Legend of the Seeker - Mini Big Bang Alt (4 pics, fics and songs)

[alyse]

Unconventional - A Rare Canon Pair Fic, Pic and Mix Combo
Consisting of: 1 longer fic of 2,000+ words = 25 points 3 ficlets of 500 - 1,000 words = 15 points 4 mini pic!spams of 24 images = 24 points 4 songs + cover and back = 12 points Total > 50 points
Disclaimers: Legend of the Seeker (TV) belongs to ABC Studios/Disney. The quotes from the songs and the songs themselves belong to their particular owners. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fanfiction, written solely for love of the show and inspired by the songs. Author's Notes: For the legendland Mini!Big Bang Alt challenge in Battle 6. Ratings for the fic vary between PG and NC-17, and please heed the warnings. Many thanks to aithine for the beta work. All remaining mistakes are mine

	Title: Another Time and Place Pairing: MC!Kahlan/Fyren Spoilers: Torn Rating: NC-17 Prompt: 09: Lost Song: I'm a Slave 4U - Britney Spears Word Count: 2,060
~ I'm a slave for you. I won't deny it; I'm not trying to hide it. ~
When the Mother Confessor summons Fyren to her room, he goes with a willing heart. This is the way of things: she commands and he serves, with a full and thankful heart. He sees the truth of it now. Everything that came before - the longing for power; the hankering for lands and gold; the lust for the women he's left in his wake, discarded without a second thought - is all dust on the wind, scattering in the face of her brilliance. He has conquered city after city, and many of them fell to his sword long before Aydindril succumbed. He has swept through the southern lands like a forest fire, untamed and untameable. But nothing - no triumph, no victory in the field, in the council chamber or in the bedroom - has ever thrilled him or left him as humble as the Mother Confessor bestowing this, the loftiest of honours, on him. He will father her child. He will have the joyful task of planting his seed in her fertile ground, Creator willing, and no thought has ever been sweeter, no victory as complete. He watches her as she disrobes, her white gown pooling around her feet like the most perfect of waves as she rises from the foam. She's beyond beautiful and he's not foolish enough to think that she could ever be entirely his. He is content with the small pieces that she permits him; he is not worthy of her and never will be, but she has been kind enough to show him this favour and he will not let her down. She will not let him kiss her and he understands perfectly. He has not yet earned that honour and it will never be a right. Instead, he worships her with mouth and hands as far as she will permit him. It is not far; she's all business in this as she is in the council chamber, as unwilling to compromise and as steadfast in purpose. She pushes him down onto the bed without preamble, sliding his aching member into her flesh; she is tight around him and it is a virgin's tightness, he thinks, but if it pains her, she does not show it. She simply rides him with her eyes fixed on the wall, a small furrow in her brow. He would like to think that it is because of him, that he is bringing her some small measure of pleasure, but it is as likely that she is still thinking of the taxes that this year's harvest will bring and how she will fill the coffers that he, in his arrogance, has squandered long before she brought him into the light of her knowing. But she is beautiful and terrible all at once, more beautiful because she is justice writ in human form: he has been judged and found wanting, and he wants her with every fibre of his being. It is too much; he spends inside her too quickly, too lost in her perfection for him to last long. When he has finished, she eases herself off him, rising up and straightening her skirts, and he already aches for her again. Maybe that is why he risks everything and reaches for her. She frowns at him, and her displeasure sends a pang through him. He never wants to disappoint her, and yet... And yet he wants her again, wants her forever. He cannot lie to her, not to the Mother Confessor, but while she has stolen his heart and captured his soul, she has not yet taken his tongue. "Mistress," he says, "let me please you." "I am satisfied, Fyren," she says and her words are as cool as her look when she glances at him. "If you have given me a child, then you will have truly pleased me." "That is all I wish, Mistress." The words are not lies. If she wanted the moon, he would bring it to her or die in the trying. To bring a swell to her belly seems simple in comparison, and he would die at his own hand rather than disappoint her. "But should we not make it certain?" She quirks her eyebrow up at him, her eyes measuring him; this time he is not sure if he is found wanting or wanton. The thought does not concern him - she is his everything, and he is nothing, less than nothing compared to her. "We will," she says calmly. "If we were not successful tonight, I will soon know. We will continue until I am with child." Part of him - a small, treacherous part that is soon silenced in the face of her perfection - hopes that it does not happen tonight, that she will not fall with child so soon. But only tonight - he does not wish for more than one more night with her; that would be too selfish and she has taken his selfishness - his guilt and his greed - away. "Mistress..." It's as close to a plea as he dare come and risk her annoyance, but she turns her head, granting him that much of her attention, at least. "I have heard that the chances of conceiving are greater if the woman finds her own release. That the contractions of her body in her pleasure send the seed on its way to her belly." She considers his words, watching him closely, but it is not a lie and she can see that. He has heard such a thing before and he would never seek to deceive her. Not outright. "Very well," she says, sinking back down onto the bed. "You may try to please me." He is