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bedlamsbardTitle: Heat
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia movieverse
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "You aren't going to let a girl get the better of you now, are you?" Golden Age, Peter/Susan.
Warnings: Incest, pegging.
Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis just rolled over in his grave. Walden Media probably just did the same.
Peter stretches out on his stomach, head pillowed on his folded arms. He shivers a little as Susan runs her tongue along his left shoulder blade, mouthing softly at the ridges of old scar tissue there.
It's a hot, sticky summer day, the kind of day where no one in Narnia wants to move. All the windows in Peter's bedroom are thrown wide open in the vague hope of catching a breeze, even though all the banners on the castle and in the Shifting Market and the marinas down below hang limp.
Susan presses her thumb against the small of Peter's back as she kisses the side of his neck. He turns his head to kiss her on the mouth, his tongue sliding softly against hers.
"Up," she murmurs against his lips. "Come on, High King, you aren't going to let a girl get the better of you now, are you?"
Peter hisses out through his teeth and scrambles up onto his knees, leaning forward with most of his weight on his forearms. It's a nice picture; the purely shallow part of Susan's brain approves. A more jealous part is wondering if he's ever done this for anyone else. Osumare Seaworth, Aliecer Greyjoy, Eskil Sigurdsson...Edmund. How many people does the High King of Narnia get on his knees for?
Just one today. Just his queen.
Susan drops a kiss on his shoulder as she slides down his body, the head of the dildo she's wearing nudging at his hip before she sits back on her heels and reaches for the bottle of oil that's been lying forgotten in a tangle of sheets.
Peter curses through his teeth when she pushes a slick finger inside him, then another. Susan reaches around with her other hand to wrap her fingers around his cock, the length of it hot and heavy beneath her palm. She finds a rhythm she likes and that makes Peter gasp, moving her fingers inside him in counterpoint to her hand on his cock.
"Su," he pants, his voice strained, "this isn't my first dance."
"Don't be so impatient," Susan says, even though beneath the harness she's wearing she's tight and hot with need, the slight press of the opposite end of the dildo against her doing nothing to alleviate the ache. She takes her hand off his cock and runs a knuckle up and down the knobs of his spine. "It's not my first dance either."
She pulls her fingers free of him -- Peter groans -- and reaches for the bottle again, pouring oil into her palm to slick herself up, then more for Peter.
"Su," Peter says, turning his head toward her, and then all the breath goes out of him in a sharp keen as she pushes into him.
He drops his head and the sound of their breathing is loud in the room as Susan begins to thrust, mingling with the cry of seagulls outside and the faint hum of sound from the Shifting Market far down below.
She's never heard Peter make the sounds he's making now, sharp and rough and utterly incoherent. He pushes back against her with every thrust, just enough pressure to drive her absolutely mad. She digs her fingers into his hip to brace herself, feeling them slick with sweat, the ridge of scar tissue on Peter's hipbone rough against her thumb. Susan takes one hand away and wraps it around his cock.
"Su," he gasps, accompanied by a high keening babble of curses in Eschmoun, and comes.
She pulls free of him slowly, fumbling the straps on the harness before she gets it off. She leans down to kiss Peter as he rolls over, her hair falling damp and lank over her shoulder, and smiles a little against his mouth. He's gorgeous -- mellowed and fucked-out looking, all his sharp edges smoothed away for the moment.
"Seven," he whispers. "Su." He pulls her up against him and runs a hand down her hip, pressing two fingers into her.
Susan gasps into his shoulder. Peter's hands are quick and clever, the calluses on his fingertips tantalizing, and she's so close already that it doesn't take long; she muffles her moans on his skin, the taste of his sweat bitter on her tongue.
They collapse beside each other on the bed, the sheets hot and scratchy against their oversensitive skin. Heat covers the room like a blanket, but Susan only offers up a token protest as Peter slings an arm around her waist and pulls her against him. She's already sticky and sweaty; in this weather she's not likely to get less so.
Peter kisses her hair. "I was thinking about going north," he murmurs. "There have been reports of attacks in the Northern Marshes, some of the Bog People acting up again -- the marshwiggles are clamoring for help. You should come," he adds. "We can leave Cair Paravel to Ed and Lu."
"I don't know," Susan says dubiously. "Can you ride?" She raises her head and grins at him.
"I am," Peter says with dignity, "a trained professional."
"It would be nice to get out of the heat," Susan allows, and squirms up against him to kiss his mouth, pinning his hands against the pillow as she straddles him.
