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femslash_today porn battle. Cara/(Head!)Kahlan, post-Torn AU, R, 726 words, for the prompt: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan, confession. Title from 'The Masochism Tango'.
You can raise welts like nobody else
+
Every hour they spend in Aydindril is another hour wasted, another hour they could have utilized in pursuit of the Stone of Tears.
Cara should not be the only one to note these things, and yet she somehow is. Zedd takes his time—time they can ill-afford, time they do not have—with the broken Amulet and Richard seems perfectly content to let him have his way. His smile is tired, resigned when Cara registers her protest, 'Zedd knows what he's doing, Cara. It'll be fine.'
Cara is not reassured. Cara fumes and paces, paces, reaching every now and then for her Agiels—the pain, so familiar, helps her focus.
'Zedd's incompetence is what led to this debacle, you know,' Kahlan says, a small smile playing on her lips, mocking. 'Do you really think this is going to work?'
'Quiet,' Cara says, ignoring that part of her self that is inclined to agree. Kahlan's smile grows wider, more self-satisfied. Cara ignores her too, and continues to pace. Kahlan—this Kahlan, this stranger wearing Kahlan's face—is all sharp edges: a diamond, hard and bright. Cara would prefer if Kahlan were herself, but Cara thinks she understands this one more.
'What are you doing?' Kahlan says after a while, sounding almost indolent now.
'Watching you,' Cara says shortly.
She checks the exits automatically, noting, once again, the reassuring lack of sharp and/or heavy objects anywhere in the near vicinity. The room is secure and Zedd's wards are in place, but Cara does not trust this Kahlan.
'Aren't you ever tired of playing the Seeker's watchdog?' Kahlan raises an eyebrow. 'Always happy to help.'
Cara's instinct is to respond with her Agiels, but there's something in Kahlan's eyes that makes her pause. She takes in Kahlan's languid smile, the way she is artfully arranged on the bed; considers.
Cara thinks she understands.
'How do you suggest I pass my time instead?' she says slowly.
'I can think of a few things,' Kahlan says. Cara definitely understands.
The Mother Confessor's bed is soft and luxurious, almost unfamiliar after months of the hard ground and scratchy blankets. The Mord'Sith are indifferent to such paltry comforts, but Cara finds herself appreciative of the softness as she grapples with Kahlan on the large bed, finally, finally pressing her down on it, triumphant. Kahlan has always held her own, and this one in particular is very persistent.
She appears vexed, now, flushed and out of breath. Her eyes are dark. It's all Cara's doing. She finds it quite pleasant.
She is, of course, far from broken, and that sends a shiver down Cara's spine, makes her gasp as Kahlan cups her breast and presses, hard. She shoves a leather-clad thigh between Kahlan's legs in response, feels her arch and strain for contact.
Cara briefly reflects on what Kahlan—the real Kahlan—may have to say of the situation. This one, at least, has no ridiculous attachment to modesty or her chastity. Cara understands this too, even if it places her in danger of sudden, agonising death by confession. The thought makes her heart race.
She traces a gloved hand down her neck, and then, noting Kahlan's state of distraction, takes hold of both her hands and pins them against the headboard. 'Don't move,' she tells Kahlan, not quite resisting the urge to grin madly. 'We both know that's not going to work.'
'That's what you think,' Kahlan retorts. Outrage, one might say, becomes her—Cara can't help but lower her mouth to her collarbone and lick all the way down to her cleavage. She smells faintly of incense, of arousal, and Cara feels an answering throb between her legs, aching.
She's a little unprepared for the sudden flip—being otherwise occupied by the frustrating laces at the front of Kahlan's dress—when she finds herself on her back, Kahlan astride her and holding her down. One hand comes up to wrap itself around Cara's neck, feverwarm. 'I could confess you right now,' Kahlan says.
She is, of course, very quick, but Cara is a Mord'Sith.
The Agiel stings as she wraps her fingers around it, leaves a mottled red mark where it meets Kahlan's skin, just so. Kahlan winces but doesn't let go, her laces half-undone, eyes black with lust, with magic, glittering.
'You could,' Cara says, over the hammering of her heart.
