I asked for someone to prompt me a canon scene they'd want to have seen going in a different direction. So I hope you guys enjoy.
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ao3
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"You were right," Cara whispered, in the grim quiet under the torchlight of their tombed prison.
"About what?" Kahlan asked, tired eyelids fluttering to stay open as she faced her partner in doom. The combination of sweat and the natural brightness of her hair made Cara nearly glow to Kahlan's eyes, despite her clear despondence.
"You once told me it's a hard world, that we don't get many chances to tell people how much they mean to us." Cara turned her face to her and Kahlan felt a flutter of something strange in her lungs.
It's odd how quickly things changed. Kahlan knew she should be used to it by now.
From her very beginning, where a seemingly idyllic childhood with a kind mother and a loving father, switched with a flip of a coin to the terrible truth of a dead mother and a father who was in reality a monster.
Or from leaving Dennee and her newborn son safely with the sisters of their order to flee to Valeria, and then learning of their brutal murders at the hands of Mord-Sith.
Or from her all-consuming hatred for Cara and her part in the deaths of nearly everyone she loved to that moment when Cara knelt at Kahlan's feet and she'd seen the remorse -- the agony of grief, and guilt, and shame -- that should have been cut from Cara's chest when she'd been but a child.
When Kahlan had realized that taking her vengeance against yet another victim of D'Hara just as Cara had begun to break her chains, would not have been justice.
"There's no one a Mord-Sith should hate more than a Confessor," Cara spoke, and Kahlan stared, feeling yet another ground-shaking change cresting over the horizon of her life. "I was trained to hate you... but I don't."
Moons ago, Kahlan had granted mercy.
And still, she had not thought she would ever grant forgiveness. Let alone to find friendship and kinship and a bond Kahlan couldn't quite put into words.
And yet here they were -- stuck underground, running out of air, and it seemed as if Cara was trying to find those words herself.
There was something shy and fragile in Cara's eyes as they connected for barely the length of a heartbeat with Kahlan's. But something brave too.
"And I don't want to die without you knowing that I consider you to be..." Cara continued, seeming to lose her voice as she opened her mouth and looked at Kahlan again. And without meaning to, without thought or purpose Kahlan slipped past the wall that should have been impenetrable to a Confessor facing a Mord-Sith and saw it as Cara's intended words switched to a half-truth "...my friend."
Kahlan gasped, the sound of her own heartbeat beating against her eardrums.
No, not simply a friend.
Love. That's what Cara had just swallowed back down, uncertain, beautiful, and painful in ways Kahlan knew Cara had not been permitted to learn, despite every other lesson in agony the woman -- the stolen little girl -- had been taught to enjoy and inflict.
Kahlan stared, frozen in place as two sides of her being struggled for the surface. The side of her unable to commit this final act of betrayal against the memory of her sister, the one who had not quite abandoned the last traces of hope for a fairy-tale ending with Richard. Against the side of Kahlan which felt a rush of something warm, and elated, and alight with heat.
Almost as if she was trapped inside a dream instead of the tomb provided to them by an insane magician, Kahlan felt her arm rising to softly caress the side of Cara's face with very little input from Kahlan herself.
"Don't hide your heart, Cara," she spoke nearly without breath.
At once it was Cara who froze -- the guarded, icy wall of smooth stone sliding back into place behind her eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think of you as a friend too," Kahlan smiled at her and then admitted something she'd only confessed to herself during the very deepest moments of the night. When it was Kahlan's turn to be on watch for the banelings, and her eyes strayed to the furthest point in the camp where Cara would sleep. When she'd see a shiver run over the Mord-Sith and wonder if it was from the cold or if Cara was sensing Kahlan's eyes even in sleep. When she'd entertain brief, dangerous fantasies of waking Cara and pulling her deeper into the surrounding forest to play with fire in ways she would never -- could never -- risk in reality, "...but sometimes, I've thought a great deal more."
"If this is because we're about to die, don't-"
"We're going to get out of here," Kahlan interrupted Cara before she could let out the string of words that would undoubtedly have been designed to cut into Kahlan's flesh in a rage of self-defense. For a moment she considered reminding Cara that Richard was looking for them, but decided better of it at once.
Her vaguely defined relationship with Richard was not a topic Kahlan was up to wading through at the moment. She knew she would need to. Both he and Cara deserved better than that. But this was neither the place nor the time for it.
