ninamazing: Black-and-white close up of Cosima from Orphan Black smoking. (kaylee's the ultimate badass)
I OWE SOMEONE A BELATED BIRTHDAY PRESENT, AND THAT SOMEONE IS [ profile] hjea! ([ profile] ohvienna, IT WAS TOTALLY YOUR BIRTHDAY TOO and I would love to have written you Gene/Alex, but I am not canonified enough yet! MAYBE IT WILL COME. MORE WINE. ♥) Anyway, I love both of you; please stay in my life and in my LJ forever kthxbai. :D

Title: I Love New York
Part: 1 of 1
Author: [ profile] ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Legend of the Seeker RPF because I am a BAD BAD GIRL *_*
Word Count: 2021
Rating: R
Author's Note: This is in no way real. Bridget Regan and Craig Horner would never do this. (They would probably do something MUCH HOTTER AND MORE AWESOME! I mean. What?)

He really is like an overexcited little boy. She tells him that the best part about New York is that you can discover something new in it even if you've been there a thousand times before, so it's never boring to show around a tourist. She winks at him; he grins at her. And the maxim holds true — they're walking just past St. Mark's Place when he points out a new Thai restaurant, and they go right in.

Craig keeps one eye on the waiter, who flirts with her; Bridget gets the feeling Craig would knock the guy a good one if he got fresh, put some of that fight training to use. Defending a woman's honor is something they still do, apparently, in Australia. She wishes maybe that she minded it — Kahlan could defend her own honor — but she's finding that she doesn't.

He sucks down his noodles like nothing has ever tasted this good, like she's worn him out as much as a week of horseback riding with just one day taking the subway. (It's not her fault, Bridget tells herself, that he decided to breakdance with the guys at the 42nd Street station.) Craig babbles at her between bites, clearly still not over how many books there were in Strand, and in her head she's planning what they'll do tomorrow. He has to have brunch at Sarabeth's, they wanted to skate at Rockefeller Center, and he asked to tour the Sesame Street castle in Central Park. And he hasn't seen Times Square yet; she supposes they need that on the list, if only because his mother will ask about it first thing.

When it turns out they can make their own cotton candy for dessert — those machines are a dime a dozen in the pan-Asian cuisine of the Village — Craigy lights up like a sunrise. It's impossible not to enjoy him.

His hands are still sticky when they descend, and they miss the first train because he can't get his card through the turnstile in time. It's strange, Bridget realizes, that that's how it happens; she wonders if she would have blamed Fate before she started reading epic fantasy novels. They have to wait forty minutes for the next express 2, and all that seafood curry catches up with her so that by the time they're moving she has to rest on Craig's shoulder and shut her eyes. He puts his arms around her, letting her snuggle in, and they listen to the fade of the voices and the music as they rumble back uptown.

Another hour and they have to transfer to a crosstown bus; Bridget is so oddly proud of Craig when he remembers where to go. When they find double seats, he opens his arms to her again with a smile, and even though it's only five or six blocks she figures what the hell.

Stumbling down the sidewalk, slipping in her key, watching the elevator arrow click up and up and up — it's just like so many nights of coming home half-drunk, only now she has a TV show and a hunky Australian costar who follows her around the City with wide eyes and licks bright pink sugar off his fingers. She looks over at him as they reach her floor, and he smiles back at her with that rare boyish certainty. It seems that time has gone by so very, very fast.

She drops her keys on the table and Craig turns on the light; he knows where all her switches are now, too.

"Drink?" she asks. "I feel like we should celebrate getting home, after me falling asleep on you and all."

"Sure," he says, and his easy smile reveals nothing and everything.

She grabs them both a beer, and they stand out on her tiny fire escape, trying to discern stars in the haze.

"So we're done with the Village," Bridget says, taking a hefty sip. "Unless you want to go back for one of those glass bongs."

"Actually ..." says Craig, and they both laugh. She can rest her head on his shoulder, briefly, without blinking an eye; but that invisible line between them is shifting and blurring and Bridget's afraid that at the bottom of this bottle she will no longer remember where it is.

"You've been a gorgeous host so far," Craig tells her, and winks. "Sweet-as. Thank you."

"No problem," she answers. There: Everything was fine three seconds ago, and now she's blushing to the backs of her ears and the world is spinning just a little bit faster on its axis. She shivers and he tucks an arm around her shoulders; they got used to that, in New Zealand — the automatic protection of each other. Two strangers in a strange land, pretending to be heroes in love.

Inside, they drop their empty bottles in recycling, and Bridget ducks into the bathroom while Craig folds out her sofa. She comes back in her pajamas, and he's sitting there, waiting, with a smile.

"Hi," he says, and because of that — or because of the way his hair is sticking up, or because of the way his toes poke out below the line of his jeans, or because of the way that grin on his face seems more beautiful than the one he'd give to anyone else — she doesn't walk to her bedroom. She steps between his knees, putting her hands on his shoulders, and when he leans up to kiss her she jumps into his lap and laughs. He grunts, reshuffling, wrapping his arms around her body, and kissing him here in her apartment is so different and so fantastic. He tastes, just vaguely, of the beer; his tongue is three times as daring without a cameraperson recording every move. Bridget digs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and as those biceps tighten across her back she can feel something else tighten against the poly-cotton blend between her legs.

