because, it's not like they haven't done this before. it's not like they've lost the memory of it, the ability for it, not like desire has grown or shrunk. it is a lateral movement, the feeling that something has changed, now, irrevocably. an accretion of loss like the way darkness is more than absence of light. the taste of peter's skin, the feel of edmund's hands on her, the ragged sounds of breathing during climax because they have to be quiet very quiet. the important things in my life, susan realizes, have become a secret.
peter beneath her holds her hips steady, breathes through his mouth. his eyes are clouded and it's not that he's distant but the opposite of it. here, now, there is no need for pretention and they can lose themselves in each other all they want. she leans back into edmund, turns her head and finds his mouth and it's less a kiss, more a collision, as he slides his arms around her and places his hands over her breasts, and she bites back a moan. the thrusts become more insistent and she meets every push with equal resistance, relishing the pain of peter's fingernails digging her hips.
"susan--" he gasps, and then her fingers alight on his lips, asking for silence.
afterwards it's edmund who leans into her, upon whose shoulder she rests her head as he strokes the side of her neck with his fingers the way he knows she likes. they watch peter drift from the bed and begin to rifle through his pockets for his cigarettes.
"since when have you smoked so much?" asks susan.
"what, you don't remember?" peter replies.
"no, because no such memory of you smoking this much exists."
"i hope," says peter, distantly, "you don't start telling me about what's good for my health." he finds his cigarettes, his matches. he asks, "do you still have my flask?"
"it's in her room," edmund answers. "and lucy's asleep, so don't go traipsing in there rummaging for it."
"all right," is all peter says, and strikes a match.
Re: yessssssssssssssssssssssss
because, it's not like they haven't done this before. it's not like they've lost the memory of it, the ability for it, not like desire has grown or shrunk. it is a lateral movement, the feeling that something has changed, now, irrevocably. an accretion of loss like the way darkness is more than absence of light. the taste of peter's skin, the feel of edmund's hands on her, the ragged sounds of breathing during climax because they have to be quiet very quiet. the important things in my life, susan realizes, have become a secret.
peter beneath her holds her hips steady, breathes through his mouth. his eyes are clouded and it's not that he's distant but the opposite of it. here, now, there is no need for pretention and they can lose themselves in each other all they want. she leans back into edmund, turns her head and finds his mouth and it's less a kiss, more a collision, as he slides his arms around her and places his hands over her breasts, and she bites back a moan. the thrusts become more insistent and she meets every push with equal resistance, relishing the pain of peter's fingernails digging her hips.
"susan--" he gasps, and then her fingers alight on his lips, asking for silence.
afterwards it's edmund who leans into her, upon whose shoulder she rests her head as he strokes the side of her neck with his fingers the way he knows she likes. they watch peter drift from the bed and begin to rifle through his pockets for his cigarettes.
"since when have you smoked so much?" asks susan.
"what, you don't remember?" peter replies.
"no, because no such memory of you smoking this much exists."
"i hope," says peter, distantly, "you don't start telling me about what's good for my health." he finds his cigarettes, his matches. he asks, "do you still have my flask?"
"it's in her room," edmund answers. "and lucy's asleep, so don't go traipsing in there rummaging for it."
"all right," is all peter says, and strikes a match.