"They'll find us," she said, "they just need a little more time."
"Yeah," Cara replied and Kahlan's eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the sudden purpose that overcame Cara's voice, "and I'll make sure they get it."
It took precious seconds before Kahlan figured out what Cara was about to do; as she stood and marched quickly toward the sword lying in the middle of the room and something heavy landed in the bottom of her stomach.
"Cara, NO!" she screamed, rushing to her feet to stop her.
She slammed into Cara even as the sword was mid-downward thrust, making Cara stumble and the sword clatter back to the ground with a sharp clang. Relief was short-lived however, at once Kahlan needed to cut Cara off from retrieving it.
"Get out of my way," Cara ordered. The savage light of her decision cut into the way she stood with barely leashed violence.
"No," Kahlan snapped back, teeth bared. She would let Cara touch that blade over her dead body.
For the next several minutes it seemed like that was exactly what it would take. They exchanged countless vicious blows and kicks. She was pretty she'd be lucky if her ribs would be just bruised by the time they were done. Her jaw ached from Cara's punch, but then she was pretty sure the blood running down the corner of Cara's mouth spoke a great deal about the backhand from Kahlan that had preceded it.
"Stop pretending my life means as much as yours," Cara snapped at her before putting a halt to Kahlan's attempt to place her into a choke-hold by throwing her over her shoulder to slam into the ground.
"It does," Kahlan threw back between pained gasps "to me."
And then she choked, panic overtaking her as she realized breathing no longer carried the inherent relief of oxygen. Her eyes connected with Cara's and she saw the same fear echo back, as Cara stumbled on her feet and losing balance fell beside Kahlan, both now panting to swallow the last traces of the air burned up by the torchlight and their fight.
For an extended eternity, Kahlan thought this would be how it would end -- with the two of them dying just out of each other's reach, -- when she felt the touch of Cara's leather glove grasping Kahlan's fingers between her own.
It was that contact that kept Kahlan awake, kept her fighting just for that brief little bit longer.
It was that contact that kept her alive long enough for Richard and Zedd to find them.
It was that contact that Kahlan felt bringing her back even while a different set of hands encased her in a relieved embrace.
She couldn't force herself to let go of Cara's hand until she felt the reassuring press of fingers signaling that Cara was alive too. This was worth every bruised bone already singing its displeasure across Kahlan's body.
The desperate memory of Kahlan's own voice echoed inside the depths of her chest with every new inhale of fresh air.
| dec 1 | fandom advent calendar: greeting/introduction
fandom: lots | ship: kahlan/cara | type: fic
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ao3
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A Confessor cannot read a Mord-Sith’s soul, to Kahlan it feels as if there is nothing there. And so it is easy to forget they have souls at all.
When Kahlan meets Cara it is no different at first.
She is a necessary ally, but one whose heart is beyond Kahlan’s power to view. It is as much that lack of ability as the blood on Cara’s hands that make Kahlan distrust and dislike her.
/there is blood on Kahlan’s hands too, blood and so many hearts she could weep if she ever let herself. The hearts are the worst, she can wash off the red from her blades and know that they deserved their deaths, but the worship in their eyes sticks to her. She hates how much she loves it/
And then she learns that her sister had died to Cara’s hands and rage consumes Kahlan whole.
/it crawls from the inside out, black like storm clouds of a hurricane, as powerful as an earth shake that levels mountains. It’s her, it’s still her, it’s the darkness lurking at the edge of her mind coming forth to make these children drop to their knees in front of their goddess. To rip to shreds the soul that robbed this world of her sister/
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She almost refuses to see the crack in Cara’s armor, as she stands over her, her neck under Kahlan’s hand, the power of confession at the tips of her fingers, boiling to get out and consume Cara whole. The hunger to watch this woman, this monster - this hurt little girl, - writhe in pain and beg her Mistress to forgive her as she dies is all consuming.
But Kahlan sees it, sees the open agony in Cara’s eyes.
/did her sister have eyes like that as the light left them? She could ask and she’d answer, between the screams, she would answer/
She still cannot read her, not in the way of a Confessor, even now in this moment the wall of a Mord-Sith holds. But she’s seen eyes like that a hundred times, they are grief and loss and regret. They are… shame.
The Mord-Sith do not feel shame. And yet Cara does, Kahlan can see it burning Cara from the inside out.
And she cannot kill her, not kill her and expect to still call herself Mother Confessor.
