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bedlamsbardThere are two scenes from the Casverse (I gave up on finding a name and we shall just go with Cas! Which is a nickname. For something we don't know. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deepad's suggestion) that I have actually written, and they are the most awkward scenes ever.
"I promised you a real wedding and a real bed," Peter says, shutting the door behind him. Cas can still hear the raucous sound of the party going on down below, faint with distance. "By Telmarine standards," he adds, watching her with dark eyes.
"Thank you," she says, but her gaze keeps flicking nervously to the bed and then away.
Peter steps toward her and cups her cheek in one hand. He kisses her slow and absolutely certain, tongue brushing velvet-rough against hers. Cas clutches convulsively at the front of his shirt, barely aware of Peter steering her backwards to the bed. When the backs of her knees hit the edge of it, she freezes.
"It's all right," Peter says, quiet and soothing. He strokes a hand through her hair, pulling the pins out. They clatter to the floor, almost too loud for Cas to stand.
He pulls back from her frowning a little. "Husband," she says, testing the word on her tongue. She's been waiting for this day her whole life, and yet --
"Wife," Peter returns. He kisses her again, reaching around for the buttons on the back of her dress. Cas lets him, shiveirng a little as his thumb brushes down her bare skin. Peter kisses the side of her neck as he pushes her dress down over her shoulders.
And this bit, which is later -- there's some intimation of location, if only because Peter and Susan and Cas and some of the army are tramping around from noble to noble trying to rally support to Cas, so they're not set up in one place.
Peter comes back to her with the bitter taste of someone else's sweat drying on his skin, slipping silently into their be without an apology or an explanation. Cas never says anything, just offers her body up to him without a word. He usually does nothing, just smiles a little, a pale shadow in the darkness of whatever room they're in this week, and kisses her before wrapping an arm around her waist and going to sleep. Cas lies awake, listening to her husband breathe, and smells sweat and sex beneath the lighter floral scent of soap.
Aunt Prunaprismia used to tell her this was going to happen. It's different for men, she'd said. They take their pleasures where they will and we can do nothing. You may be glad of that someday.
She's not sure whether she's glad of it or not. Peter touches her from time to time, light and absolutely certain, and it's good, it's fabulous. Cas arches up into his hands and mouth, gasping and clutching at his shoulders, his back, his hair, hoping that if she holds on long enough and hard enough he won't feel compelled to spend his nights in someone else's bed -- although at least he always comes back to hers.
Susan's kisses are warm and generous, lingering longer than a sister's should. Her hands are smoothly callused, a little rough against Cas's skin, and her lips are chapped when she brushes them across Cas's breasts. She spends hours just kissing Cas, everywhere except her lips and the space between her legs, until Cas is tight and aching and comes just from Susan's breath on her clit. She leaves Cas's bed in the space before Peter comes in, kissing Cas goodbye before she dresses and goes out the bedroom door.
Once she left late, or Peter came back early, and they met in the outer room. Cas remembers sitting up in bed and clutching the sheets to her bare breasts, thinking, But he knows, he knows, because the sheets always smell like her and Susan and because sometimes, when they're dressing in the morning, Peter's eyes skate over the love bites Susan has left. But the only thing that had happened was that Peter had, "Su," and Susan had said, "Peter," and there had been a long, mostly silent moment before the outer door had opened and closed again. Peter hadn't said anything when he'd come in, just kissed the spot on her neck where Susan had sucked a red mark before undressing and climbing into bed.
deepad's suggestion) that I have actually written, and they are the most awkward scenes ever."I promised you a real wedding and a real bed," Peter says, shutting the door behind him. Cas can still hear the raucous sound of the party going on down below, faint with distance. "By Telmarine standards," he adds, watching her with dark eyes.
"Thank you," she says, but her gaze keeps flicking nervously to the bed and then away.
Peter steps toward her and cups her cheek in one hand. He kisses her slow and absolutely certain, tongue brushing velvet-rough against hers. Cas clutches convulsively at the front of his shirt, barely aware of Peter steering her backwards to the bed. When the backs of her knees hit the edge of it, she freezes.
"It's all right," Peter says, quiet and soothing. He strokes a hand through her hair, pulling the pins out. They clatter to the floor, almost too loud for Cas to stand.
He pulls back from her frowning a little. "Husband," she says, testing the word on her tongue. She's been waiting for this day her whole life, and yet --
"Wife," Peter returns. He kisses her again, reaching around for the buttons on the back of her dress. Cas lets him, shiveirng a little as his thumb brushes down her bare skin. Peter kisses the side of her neck as he pushes her dress down over her shoulders.
And this bit, which is later -- there's some intimation of location, if only because Peter and Susan and Cas and some of the army are tramping around from noble to noble trying to rally support to Cas, so they're not set up in one place.
Peter comes back to her with the bitter taste of someone else's sweat drying on his skin, slipping silently into their be without an apology or an explanation. Cas never says anything, just offers her body up to him without a word. He usually does nothing, just smiles a little, a pale shadow in the darkness of whatever room they're in this week, and kisses her before wrapping an arm around her waist and going to sleep. Cas lies awake, listening to her husband breathe, and smells sweat and sex beneath the lighter floral scent of soap.
Aunt Prunaprismia used to tell her this was going to happen. It's different for men, she'd said. They take their pleasures where they will and we can do nothing. You may be glad of that someday.
She's not sure whether she's glad of it or not. Peter touches her from time to time, light and absolutely certain, and it's good, it's fabulous. Cas arches up into his hands and mouth, gasping and clutching at his shoulders, his back, his hair, hoping that if she holds on long enough and hard enough he won't feel compelled to spend his nights in someone else's bed -- although at least he always comes back to hers.
Susan's kisses are warm and generous, lingering longer than a sister's should. Her hands are smoothly callused, a little rough against Cas's skin, and her lips are chapped when she brushes them across Cas's breasts. She spends hours just kissing Cas, everywhere except her lips and the space between her legs, until Cas is tight and aching and comes just from Susan's breath on her clit. She leaves Cas's bed in the space before Peter comes in, kissing Cas goodbye before she dresses and goes out the bedroom door.
Once she left late, or Peter came back early, and they met in the outer room. Cas remembers sitting up in bed and clutching the sheets to her bare breasts, thinking, But he knows, he knows, because the sheets always smell like her and Susan and because sometimes, when they're dressing in the morning, Peter's eyes skate over the love bites Susan has left. But the only thing that had happened was that Peter had, "Su," and Susan had said, "Peter," and there had been a long, mostly silent moment before the outer door had opened and closed again. Peter hadn't said anything when he'd come in, just kissed the spot on her neck where Susan had sucked a red mark before undressing and climbing into bed.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-23 06:33 pm (UTC)The Tudors were descended from one of John of Gaunt's legitimised bastards, and a previous Queen who had married her wardrobe master, and so had no claim at all, but didn't let that stop them. (The King of Portugal had a better claim. Actually, so did most of the nobility of England.)
(EDIT: Despite the female-line thing, Anne's brother had been heir-presumptive to Richard II, who Henry deposed.)
(Son of EDIT: And none of this would have mattered had Henry V died when Henry VI was an adult, but he died when he was three months old, and Henry VI was not up to the job. He thought his son was fathered by the Holy Spirit.)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-23 07:16 pm (UTC)