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bedlamsbardI meant to have this up earlier today, but Tulane was exhibiting its usual UberFail and so it took about an hour longer to get our rooms for next year than we expected. But we have rooms! I'm in a four-person suite with three of my friends. And...then I had to go to class.
So: werewolf!Pevensies, set shortly after this; only Peter is wolfified. Peter/Susan.
He comes back after nightfall, when all of Cair Paravel but the night watch is sleeping, and undresses in the dark, as he's grown accustomed to. He doesn't have to see the ugly scar that still mars his skin this way, or the deep scratches that criss-cross his body. He goes out in the evening, sometimes earlier, and comes back under cover of darkness. What happens in the middle is anyone's guess.
He's found out things. He's found he can cover a good half of Narnia in one day, that he can bring down a full-grown (dumb) deer on his own, that the scattered forces of the White Witch will greet him (at least initially) as one of their own, and that anyone else in Narnia will either flee from him or try to kill him. he's also found that the quiet of the forest is more of a relief to him than the wide halls of Cair Paravel; Lucy isn't there to be afraid of him, nor Edmund to be wary. And he isn't reminded of the look on Susan's face when she'd been in his bed --
He shoves that thought away and leaves his clothes in a trail on the floor behind him as he crosses the room to his bed, but when he throws back the covers and slides in, there's already someone there; Susan says thickly, "You're back late," sounding like she's just been woken.
Peter freezes. "What are you doing here?" he asks sharply. "You're supposed to be at the Beavers'!"
She sounds a little more awake when she says, "I came back," and rolls over to put her hand on his chest.
Peter tries to pull away from her, to push her away without touching her, but Susan says, "Peter, don't. Just let me --" She considers the end of that for a few moments and finishes finally, "Talk. Just let me talk."
He swallows, feeling her smooth hand (blisters just starting to turn to callus) move with his chest as he does so, and says, "All right," against his better judgment. She should be afraid of him -- God, she should be! -- but everyone in Narnia is afraid of him, everyone except the ones he wishes were. Even his own siblings are afraid of him, even if they won't admit it out loud.
Susan takes a deep breath. "I love you," she says. "You and Edmund and Lucy, more than anything. You're all I have here -- we're all we have."
"We have our duty," Peter whispers. He can smell the wash in her hair, something flowery that tickles his nose even in human form, and he rather likes it.
"Our duty?" Susan says, suddenly bitter. "To who, Aslan? He would have left you to the wolves -- he left us to face the White Witch on our own! What do we owe him?"
"We owe Narnia," Peter says softly. He can almost make himself believe it.
"Half of Narnia wants you dead for what the Witch did to you," Susan says. "The other half wants you dead for what you did to her. Our duty, Peter? Not mine. Not yours." She bends her head to his, her breath warm against his cheek, and murmurs, "I love you. I trust you. You're the only thing I have in the world."
"That's not exactly encouraging," Peter points out, but he puts out one hand a little tentatively, touching the smooth, silky skin of her hip. She's not wearing anything at all beneath the sheets and he swallows hard, wanting her so badly he can taste her.
"Peter," she breathes, pressing back against his hand, and she adds simply, "I missed you when I was gone," and leans up on one elbow to kiss him.
Peter opens his mouth against hers, rolling over and trapping her beneath him. "I missed you too," he says between kisses, and Susan puts her arms around his neck, laughing a little in delight.
She hooks her ankles over his calves, pulling him against her and cradling him between her thighs. Peter draws in a sharp breath, then lowers his head to kiss her neck, her shoulder. "Are you afraid?" he asks.
"No," Susan says without hesitation. She kisses him again. "You've never hurt me before and you could have. You won't now." Another kiss. "Please," she says. "Peter, please."
He pushes into her, and God, but she's tight, hot and slick, and it's better than the first time beccause he doesn't have the glaring fear of the wolf nagging at the back of his skull, the terror that he'd been responsible for this somehow, that he'd broken Susan. But it's just them: there's no one here but them and she's making the most amazing sounds beneath him, clutching at him and saying brokenly, "Peter, Peter, oh my God, Peter," and he puts his face into her hair and breathes in the scent of her.
He feels her come. She arches against him, her head falling back against the pillow, and scratches her nails down his back, crying out something that's not even words. He can smell it, too, something sharp and pleasurable that makes him thrust into her a little harder, worrying at her shoulder with his teeth. He wants to taste blood, he wants to have her, unequivocably his, with Property of Peter Pevensie written across her skin for everyone to see.
That terrifies him as much as it arouses him.
Peter kisses Susan on the mouth, hard, claiming, and she presses her nails into his back, still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. He's still rocking into the smooth slick heat of her, his breath coming in short, rough pants, and he's holding onto his control by the thinnest of threads. It's not so different from controlling the change, after all, and it feels almost like it -- only there's Susan here now, saying like a plea, like a prayer, "Oh God, oh God, Peter, Peter," and he comes undone, his teeth knocking against hers as he gasps into her mouth.
He's still human afterwards, thank God, he and Susan curled against each other with the sweat drying on their skin. She turns her head and kisses him softly and sweetly, touching her tongue lightly against his. Her fingertips are light on his cheekbone, curious, and Peter turns his head towards her obediently.