Confessors are justice, not vengeance.
/they’re vengeance too. When that’s all that’s left, they’re the retribution, the judgement. And the executioner/
The hunger of the Con Dar is still there, it doesn’t care that Cara’s crying with regret.
But she’s not just that one side of herself, she’s Kahlan Amnell too and she is unwilling to betray herself in this way.
/her sister is dead, all her sisters are dead, and she will not let this Mord-Sith finish the job. She is the Last Confessor and if she did this she would never be able to wear white again, and she must, it is her duty to their memory/
She stands back but does not break her eye contact with the woman who is more than her red leathers after all and it’s here that Kahlan truly meets Cara for the first time. She might have seen Lord Rahl’s warrior by the Boxes of Orden, been introduced to an ally of the Seeker by Richard.
But it is then, as the truth of everything lays like broken, scattered toys between them, that Kahlan Amnell meets Cara Mason.
/there is wonder in Cara’s eyes, not worship, and something inside her thrums at it: in anger or pleasure, hatred or a greeting. Not in forgiveness though. Never that/
Co-ed changing rooms don’t bother Cara. She has no issue smacking someone with a rolled up towel if she thinks they’re staring a little too long—although she tends to side eye them first, because occasionally she doesn’t mind them looking.
Usually she gives men a nice thump on their thighs, though.
This guy... his name is Richard, if she recalls correctly, from the one time that the beautiful dark-haired woman came to pick him up in her little red car. He never looks at her--never even glances at her out of his periphery--and she’s a little frustrated by it, because even though his smile is too brilliant and his eyes crinkle too much when he’s happy, she wants him to look.
So today she has timed her shower just right, so that she’s coming out as he’s jumping in, and she takes rather longer than needed to wrap herself up in a towel. Still--nothing, damn him. She’s never been ignored by someone like this before, and it is driving her a little insane.
She’s so cross as she’s slipping back into her clothes that she doesn’t notice, at first. But as his loud, warm, slightly off-key voice swells when it hits the chorus, she recognizes exactly what it is that he’s singing.
“Oh my god,” she groans, not bothering to hide her disgust, and a wet, tousled head pops out from behind the shower curtain.
“What?” he asks, eyes giving her a quick once over (now that she’s fully dressed, honestly). “Not a fan of Hannah Montana?”
He’s blatantly not embarrassed and unapologetic, and that smile is directed full in her face, like looking at the sun without even squinting. She’s blindsided for a moment.
“Is anyone?”
He cocks his head to the side, laughs. “Well, even if I wasn’t--and I definitely am--you have to admit that she’s got a good beat to run to. Nothing better to get you pumped up on the treadmill.”
Cara snorts, and turns to heave her bag over her shoulder when he quips, “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Cara,” she offers, still not looking at him, refusing to acknowledge any kind of lightness in her stomach.
“I’m Richard. If you don’t mind waiting a minute, maybe we can get dinner together?”
She’s not shocked. She isn’t. “No more Hannah Montana in the gym.”
She can even feel that stupid smile searing into her back. “Deal.”
Title: It's Quite a Trick To Tell (The Dancers From the Dance)
Summary: Dahlia has been at Cara's side since before her business was a success, but she provides more than loyalty in this relationship.
Notes: Sequel to this Cara/Kahlan modern!AU, which is itself a sequel, both of them written several years ago. This particular oneshot was mostly written a long time ago, and has been languishing in my drafts until now, so don't take it as representative of what I usually write these days.
Warnings for NC-17 sexual content, consensual D/s (long established - otherwise I'd have mentioned their safeword in this fic), slightly rough sex, and fisting.
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Anyone who was anyone in the city knew that Mistress Dahlia had been at Cara's side since the beginning, whenever that was. The billionaire's backstory, including any last name she might have had before amassing her empire in weapons technology, was shrouded with a layer of classification so thick that few tried testing it anymore. Every reporter in the city had had a crack at Cara, but her smirk and crisp brevity made her far more intimidating than her height suggested.
As far as the world knew, Cara only shared any kind of information with the enigmatic Darken of Rahl Industries, and his family's reputation kept reporters away from that door. Now word spread that Cara had challenged the Amnells too, if talk radio could be believed—but no reporters would crowd the door. Dahlia saw to that. Dahlia was a thousand times more than people gave her credit for.