fully aware of the gift he has been given and he will not squander it. He worships her with his touch, letting his fingers glide over her pale, soft skin and following the path that he maps out with his mouth, making his way up her thighs and underneath her underskirt. She does not speak or command him in this, content to let him play. At first, she remains unmoved, but when he finds her centre, his tongue flickering over her pink, wet folds, she sinks her fingers into his hair. He slides his fingers into her and her flesh tightens around him as he flicks his tongue across the small nub between her legs, the one that will bring her to release if he plays her right. This he knows how to do, and she lets out a soft sound, her fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks on her bud and slides his tongue between her folds to join his fingers. She is close to coming, he can tell. Her reserve is slipping away, her body arching against him, and - when he risks raising his head slightly to peer up her body - her head is tipped back, her hair spread out and tangled on the pillow. She is beautiful when she is cold and regal, but she is even more beautiful like this, lost in his touch, as lost as she will ever allow herself to be. He wants her again, is already hard for her again, and he does not believe that she would deny him this. Believes or wants, and both are the same now. It will please her for him to spill his seed in her, increase the chance of her conceiving, and what pleases her pleases him, as it should be. And so he slides his fingers back out again, ignoring the soft sound she lets out this time, one that speaks of her disappointment and displeasure. He knows what she needs, has glimpsed what she has let show, and this time he rides her, rough and sure, slamming his cock back into her as she arches up off the bed, her body tense against him. His fingers slide underneath her bodice; her nipples, when he finds one, are tightly peaked and she mewls when he twists it between his fingertips, her flesh tightening around him. The sound sends heat coursing through him and he slams into her again, watching as her head tips back further, her fingers curling into fists on the sheets beneath her. She is gasping now, her eyes closed and her breasts heaving, and he pushes himself up onto his knees, grabbing hold of her hips to pull her closer as he thrusts in and out of her. She grabs hold of his forearms, bracing herself against his moves, and her fingers dig painfully into his skin. But it is as nothing to the feel of her, velvet tight and blood-warm, around his cock as she loses herself in the physical pleasure that he is bringing her. She comes, hard and fast, her quim convulsing around him, letting out a sharp little cry that is music to his ears. But it seems that she is one of those women who, once they find their pleasure, cannot bear any touch against their most sensitive of parts; she pushes him away, pulling herself off his cock before he has found his release. "Mistress..." he pleads as she rolls away from him, and she opens her eyes, staring at him for a long moment as she pants and twitches. Her hair is in her face and her skin is flushed pink and sweaty; she looks nothing like his cool, composed Mistress and the sight of her leaves his cock standing out like iron in front of him, leaving her in no doubt as to the effect she has on him. "Very well," she says coolly, and pushes herself up onto all fours, facing away from him. But he sees how her body trembles slightly as the last vestiges of pleasure he has brought her work their way through her body; when he pushes her skirt out of the way, her quim is glistening and wet, still swollen slightly with arousal. He pushes back into her and it almost undoes him, taking his Mistress like this, like any of the whores he has taken to his bed before his Mistress took him. She seems unmoved, saying nothing as he pulls her to him, but she meets each thrust of his hips with a small, backwards movement of her own, ones that become more noticeable when his fingers find her bud again, rubbing gently as he seeks his own release. It does not take long in coming, not with her spread out before him, with her ass in the air and with her wet against his fingertips. He leaves small bruises on her inner thighs when he spends, holding her tightly to him as his cock swells in her quim and his hips jerk against her body. Her quim grips him tightly, and she shivers under his touch, but he does not think she joins him in bliss this time. He waits there, inside her, for long moments after he has come, letting her feel the last few shudders that run through him before he finally pulls out regretfully. His member has not softened yet, and it - like her flesh - glistens in the candlelight from her spend and his. It makes him happy to see them mingle like this, happier still that he knows she is so wet because of him, because of the pleasure he has brought her. "Thank you, Fyren," she says as she straightens, pushing her hair out of her face and straightening her bodice. Her split underskirt twirls around her as she moves off the bed and away from him, and his fingers twitch with the desire to slide up underneath it again, to find her flesh and slide his fingers into her again, just to see if she will miss a step. "You have pleased me." "Thank you, Mistress." She nods, not looking at him, her mind already busy with the things that need to be done, the things she needs to correct from his reign. "You may go now." "Yes, Mistress." "We will try again tomorrow." Now she looks at him, and the look in her eyes sends a shiver through him. It is cool, yes, but it is also considering. He has pleased her, he is sure of it. "Of course, Mistress. I live only for your pleasure." He has lied and killed and plundered throughout his worthless life, but he has never spoken words as true as those. The End.
~ I'm a slave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it. ~

