving me a little smile and pushing the hair out of my eyes. "You think too much."
I look away.
"Xavin."
I look back. I can see she will cry soon. I want to feel worse about this than I do.
"I love you, Xavin."
I snort without meaning to. She jabs me in the chest with one long, delicate finger.
"That's not fair," she says, all smiles gone, eyes dark and serious as she wraps her fingers tighter around mine. "You're not even listening."
"I am sorry, my love," I tell her, "but I know you too well for you to deceive me."
"Shut up, Xavin," she snaps. Breathes. Sighs. "Xavin," she begins again, "I love Nico. I always will. But she doesn't love me. I'm trying to move past that. Can't you understand?"
I rip my hand out of her grasp. "Do you think I am a simpleton?" I hiss. "I love you, Karolina, but you are here only because you feel you have to be! Do you think that hurts any less than what you're going through? I will not be your . . . your . . . "
"My rebound?"
"Yes!" Using earthly idioms is so much more useful for this sort of thing, I think to myself. Arguments. Rage. Pain.
She shakes her head and smiles at me again. Her smile has never made me so angry. I get up to leave again, turn my back on her again, and she says, in a small but very clear voice:
"Your hair is thick and flows in waves. When we sleep, it curls across the pillow to my face, and I can smell cinnamon and coffee and something else I can't quite name, something that's just you. You walk with confidence in public, more casually in our private rooms. When you lie down on the bed, you lean back like you're afraid you'll break it if you're not incredibly careful. You negotiate like a king, but you're a gentleman, Xavin." She laughs. "Gentlewoman. That's why you torture yourself like this every night, isn't it? You come in here, lie down next to me, and hold me, just so I can have comfort, so I don't have to be alone. But you've never said anything that you think might hurt me, never kissed me, never touched me. You think I'm china, don't you?"
"I don't know what a china is, bethrothed," I mutter, eyes on the floor.
"It doesn't matter. It really doesn't." The bed creaks as she stands up, her bare feet padding on the floor as she walks over to me. "What I'm trying to say is that I won't break. I'm tougher than I look, just like you are. And I'm telling you - I'm telling you, Xavin, not asking you - I'm telling you to kiss me. Because I love you." She pauses behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, and whispers in my ear, "Please."
It's not fair, I want to tell her. It's not fair, this, whatever you're doing. You will regret it, and I will be alone again. I can't resist you. But I turn in her arms, and I kiss her anyway, and when our lips meet she presses herself to me and I can't recall my protests anymore.
Karolina is small and thin, hot and strong, lithe like a wire wrapping around me as I hold her in my arms, back her up to the bed, fall sideways and down as she kisses me with her whole body. I am lost and confused, in a strange body I don't know how to use, but she tells me what is right with her eyes and her face. She seems to smell the way herself, eyes closed, mouth searching down my abdomen, reading my body with her tongue and smiling against my skin with every jump and gasp I make. We turn the tables, her and I, and turn them again, until we are both mad and satisfied and ready again, and she teaches me all about this body I am in.