The mansion itself seemed to wait for Cara's return; Dahlia could almost feel it as she waited by the doors. Leo would send a message as soon as Cara was in the limo, but Dahlia dared not be unprepared for her arrival. Cara had mingled among the masses this night, something that usually meant a strain on her patience. Mistress in name Dahlia might be, but the collar about her neck was more than part of her uniform. She'd spend the night on her knees if it would ease Cara's stress when she finally returned, and gladly.
She practiced her breathing as the minutes passed, twisting a stray lock of dark hair around her pinky finger. She'd spent her whole life waiting for Cara, yet each time felt like the first.
At last the car pulled up, Leo Dane flipping open the car door and an umbrella at the same time. Cara's sleek hair looked slightly out of place when she threw back the hood of her red jacket, but that might have been due to the moisture outside. Her shiny heels clicked on the marble steps as she walked in, the same swagger as ever in her hips. Only the near-bloodless tightness of her lips betrayed that anything had changed since Dahlia had wished her a good night earlier in the evening.
"I'm glad to see you home." Dahlia bowed her head, hands at her sides.
"I know you are." Cara licked her lips, nodding to Leo to leave them. The entryway to the mansion was her stage and he had no part in this. "Jacket, then shoes."
Eyes obediently downcast, Dahlia flicked open the buttons of Cara's jacket and stripped it from her without shifting the pant suit beneath. "Any new conquests?" She dropped to her knees next and slid Cara's feet from the shoes, setting them to the side with the jacket. Cara's reputation of bedding half the city was exaggerated, to be sure, but not by much. Her appetite, Dahlia knew well, was a struggle to satisfy.
Cara's eyes narrowed and they glanced down. "Nothing to speak of." The tone of her voice said enough banter.
Still kneeling, Dahlia whisked her hands up the sides of Cara's calves and looked up with wide, willing eyes. "What do you require of me?"
A touch of the familiar smirk swept over Cara's lips. "All of you."
As ever, Dahlia felt herself melt and she bowed her head. I'm yours, she could have said, but the words were unneeded.
Cara's fingers tangled in her hair and pulled her closer, and it was all the direction she needed. Dahlia left open-mouthed kisses up Cara's thighs, soft and wet unlike the bruising ones that Cara left in a similar place last night. One was the slave and one was not, no matter what transpired. She could smell Cara's arousal and clenched her thighs together, peppering kisses up the smooth skin towards the apex of her thighs. Cara shifted her weight back and Dahlia nuzzled her nose against the skin that had never seen the harsh light of day. Something was different, though she couldn't put her finger on it, and for a moment she hesitated.
Then Cara thrust her hips forward and Dahlia opened her mouth and let her tongue spread, sliding through every fold of skin like she was traversing a maze, reaching its end when she hit the spot that made Cara release her held breath. Each palm cupped the back of Cara's thighs, squeezing gently while her tongue moved up and down, up and down, arousal flooding her tongue with each lingering lick. Dahlia was at Cara's service to the very end.
For a moment Cara's heavy breathing echoed about the small chamber, then she shuddered and dug fingernails into Dahlia's scalp.
Looking up, Dahlia licked the sheen of arousal from her lips and waited for her next command.
Eyes closed, gently swaying, Cara looked lost in some dream or fantasy or perhaps just the release of pleasure. Whatever it was, the effect finally reached her eyes. They burned with a playful light when she looked down to her kneeling slave and flicked her finger beckoningly. "I'm not tired yet. Entertain me."
Dahlia wiggled her thighs a little as she rose to her feet, unable to keep back a smile. "Always, Cara." Her employer and life-long partner stepped backwards towards the stairs, and Dahlia slid from her tightly-cut suit with the flick of a few fingers. Beneath it, the corset pushed her small breasts into a heart shape above the black whalebone design, the sight alone making Cara's pupils dilate and her fingers twitch. She walked up the stairs and watched while Dahlia stripped the rest, leaving the corset for Cara. It was hers, just like everything it covered. She needed Dahlia more than Dahlia needed anything. Quietly, submissively, she did everything that was expected.
Cara never kissed her on the lips, but after they'd mounted the last steps to Cara's floor she whisked an arm around and yanked Dahlia forward, teeth grazing her pulse. Dahlia arched her neck and let her hands drop to her side, opening herself to the claim. A soft moan caught in her throat as Cara bit her neck, walking them backwards to the bedroom and the bed. This was the hardest part of the entire arrangement, keeping focus when Cara's touch made her weak in the knees. Had it always been so hard? Sometimes she forgot.