	Title: Vampyr Pairing: Denna/Richard Prompt: 07: Hurt Song: Limp - Fiona Apple Spoilers: Denna Rating: R for violence and adult themes Word Count: 577
~ You need my shame to reclaim your pride And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists ~
When Richard was little, Michael would scare him with stories of the things that came in the night to feed on little boys and girls, the wraiths that drained you of blood and left you sprawled, dead in your bed for morning to find. He knows enough of the Midlands now to sift the fiction out from the real world. He knows that there's nothing really like a vampyr, not even in the Midlands. Or, at least, he knew that there was nothing like a vampyr until he met Denna. Denna feeds off his misery, drinking it in like it's the blood of life, swallowing it down and holding it inside her, leaving him sprawled and lifeless for morning to find. She drinks in his grief and his pain, her tongue darting out like a cat's to lick his tears from his cheek, brushing away the drops of blood that bloom across his skin with fingers that are too tender. Her gloves are as red as all of the blood she's spilt, and Richard stares down at them as they move across his skin. It's safer than looking at her face. If he does - if he weakens - he'll catch sight of that cat-like smile and then the look in her eyes, glittering bright and fierce over sharp white teeth in the gloom, will draw him in. If he weakens, if he falls, she'll be there, waiting for him. She will smile so slowly that he can't look away, trapped by her gaze as she tilts her head to watch him, her voice sliding out so low and breathy that he has to concentrate to hear her. It's dangerous to listen to her, too. The words drop like honeyed poison from her lips, each one dripping down onto him, sinking into him until he's drowning in them. Richard is growing too weak to fight it any longer. It's easier to fight when she's not there and he's alone in the darkness; in the darkness he can focus on his rage, drawing it tightly inside him until it crystallises into something solid, something real. Something to cling to and keep him going. He tries to hold onto his anger when she calls for him, when she brings him back out into the light. He tries to hold onto that surety, that cast iron ball of hate that has settled in his stomach, giving him the weight to buffer himself against her blows, but it slips away from him when she leans over him, her agiel humming in her hand. Each blow of the agiel shatters it into pieces, and each touch of her hand melts what is left away. He grows tired, so tired sometimes, and finds himself leaning into her touch, yearning for her praise and the spark of softness in her gaze that promises so much if he pleases her. That's what weakens him in the end; not the pain, but the pleasure. Not the hate he cultivates so carefully, but the slow, twisted kind of love that she sows inside him instead, tending to it with careful words and forcing it to grow until it strangles all of his hate, all of his rage, like a parasitic bloom. It spreads inside him until it has pushed everything else out, everything that makes him him. It's all gone, smothered by the weight of Denna. It would be so much easier to hate her, but she cannot even leave him that.
~ So call me crazy, hold me down Make me cry; get off now, baby- It won't be long till you'll be Lying limp in your own hand ~