"Pink," Craig mutters when they break to breathe, and it takes her a moment to catch his meaning. "Why would you wear pink? You trying to seduce me?"

She draws one finger, by the nail, along that delicious muscle in his neck. "Maybe," she says, twisting her lips like she's trying not to laugh. "Maybe you're just easy."

Craig makes a humming noise she could swear she's never heard before, and nibbles at her ear. She turns his head so she can taste his mouth again, and when she's had her fill she leans into him until he drops back into the bed and holds her still in his grasp.

"You haven't said yet that we shouldn't do this," says Bridget. She's surprised at how out of breath she sounds, but Craig doesn't seem to notice, or mind.

He grins up at her, all over again that cheeky little boy. "'Cause I don't think it's true," he tells her. "We should definitely do this."

"You are terrible," she scolds, but her words are muffled against his chest and she doesn't think he's listening too carefully. She unbuttons his shirt, licking the skin underneath as she goes, while his warm and playful hands roam over every part of her body he can reach. She's stood next to him, touched him, whispered in his ear so much by now that his sweat on her tongue feels like coming home; she'd know the salt-wash of him anywhere.

He doesn't let her get below his waist. He pulls her up, one palm gentle against the back of her neck, and kisses her soundly. When his hand travels between her legs, he nudges her nose with his and gazes up at her with wide eyes.

"My mouth wants to be here," he says softly. Even through a layer of slippery fabric, the pad of his finger is impressively close to her clit.

"Your mouth," she answers, rolling onto her back and tugging him with her, "is welcome anywhere."

She keeps her fingers in his hair, stroking the top of his head, as he slides down her body. He looks up at her, somehow flipping her insides with a half-second's gaze; the lust in his eyes belies the slowness with which he removes her — pink — pajama pants. She slithers out of her top, too, and giggles at his reaction.

"Get to it, Craigy," she teases, running the arch of her bare foot along his shoulder. "We've got an early morning tomorrow if you want to do any sightseeing."

He hovers, his lips so close to the skin of her legs, and pretends to weigh two items on an imaginary scale. "Your breasts," he says; "the Statue of Liberty. It's an easy choice."

She should have known better than to look away from him and start to laugh, because when she does his mouth is running along her thigh and pressing into her wetness so that her breath goes short and she has to shut her eyes and arch, greedily, into him. He makes a pleased noise that rumbles through his body, and holds her hips between his hands.

"Oh, Jesus," she hisses, helpless; she can feel the smooth line of his nose and the soft swipes of his tongue and the giddy, intoxicating warmth of his lips. She wants to keep him there as long as possible, but need is spilling from her lips and onto his, and that waterfall-crescendo is coming sure as anything. Her legs twitch; she gasps once, twice, three times; and Craig steadies her, sucks her clit in a final move that sends her crashing over the edge.

"Get ... up here," she orders weakly when she can see again, and he crawls up over her with a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon. She reaches for his belt, fumbles with the clasp of his pants, and he grins and kisses her forehead and finishes the job himself.

"Hi," he says again when he's poised over her, just like he did before at the side of the bed, and she laughs. He could have planned this all along, and yet he didn't — that's the charming thing about Craig.

"Come on," she says, and guides him between her spread legs. He's very nearly pulsing, and when she takes him in he expels a strangled little pant and his eyes narrow. Bridget strokes his cheek, and he takes only a moment to get his bearings before he kisses her like she's the only source of air in the room. He brings his hands to the sides of her head, and thrusts and thrusts until she feels herself falling once more toward blissful oblivion. She tilts her hips, deepening his access, and delights in his answering groan. Her ankles are crossed behind his back, and she's massaging his shoulders as best she can under the circumstances. Soon he has to raise his head, catch his breath, huff into the air above her face as they stretch and curve and push. She tenses her muscles around him, and he shouts and goes taut.

His hands are clumsy as they press into her cheeks; his fingers are hot and quick through her hair, across her forehead, as he comes back to himself. She grins into his eyes, amused at how familiar this is — they're both sweaty, euphoric, breathing like a couple of racehorses. This could have been another long few hours of an epic fight, except she didn't have to wear a corset for it.

"God, Bridget," Craig says at last, and lips her collarbone. She laughs.

"Have fun?"

"Did I," he says, his voice low, and settles that fuzzy head of hair against her chest.

"Tell me you love New York," she says, twirling his hair in her fingers. She can feel his smile — or half of it, anyway — pressing into her skin.

"I love New York," he tells her, and she lets out a happy sigh.

"Me, too."

(I also have for you the following:

which basically represents how I feel about you and anyone else who read and enjoyed this. :D :D :D :D

And in case any un-indoctrinated assholes clicked that cut, OBVIOUSLY FICS LIKE THIS ARE TOTALLY THEIR FAULT BECAUSE OF PICTURES LIKE THIS:

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)

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We celebrate peace. Yet we pay no attention to the ways of curing aggression in human beings. And when one sees in psychoanalysis hostility disappearing as people conquer their fears, one wonders if the cure is not there.
The Diary of Anaïs Nin; August, 1945

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