LOTS - CARA/DAHLIA

Fall Down

seven_3_oh (Amanda)

Title: fall down

Author: seven_3_oh (amanda)

Pairing: Cara/Dahlia

Fandom: legend of the seeker

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1,828

Summary: Dahlia is sent to ‘Collect’ Cara. Short diddy about what she may have been thinking. Set 2.20 slight non–con… hetero implied…and internal darkness.

Disclaimer: “Legend of the Seeker”, its characters, and the situations depicted on the show are the property of ABC Studios, Disney, et all, as well as Terry Goodkind. This story cannot be sold or used for profit in any way. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices.

A/N: just a little purging of some dark cobwebs and shadows from the back corners of my brain.

Date: 07.11.2010

Fall Down

seven_3_oh (Amanda)

Hands moved across her lower back, fingertips deceptively tender as they caressed her spine, moving to the small twin dimples above her buttocks. They moved, becoming hard, possessive. Conveying that sense of ownership that elicited feelings inside of her chest, and her eyes closed.

“Your body was built to please.” the voice, familiar, was one she never thought she would hear again. Not with such an intimate intonation, not with the combination of hands on her skin. Fingertips moved to her hips, and fingers curled, to dig nails into flesh. She swallowed the sigh. Feelings expanded, constricting her chest, tighter than leather. Whatever commands the hands ordered, she would follow. She was all she could be. A tool. Built to please indeed.

Her eyes opened, staring at the stone wall, resignation pulsed in her veins, no longer blood, only obediance. “I am glad you think so.” Dahlia said her voice barely above a whisper, but not wavering with the pain. No the pain was familiar. Hands taking what they wanted, moving over hips, through folds, attempting to evoke from her a response. Her body complied. It knew that this was what it should do. She swallowed. Knowing that this reaction was only the faintest glimmer of what it was capable of.

“Don’t you agree Garren,” he asked, his hands, now slick and flexing with pride at Dahlia’s submission, asked.

“Oh I do, Lord Rahl.”

Her eyes flashed to her, as she sat at the head of the bed, rolling the dagger’s handled between her flat palms. Her eyes burned with the anger of a thousand lashes. Garren thrived belonging to Lord Rahl. She hated every moment he was with another, that he dominated someone who was not her. Dahlia returned her glare, focusing on the sweet hate in those eyes, ignoring the fingers claiming her deeply, ignoring the burn of the marks on her skin from the Agiel beside her bent knees on this bed.

When she thought the world was going to change, and be different. When she had foolishly allowed herself to think she could become something or someone else; reality returned to theTemple, with an Agiel, a closed fist, and once dead dark eyes.

His hands moved up her back.

“Mm yes. She is. To think I had forgotten all about how very pliable you were.” His hand grabbed her chin, wrenching her face away from the calm of the wall, to glare at her. He was going to touch her again. He was going to taste her kiss, and she knew it. He was ensuring that she knew that her life was a lie. Life was his. Only his. She was nothing more than whatever he desired her to be. “Ah, I was wrong, to let you fade away without me. But, no longer, Dahlia. You see. I was reminded very recently how very gifted you are, and how you are.” His thumbnail scratched along her cheek. “The perfect specimen to lie in the trap. She won’t be able resist you.”

* * * * *

Her walk was inviting. It invited your eyes to gravitate, to explore, and to appreciate. Footfalls were sure on the soft ground, legs moving in a brutal tempo. She found herself swallowing before her lips opened. She could not explain what it was about her, what drew her eyes and made her heart pound in a way that she did not know outside of the anticipative cadence before the first strike from a new master. That erotic and terrifying combination. Of wanting and needing.

She hated her.

Because she made her want.

She made her feel an odd glimmer of emotion. Of hope. That she could be more than she was.

Her eyes narrowed, her breathing increased, her hands became fists.

Dahlia stepped on a twig, purposefully.

She watched as Cara’s shoulders twitched. She heard her.

* * * * *

The scent of leather was intoxicating, and it consumed her senses with precision. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out, and she pulled and stepped into Dahlia in one smooth motion, her lips taking Dahlia’s. Pulling them into her mouth, sucking them and running her tongue across them. A kiss of passion that set the tone. Cara was ruling this moment. The kiss was for her, and Dahlia was hers for the taking. Being taken. It was all she knew. To be taken. To be used. To create whatever they wanted. Life was for others.

Her eyes opened, widened, as the commanding kiss swirled into something else, as the tongue moved with her own.

