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Entry tags:
'Residue'. Narnia. Peter/Susan. R.
Tagalog word of the day!: tagahalakhak (pronounced tah-gah-hah-LUCK-HUCK), meaning hilarious!
I have these snippets lying around -- a couple of lines from overexcited meta, a few sentences of directionless porn -- that I keep around in case I might want to use them in a fic at some point. A lot of them I can't use because the contexts are really specific and vaguely cracked out, but I'm a packrat. If I get rid of a bunch of stuff, it's usually by accident.
Anywayz, these are Peter/Susan snippets from various exchanges with Bed and Z that I've smushed into one thing. Yanno, as much as I love Peter/Susan, I'm beginning to feel like I've said all I need to say about them. Maybe I need a new lens. Maybe I need to AU this shit up. I wanna read other people/s Peter/Susan.
Residue
Narnia. Peter/Susan. R. 647 words. Warning: incest.
Post-Narnia. They're not afraid of silence.
After a certain point you can't go back, or at least that's what he tells himself. Pretending you have no choice comes easy to someone accustomed to destiny. Besides, it's easier to pretend that 'want' has nothing to do with it, that she necessitates his own surrender as naturally as the winter turns to spring.
+
Peter is half a head taller than her, and Susan likes the way he has to bend his head to look into her eyes. She stands with her back straight and her chin lowered, one of his hands on her waist, the other tracing the curve of her cheek. Susan forgets how broad his shoulders are, hidden under ill-fitting coats and the loss of years.
She whispers something to him, a few words like a secret and a song. Peter smiles, and for a while it is like nothing has ever changed.
+
Hands under her shirt and over her breasts, he is disarmed by her shallow breathing and the flush in her cheeks. He has almost forgotten this, how to touch and be touched, and he is secretly pleased that he can still elicit such responses from her. Peter remembers how soft her skin had been where her leg curved into her hip; it is still as soft now.
Susan unbuttons her blouse as he kisses her. After she shrugs it off, after he slips off her bra, he takes her nipple into his mouth and his name escapes her lips in a strangled gasp. Of this, he is secretly pleased as well. She never calls his name, is always careful, always discreet. The way she says it now, it’s like he is something unexpected but inescapable, like even though she once had a long line of suitors clamoring for her hand, she is as malleable in his hands as he has always been in hers.
+
They are almost adults now, again. Sometimes Susan finds herself at his door and he would let her push him to the bed. Peter would move to unbutton her blouse as she unbuttoned his shirt, because the last time he showed up at her door, she had not refused him either.
This is just one more thing on a long list of things they can’t talk about. After they are done, they share a cigarette that she nicked from their mother's pack. Sometimes they converse of other things and sometimes they don’t; neither of them is afraid of silence.
+
She says, “Let’s go on a picnic, Peter, just you and I.” She packs them sandwiches and they go to the sea. On the train en route, she teases, “You’ll come back to us a scholar, I reckon.”
“I don’t think university will change me that much,” he shrugs, and she laughs.
“That is your way,” she replies, and Peter doesn’t know what to say to that.
On the shoreline, Susan dips her toes into the water as the wind unlooses strands of hair from under her hat. He tells her he loves the sea, and she says, “It’s easy to love what seems endless.” And then she takes his hand.
It's quick and dirty because that's what this is here – dirty – so it has to be quick. Susan clings to him as he moves against her, her back pressed against the rock, his face in her neck.
It's always a little undignified afterwards, the way they clamber off each other. There will be bruises on her back in the shape of the rock indentations, the imprints of the land on her skin, but there are no marks on Peter's skin. Only one of them is marked even though they are doing the same thing. It's a little unfair, he thinks. But Susan never complains.
+
“There is no wolf this time, Peter,” she had said once, and Peter had replied: “I know.”
I have these snippets lying around -- a couple of lines from overexcited meta, a few sentences of directionless porn -- that I keep around in case I might want to use them in a fic at some point. A lot of them I can't use because the contexts are really specific and vaguely cracked out, but I'm a packrat. If I get rid of a bunch of stuff, it's usually by accident.
Anywayz, these are Peter/Susan snippets from various exchanges with Bed and Z that I've smushed into one thing. Yanno, as much as I love Peter/Susan, I'm beginning to feel like I've said all I need to say about them. Maybe I need a new lens. Maybe I need to AU this shit up. I wanna read other people/s Peter/Susan.
Residue
Narnia. Peter/Susan. R. 647 words. Warning: incest.
Post-Narnia. They're not afraid of silence.
After a certain point you can't go back, or at least that's what he tells himself. Pretending you have no choice comes easy to someone accustomed to destiny. Besides, it's easier to pretend that 'want' has nothing to do with it, that she necessitates his own surrender as naturally as the winter turns to spring.
+
Peter is half a head taller than her, and Susan likes the way he has to bend his head to look into her eyes. She stands with her back straight and her chin lowered, one of his hands on her waist, the other tracing the curve of her cheek. Susan forgets how broad his shoulders are, hidden under ill-fitting coats and the loss of years.
She whispers something to him, a few words like a secret and a song. Peter smiles, and for a while it is like nothing has ever changed.
+
Hands under her shirt and over her breasts, he is disarmed by her shallow breathing and the flush in her cheeks. He has almost forgotten this, how to touch and be touched, and he is secretly pleased that he can still elicit such responses from her. Peter remembers how soft her skin had been where her leg curved into her hip; it is still as soft now.
Susan unbuttons her blouse as he kisses her. After she shrugs it off, after he slips off her bra, he takes her nipple into his mouth and his name escapes her lips in a strangled gasp. Of this, he is secretly pleased as well. She never calls his name, is always careful, always discreet. The way she says it now, it’s like he is something unexpected but inescapable, like even though she once had a long line of suitors clamoring for her hand, she is as malleable in his hands as he has always been in hers.
+
They are almost adults now, again. Sometimes Susan finds herself at his door and he would let her push him to the bed. Peter would move to unbutton her blouse as she unbuttoned his shirt, because the last time he showed up at her door, she had not refused him either.
This is just one more thing on a long list of things they can’t talk about. After they are done, they share a cigarette that she nicked from their mother's pack. Sometimes they converse of other things and sometimes they don’t; neither of them is afraid of silence.
+
She says, “Let’s go on a picnic, Peter, just you and I.” She packs them sandwiches and they go to the sea. On the train en route, she teases, “You’ll come back to us a scholar, I reckon.”
“I don’t think university will change me that much,” he shrugs, and she laughs.
“That is your way,” she replies, and Peter doesn’t know what to say to that.
On the shoreline, Susan dips her toes into the water as the wind unlooses strands of hair from under her hat. He tells her he loves the sea, and she says, “It’s easy to love what seems endless.” And then she takes his hand.
It's quick and dirty because that's what this is here – dirty – so it has to be quick. Susan clings to him as he moves against her, her back pressed against the rock, his face in her neck.
It's always a little undignified afterwards, the way they clamber off each other. There will be bruises on her back in the shape of the rock indentations, the imprints of the land on her skin, but there are no marks on Peter's skin. Only one of them is marked even though they are doing the same thing. It's a little unfair, he thinks. But Susan never complains.
+
“There is no wolf this time, Peter,” she had said once, and Peter had replied: “I know.”
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Wow, Lost is crazypants. It's going to be a magical journey, Bed! I want to do Sayid thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much. THIS MUCH.