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia movieverse
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "You aren't going to let a girl get the better of you now, are you?" Golden Age, Peter/Susan.
Warnings: Incest, pegging.
Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis just rolled over in his grave. Walden Media probably just did the same.
Peter stretches out on his stomach, head pillowed on his folded arms. He shivers a little as Susan runs her tongue along his left shoulder blade, mouthing softly at the ridges of old scar tissue there.
It's a hot, sticky summer day, the kind of day where no one in Narnia wants to move. All the windows in Peter's bedroom are thrown wide open in the vague hope of catching a breeze, even though all the banners on the castle and in the Shifting Market and the marinas down below hang limp.
Susan presses her thumb against the small of Peter's back as she kisses the side of his neck. He turns his head to kiss her on the mouth, his tongue sliding softly against hers.
"Up," she murmurs against his lips. "Come on, High King, you aren't going to let a girl get the better of you now, are you?"
Peter hisses out through his teeth and scrambles up onto his knees, leaning forward with most of his weight on his forearms. It's a nice picture; the purely shallow part of Susan's brain approves. A more jealous part is wondering if he's ever done this for anyone else. Osumare Seaworth, Aliecer Greyjoy, Eskil Sigurdsson...Edmund. How many people does the High King of Narnia get on his knees for?
Just one today. Just his queen.
Susan drops a kiss on his shoulder as she slides down his body, the head of the dildo she's wearing nudging at his hip before she sits back on her heels and reaches for the bottle of oil that's been lying forgotten in a tangle of sheets.
Peter curses through his teeth when she pushes a slick finger inside him, then another. Susan reaches around with her other hand to wrap her fingers around his cock, the length of it hot and heavy beneath her palm. She finds a rhythm she likes and that makes Peter gasp, moving her fingers inside him in counterpoint to her hand on his cock.
"Su," he pants, his voice strained, "this isn't my first dance."
"Don't be so impatient," Susan says, even though beneath the harness she's wearing she's tight and hot with need, the slight press of the opposite end of the dildo against her doing nothing to alleviate the ache. She takes her hand off his cock and runs a knuckle up and down the knobs of his spine. "It's not my first dance either."
She pulls her fingers free of him -- Peter groans -- and reaches for the bottle again, pouring oil into her palm to slick herself up, then more for Peter.
"Su," Peter says, turning his head toward her, and then all the breath goes out of him in a sharp keen as she pushes into him.
He drops his head and the sound of their breathing is loud in the room as Susan begins to thrust, mingling with the cry of seagulls outside and the faint hum of sound from the Shifting Market far down below.
She's never heard Peter make the sounds he's making now, sharp and rough and utterly incoherent. He pushes back against her with every thrust, just enough pressure to drive her absolutely mad. She digs her fingers into his hip to brace herself, feeling them slick with sweat, the ridge of scar tissue on Peter's hipbone rough against her thumb. Susan takes one hand away and wraps it around his cock.
"Su," he gasps, accompanied by a high keening babble of curses in Eschmoun, and comes.
She pulls free of him slowly, fumbling the straps on the harness before she gets it off. She leans down to kiss Peter as he rolls over, her hair falling damp and lank over her shoulder, and smiles a little against his mouth. He's gorgeous -- mellowed and fucked-out looking, all his sharp edges smoothed away for the moment.
"Seven," he whispers. "Su." He pulls her up against him and runs a hand down her hip, pressing two fingers into her.
Susan gasps into his shoulder. Peter's hands are quick and clever, the calluses on his fingertips tantalizing, and she's so close already that it doesn't take long; she muffles her moans on his skin, the taste of his sweat bitter on her tongue.
They collapse beside each other on the bed, the sheets hot and scratchy against their oversensitive skin. Heat covers the room like a blanket, but Susan only offers up a token protest as Peter slings an arm around her waist and pulls her against him. She's already sticky and sweaty; in this weather she's not likely to get less so.
Peter kisses her hair. "I was thinking about going north," he murmurs. "There have been reports of attacks in the Northern Marshes, some of the Bog People acting up again -- the marshwiggles are clamoring for help. You should come," he adds. "We can leave Cair Paravel to Ed and Lu."
"I don't know," Susan says dubiously. "Can you ride?" She raises her head and grins at him.
"I am," Peter says with dignity, "a trained professional."
"It would be nice to get out of the heat," Susan allows, and squirms up against him to kiss his mouth, pinning his hands against the pillow as she straddles him.