Cara’s hand moved from the golden crown down her cheek. The leather of her glove faintly touching flesh. The touch was telegraphing memories of touching her. There was once a time when the smell of this leather, the taste of this mouth, and the smell of this skin was all she needed. It brought her to a world that was colored in soft light, pulled her through the shadowed tunnel of knives, and would heal the wounds that seemed to continually bleed. In this kiss she had believed that the world could be shut out. The tongue moved across the roof of her mouth, and she became startled by memories of exploring Cara with a thousand violent caresses.

Dahlia had thought she would have been free of the torment that only Cara was able to subject her to. She thought that she would only have the memories of humility and torture. The games that they would play. She should only have those memories. The others, those of tenderness and longing, were lies; they were the fanciful daydreams of a shattered mind. These lips, their fullness, and the horrible way they became soft, welcoming, pulled the blade underneath her, skinning her protective outer layers, shocking her system with the distant past. Tender memories had been what she would only revisit when she needed to remember the specific scent of a lie. The lie that she had held onto as a young woman. That she could be more than what she was. The cruelty of their shared story had become the pillars holding up the crumbing roof of her past.

As she felt a betrayer, a tear, escaping from her eye, she recalled with bitter clarity how Cara would lick away her tears. She would tell her with specific harshness how she enjoyed tasting the difference between tears of sadness, of passion, of pain. They all had a specific tang to them, she had said with pride. Pride at creating them. Those blissful violations were in the past. They could not be revisited. Dahlia was not even sure if they had ever truly happened.

The way her mouth moved against Cara’s, how she returned the gentle kiss, was something she had wished she would forget. Tasting her again she knew she should forget. The disgusting flavor of possibilities sickened her.

Pushing away Cara opened her eyes.

“Why?”

Dahlia’s fingertips went to her lips, to touch them, as if disbelieving the cause that made them wet and swollen.

“Why now?”

“Why not?” Her voice spoke, but her eyes screamed suddenly, they screamed for Cara to run. To not believe a word her mouth spoke.

Her eyes feel to the ground. She knew they were colored with shame. Looking up once, before returning her eyes to the ground, her face felt cold, as all the blood rushed from it, as she looked up into Cara’s hard expression. She saw that Cara’s lips were pulled into a thin line. She could feel how very much Cara wanted to slap her, to remind her of what she was.

Speaking had been a mistake. Perhaps a fatal one.

If that was the case, she was prepared to die. She wanted to die.

Cara reached for leather instead, pulling their bodies back together.

She licked the plump center of Dahlia’s bottom lip, her fingers digging into her leather corset as Cara pulled them down to their knees.

He thought that she would be the weak point to Cara’s armor, not understanding that it was twisted. Cara was her weakness. Cara was the one being in all of the living that made her feel with conviction the deepest pain. Because she could taste hope in her mouth, could feel possibilities in her smile.

It was a truth that she had to believe was a lie.

Her life was for others. There was nothing she could do for herself. Every action, every moment was lived for someone else.

She hated her. She hated how she was able to make her body scream with the thrill of hope. Hope was akin to destruction of the protection that was needed to consume and surround her. She needed to be protected, she needed to be free of emotion or how else could she survive? How could she possibly live through each moment if she felt hope. She was to follow commands, to be the sharpest knife in her master’s belt. To be the softest flesh in his bed when he commanded it. She was to bend, and to arch, she was to cut and to destroy. She was the tool.

To aspire to be more, to consider, in a moment where the nature of her body throbbed and constricted and her heart began to beat again, was to covet the most delirious pain. Because the moment would end. It would pass. She could not escape. The only existence was what was. What she was. There was nothing that could refute that truth.

Hurt. Silence. Desperation. Falling around her like the dew of the morning fog.

To touch her was to want to control her. To invite her caress was to open the gates and allow a killer to roam free amid all you held dear. She would drown in the possibilities that glimmered in Cara’s light eyes above her, and she would crash into the earth. She would be lost to the point of believing the lies the touches brought out in her. She could fall into the space where the cages of dreams kept her safely ignorant of the truth.

There was no future. There were no promises. There was no one who would look at her they way she was afraid she looked at Cara.

She refused to breathe, sustaining herself on the flavor of the leather glove that was shoved into her mouth. Her teeth pressed down in the blissful agony. Her tongue moved over the bitter dead flesh. It felt more alive than she ever did.

Hands moved over her skin, a palm pressed to her cheek, forcing her eyes away.

Even Cara could not stand the sight of her needy eyes.

Sobs backed up behind the gag in her mouth. Her body, having been tight with the tension of apprehension snapped, and she became pliable.

Nothing mattered beyond allowing Cara to take her pleasure.

There was no consequence that would compare to the breaking of her soul.

~ ~ ~

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seven3oh - Fall Down