	Title: Tonight and Forever Pairing: Cara/Leo Prompt: 11: Gift Song: Tonight and Forever - The Damnwells Spoilers: Both series, but particularly up to Perdition Rating: PG Word Count: 807
~ For all your tears, all my fears We were all alone, hiding in the same room But baby, now I see you ~
No one has ever given Cara flowers before, at least not as far as she can remember. Perhaps her father tried once, when she was very small and before he realised that she was allergic to them; Cara doesn't know. There's so much that she doesn't remember about her life before the Mord Sith took her away and gave her a purpose, forged in pain and in fear, so many regrets and so little time to indulge them. All that she knows is that the flower that Leo gives her makes her sneeze. (That he gave it to her makes her smile, but only when Leo is not around to see.) When she thinks about it, it comes down to this: she doesn't understand him. She knows men, and has known quite a few in the other sense of the word. She knows what makes them tick, what motivates them, what gets them out of bed in the morning and what sends them to their (less-than-peaceful if she has her way) rest at night. She is Mord Sith. She is a mistress at teasing out all of their weaknesses, all of their vulnerabilities, and she is an expert at exploiting them. When she stops to think about it, to look at Leo like she's looked at the countless men that she's broken, she's still not sure that she could break him, and that scares her more than anything. She doesn't understand how Leo can worm his way under her skin with nothing more than a few stupid jokes about vermin and a few warm looks. She's doesn't even understand how it is that Leo can make her laugh; the first time she heard that sound come from her own mouth it took everything she had not to put her fingers to her lips, to feel the sound come forth, it was so unexpected. It doesn't matter how much she snaps at him, how she pushes him away. Like all of the Seekers she's ever heard of, and all of the Seekers she's ever known (a grand total of two, now), he is stubborn and pigheaded and kind and generous and she doesn't understand him. She is Mord Sith. She fears nothing. She is scared of this. But Leo is patient and Leo is kind and Leo is obviously out of his ever-loving mind. He has to be. He's crazy, moonstruck, addled like one of the chickens in Zedd's never-ending stories, if he thinks that this thing between them - this thing that he is delusional enough to believe can actually exist between them - is going to have a happy ending. She is Mord Sith. And he is... the Seeker. It's more ridiculous than any of the fairytales her father told her when she was still young enough to believe that he hung the moon and stars (and, even now, she's still not convinced that her father didn't have something to do with it). She has this sneaking suspicion that Leo would probably try something that stupid if she asked him to, and more than likely break his neck in the trying. It doesn't seem to matter to him when she tells him that there is nothing - nothing - between them other than fleeting (and not so fleeting) pleasures of the flesh. It's not even that he doesn't care about the words she throws at him; at least, she doesn't think so (and the thought sets her heart beating, rabbit fast, as if she's prey when she is Mord Sith and therefore the biggest, baddest predator in the wood). It's almost as though he cares enough to see past her words to the heart beating, small and terrified, underneath; that thought sets her heart racing even faster, the panic coursing through her until she wants to run, when Cara Mason runs from no man. She starts to think... She starts to believe... She starts to understand that Leo really would hang the moon and stars for her, if he could, or break his neck in the trying. And he's the Seeker. It wouldn't matter if she ran - he'd find her again. So Leo is patient and Leo is kind and then Leo is simply gone, beyond even her saving of him. And that's when Cara truly gets it, understands the best and worst thing of all about this Seeker, this man. He has burrowed his way under her skin when she wasn't looking, lodged himself in her small and terrified heart. And when he did that, he laid her heart bare to the world. It would be even more terrifying if he hadn't left part of himself wrapped around it; sometimes Cara thinks that might be protection enough. It will have to be; she's not going to give up the little she has left of him.
~ I'm calling you to say That I'm gonna stay wrapped round your heart Through time and weather I never live I never die Without you ~

	Title: Wonderful Pairing: Zedd/Salindra Prompt: 28: Blush Song: Wonderful - Annie Lennox Spoilers: Wizard Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 515
~ All of the heat of my desire Smokin' like some crazy fire ~
Zedd might be a powerful wizard, but - like many men - he had no defences against a pretty face, especially one with a mind behind it as sharp as Salindra's. There were those who thought that any woman who earned a living with what was between her legs couldn't possibly have the wit to earn her living any other way, but Salindra was nobody's fool. So, she spent most of her time on her back. It simply gave her time to think, and Salindra used that time to plan. She'd not always be this beautiful and she had no intention of lowering her standards any further; they were low enough as it was. She'd seen the old whores, the ones who hadn't saved their pennies when they could, but frittered them away on ale and worthless men. She'd seen the tricks they turned in the alleys because no man who went with them now would spend for a bed. That would never be her. She'd make sure of it. She knew how to please a man, but it wasn't all about the tricks of her trade. Some men wanted naught but agile fingers and somewhere wet and slick to slide into, but some men wanted someone to talk to afterwards, someone who would understand them when their wives didn't. Someone sympathetic, even if that meant someone paid by the hour to listen. Salindra didn't want to be a wife. She'd had enough husbands in her bed to be wary of that. But to be a princess... Oh, that was something worth having. And Zedd could give her that. It didn't hurt that he was pretty. She'd bed almost anyone for the right price, but it helped that Zedd wasn't hard to look at, and that he treated her like the lady she would never be. He kissed her hand and called her 'my dear', held doors open for her, and made her feel important. She wasn't stupid enough to believe that it was real, but it was nice to pretend, if only for a little while. As long as she remembered that it was just pretend. Sometimes, she got so caught up in the games between them that the sly glances she sent him edged towards shy, full of little promises she didn't know how to keep. Sometimes, the pinched blush in her cheeks didn't need her stealthy fingers to keep it going, but rose to her face and stayed there, brought up by his smile or the warmth in his eyes. It was heady, that was all, knowing that Zedd controlled all that power, and that she - for now - controlled Zedd. That he would use it to impress her, turn a man into a mouse in front of her, build her a castle just because she wanted one... Oh, that was heady indeed. Headier, she told herself, than the feel of his arms around her, or the way he could pick her up and carry her. Salindra was nobody's fool, and she certainly couldn't afford to be a fool about this.
~ Don't wanna need you But it's where I'm at Thinkin' bout you every day How come I was made that way? ~

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