He can't see her face in the darkness of the room, but her voice is serious. "I love you," she says.
"I love you too," Peter says, and means it.
So: werewolf!Pevensies, set shortly after this; only Peter is wolfified. Peter/Susan.
He comes back after nightfall, when all of Cair Paravel but the night watch is sleeping, and undresses in the dark, as he's grown accustomed to. He doesn't have to see the ugly scar that still mars his skin this way, or the deep scratches that criss-cross his body. He goes out in the evening, sometimes earlier, and comes back under cover of darkness. What happens in the middle is anyone's guess.
He's found out things. He's found he can cover a good half of Narnia in one day, that he can bring down a full-grown (dumb) deer on his own, that the scattered forces of the White Witch will greet him (at least initially) as one of their own, and that anyone else in Narnia will either flee from him or try to kill him. he's also found that the quiet of the forest is more of a relief to him than the wide halls of Cair Paravel; Lucy isn't there to be afraid of him, nor Edmund to be wary. And he isn't reminded of the look on Susan's face when she'd been in his bed --
He shoves that thought away and leaves his clothes in a trail on the floor behind him as he crosses the room to his bed, but when he throws back the covers and slides in, there's already someone there; Susan says thickly, "You're back late," sounding like she's just been woken.
Peter freezes. "What are you doing here?" he asks sharply. "You're supposed to be at the Beavers'!"
She sounds a little more awake when she says, "I came back," and rolls over to put her hand on his chest.
Peter tries to pull away from her, to push her away without touching her, but Susan says, "Peter, don't. Just let me --" She considers the end of that for a few moments and finishes finally, "Talk. Just let me talk."
He swallows, feeling her smooth hand (blisters just starting to turn to callus) move with his chest as he does so, and says, "All right," against his better judgment. She should be afraid of him -- God, she should be! -- but everyone in Narnia is afraid of him, everyone except the ones he wishes were. Even his own siblings are afraid of him, even if they won't admit it out loud.
Susan takes a deep breath. "I love you," she says. "You and Edmund and Lucy, more than anything. You're all I have here -- we're all we have."
"We have our duty," Peter whispers. He can smell the wash in her hair, something flowery that tickles his nose even in human form, and he rather likes it.
"Our duty?" Susan says, suddenly bitter. "To who, Aslan? He would have left you to the wolves -- he left us to face the White Witch on our own! What do we owe him?"
"We owe Narnia," Peter says softly. He can almost make himself believe it.
"Half of Narnia wants you dead for what the Witch did to you," Susan says. "The other half wants you dead for what you did to her. Our duty, Peter? Not mine. Not yours." She bends her head to his, her breath warm against his cheek, and murmurs, "I love you. I trust you. You're the only thing I have in the world."
"That's not exactly encouraging," Peter points out, but he puts out one hand a little tentatively, touching the smooth, silky skin of her hip. She's not wearing anything at all beneath the sheets and he swallows hard, wanting her so badly he can taste her.
"Peter," she breathes, pressing back against his hand, and she adds simply, "I missed you when I was gone," and leans up on one elbow to kiss him.
Peter opens his mouth against hers, rolling over and trapping her beneath him. "I missed you too," he says between kisses, and Susan puts her arms around his neck, laughing a little in delight.
She hooks her ankles over his calves, pulling him against her and cradling him between her thighs. Peter draws in a sharp breath, then lowers his head to kiss her neck, her shoulder. "Are you afraid?" he asks.
"No," Susan says without hesitation. She kisses him again. "You've never hurt me before and you could have. You won't now." Another kiss. "Please," she says. "Peter, please."
He pushes into her, and God, but she's tight, hot and slick, and it's better than the first time beccause he doesn't have the glaring fear of the wolf nagging at the back of his skull, the terror that he'd been responsible for this somehow, that he'd broken Susan. But it's just them: there's no one here but them and she's making the most amazing sounds beneath him, clutching at him and saying brokenly, "Peter, Peter, oh my God, Peter," and he puts his face into her hair and breathes in the scent of her.
He feels her come. She arches against him, her head falling back against the pillow, and scratches her nails down his back, crying out something that's not even words. He can smell it, too, something sharp and pleasurable that makes him thrust into her a little harder, worrying at her shoulder with his teeth. He wants to taste blood, he wants to have her, unequivocably his, with Property of Peter Pevensie written across her skin for everyone to see.
That terrifies him as much as it arouses him.
Peter kisses Susan on the mouth, hard, claiming, and she presses her nails into his back, still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. He's still rocking into the smooth slick heat of her, his breath coming in short, rough pants, and he's holding onto his control by the thinnest of threads. It's not so different from controlling the change, after all, and it feels almost like it -- only there's Susan here now, saying like a plea, like a prayer, "Oh God, oh God, Peter, Peter," and he comes undone, his teeth knocking against hers as he gasps into her mouth.
He's still human afterwards, thank God, he and Susan curled against each other with the sweat drying on their skin. She turns her head and kisses him softly and sweetly, touching her tongue lightly against his. Her fingertips are light on his cheekbone, curious, and Peter turns his head towards her obediently.
He can't see her face in the darkness of the room, but her voice is serious. "I love you," she says.
"I love you too," Peter says, and means it.
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