+
For the
femslash_today porn battle. Cara/(Head!)Kahlan, post-Torn AU, R, 726 words, for the prompt: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan, confession. Title from 'The Masochism Tango'. You can raise welts like nobody else
+
Every hour they spend in Aydindril is another hour wasted, another hour they could have utilized in pursuit of the Stone of Tears.
Cara should not be the only one to note these things, and yet she somehow is. Zedd takes his time—time they can ill-afford, time they do not have—with the broken Amulet and Richard seems perfectly content to let him have his way. His smile is tired, resigned when Cara registers her protest, 'Zedd knows what he's doing, Cara. It'll be fine.'
Cara is not reassured. Cara fumes and paces, paces, reaching every now and then for her Agiels—the pain, so familiar, helps her focus.
'Zedd's incompetence is what led to this debacle, you know,' Kahlan says, a small smile playing on her lips, mocking. 'Do you really think this is going to work?'
'Quiet,' Cara says, ignoring that part of her self that is inclined to agree. Kahlan's smile grows wider, more self-satisfied. Cara ignores her too, and continues to pace. Kahlan—this Kahlan, this stranger wearing Kahlan's face—is all sharp edges: a diamond, hard and bright. Cara would prefer if Kahlan were herself, but Cara thinks she understands this one more.
'What are you doing?' Kahlan says after a while, sounding almost indolent now.
'Watching you,' Cara says shortly.
She checks the exits automatically, noting, once again, the reassuring lack of sharp and/or heavy objects anywhere in the near vicinity. The room is secure and Zedd's wards are in place, but Cara does not trust this Kahlan.
'Aren't you ever tired of playing the Seeker's watchdog?' Kahlan raises an eyebrow. 'Always happy to help.'
Cara's instinct is to respond with her Agiels, but there's something in Kahlan's eyes that makes her pause. She takes in Kahlan's languid smile, the way she is artfully arranged on the bed; considers.
Cara thinks she understands.
'How do you suggest I pass my time instead?' she says slowly.
'I can think of a few things,' Kahlan says. Cara definitely understands.
The Mother Confessor's bed is soft and luxurious, almost unfamiliar after months of the hard ground and scratchy blankets. The Mord'Sith are indifferent to such paltry comforts, but Cara finds herself appreciative of the softness as she grapples with Kahlan on the large bed, finally, finally pressing her down on it, triumphant. Kahlan has always held her own, and this one in particular is very persistent.
She appears vexed, now, flushed and out of breath. Her eyes are dark. It's all Cara's doing. She finds it quite pleasant.
She is, of course, far from broken, and that sends a shiver down Cara's spine, makes her gasp as Kahlan cups her breast and presses, hard. She shoves a leather-clad thigh between Kahlan's legs in response, feels her arch and strain for contact.
Cara briefly reflects on what Kahlan—the real Kahlan—may have to say of the situation. This one, at least, has no ridiculous attachment to modesty or her chastity. Cara understands this too, even if it places her in danger of sudden, agonising death by confession. The thought makes her heart race.
She traces a gloved hand down her neck, and then, noting Kahlan's state of distraction, takes hold of both her hands and pins them against the headboard. 'Don't move,' she tells Kahlan, not quite resisting the urge to grin madly. 'We both know that's not going to work.'
'That's what you think,' Kahlan retorts. Outrage, one might say, becomes her—Cara can't help but lower her mouth to her collarbone and lick all the way down to her cleavage. She smells faintly of incense, of arousal, and Cara feels an answering throb between her legs, aching.
She's a little unprepared for the sudden flip—being otherwise occupied by the frustrating laces at the front of Kahlan's dress—when she finds herself on her back, Kahlan astride her and holding her down. One hand comes up to wrap itself around Cara's neck, feverwarm. 'I could confess you right now,' Kahlan says.
She is, of course, very quick, but Cara is a Mord'Sith.
The Agiel stings as she wraps her fingers around it, leaves a mottled red mark where it meets Kahlan's skin, just so. Kahlan winces but doesn't let go, her laces half-undone, eyes black with lust, with magic, glittering.
'You could,' Cara says, over the hammering of her heart.
+