She squeaked when she felt air between her feet, but Cara only threw her onto the mattress where she landed, breasts bouncing even still contained in the corset. Cara crawled on top of her like a lioness, teeth bared, lipstick lightly smeared but still as dark as her suit. Any less training and Dahlia would have slid her hands under the suit coat and revealed more of the golden skin; but Cara never stripped and Dahlia merely hungered.
"Good," Cara purred, nipping down Dahlia's cleavage while she unclasped the corset. "Still just how I left you."
"Always," Dahlia breathed again, fingers caressing the waterfall of golden hair about Cara's shoulders. A fierce bite made her tug the hand back quickly, arranging them both above her head in a plea of submission.
Cara accepted it, opening the corset and catching a hard round nipple between her teeth. Her tongue was hot against Dahlia's skin, hotter than the burn when Cara bit down and tugged. Dahlia fought the urge to squirm and bit the inside of her lip. The sheets were cold beneath her fingers, crushed against her palms when her hands became fists. Cara possessed her with more than just her mouth, her fingers. The act burned all the way to her soul and made her only desire to beg.
That, however, was never her place. Cara ruled and Cara gave away nothing for free, and rarely anything for a price. Dahlia lay back and gazed, worshipping without effort, and waited for whatever she must do.
"Moan," Cara ordered, half breathless, her hand sliding roughly between Dahlia's legs.
Dahlia obeyed eagerly.
Even in the darkness, she could see an odd concentration in Cara's eyes. Then they closed, she held her breath, and then pistoned her hand forward to send three fingers deeply in. Muscles tensing, Dahlia bit her tongue so hard it bled. Cara thrust again, the base of her thumb rubbing hard against Dahlia's clit.
"Moan again."
Dahlia obeyed with just a hint of desperation.
Cara worked her hand with a practiced intensity, fitting a fourth finger and finally her thumb into Dahlia's pussy. The stretch was familiar, yet not without a throb that was two shades shy of pain, and Dahlia could barely breathe. She lifted her hips and watched as Cara fucked her with closed eyes. Every groan swallowed, every counterthrust held back, she gave herself up to being used.
It was Cara who moaned first and grabbed Dahlia's thigh to flip her over, hand still buried inside her ever-slickening pussy. Thrust after thrust rocked Dahlia forward into the sheets, her gasps swallowed up by the fabric. She could hear the wet slaps of each thrust, the hard breathing from Cara's mouth. Dahlia pushed her ass back and whimpered into the sheets, letting the sweat-dampened bedding swallow every sound.
But Cara knew. Cara always knew. Each thrust increased in force until Dahlia thought she might break, but instead it was a brush against just the right spot, and then the rippling intensity of orgasm.
"Scream," Cara demanded in a whisper.
Dahlia screamed, hips shaking, core tightening about Cara's hand.
Cara didn't ask for another scream but Dahlia provided it all the same as Cara didn't slow down, fucking her until another orgasm wrenched free and had her writhing, covered in sweat.
It burned as Cara slid her hand free, releasing her from the stretch and the fucking. It burned like heaven and hell all into one, and her arousal dripped down her thigh and tickled there.
"Clean the bedding before you go," Cara said, rising from the bed and slowly licking her hand clean of every drop. The smirk had left her mouth but relaxation had taken its place.
As always, Dahlia managed to find her legs and do as she was bidden. Corset was removed, warm rumpled sheets were replaced with cool crisp new ones, and at last she knelt before Cara to offer herself for any unspoken desires.
"Sleep," was all that Cara said.
Dahlia left, flushed and unable to keep a smile from her face. To be sure, she preferred when Cara watched while taking her. Yes, she liked very much to see the heat in those green eyes, to feel every thrust and maybe to feel fingers pressing against her throat, sure to leave an indent of her collar there. Slave she might be but not mindless. She desired.
Her preferences, however, were naught but wind compared to Cara's. Every day Cara rose to command the world, to wrestle it under her will. The world always fought back. Dahlia was the one who waited at home and never fought. Never wanted to. It was all she could do for her, and it was the game they'd play forever.
That awkward moment when you realize that after 6 months in literary-journalistic uni you wrote almost nothing.
instead of going to lectures I went to cafe and started writing article, which I planned for few weeks... I wrote about half of page... and then started writing fanfic.
