![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbard*snarls* I curse my inability to write something shorter than several thousand words, because I'd really like to just toss out a handful of drabbles right now.
Okay, we shall try this with a handful of the prompts from thefanfic100 Big Damn Table.
What Peter's done beats at the inside of her head, rushes through her blood veins, threatens to overwhelm her. Susan loses herself in drinking and dancing, the firelight playing hot over her face as her bare feet beat on the cool grass, watching Edmund and Lucy and Tumnus and a dozen other people she knows disappear into the shadows with lovers. Desire itches at her as the night goes on, the full moon high in the night sky, and Susan doubles her fervent dancing, throwing her face up to the wind, trying to dance it away. Blood and fire, Narnia's borders increased by league upon league -- Aslan, she can feel it! The Deep Magic, working at her from the inside out.
Make it to the dawn, she thinks. Make it to the dawn. It won't go away, but it will get less, and sooner or later it will go away entirely. The first night is the worst, and all of Narnia can feel it, but them most of all. She can't imagine what it's like for Peter, and she hasn't seen him leave tonight.
The firelight catches in his golden hair, crowning him, and Susan tastes desire in the back of her throat.
They glitter in his palm like a handful of stars, each one no larger than the nail on his smallest finger and many half that size. Edmund lets them trickle between his fingers, then looks up at the Calormene merchant.
"How much?"
The man smiles, pleased. "For how many, your most gracious majesty?"
Edmund frowns down at the tray of diamonds, mentally calculating the number that are going on Susan's new dress. She prefers pearls, but this is the crown prince of Calormen come calling; diamonds it is. At least they've passed the point where Narnia has to beggar itself so as not to seem like the White Witch has left the treasury bare.
"A dram," he says. "No, make it two."
"Twelve thousand crescents," the diamond merchant says immediately, and Edmund gets down to the serious business of making sure he doesn't accidentally strip Narnia's treasury empty in the process of bargaining the price down.
Warm hands on her thighs, on her back, on her breasts. Lucy tips her head back against someone's shoulder and sighs, raising her wineglass lazily to her lips and tasting the last dregs of it on her tongue.
"Thirsty, my queen?" someone murmurs, and at her slight nod, covers her mouth with his warm one. She drinks faun wine from his mouth and kisses him once she's finished, their tongues tangling lazily together before she turns her head at a woman's long fingers on her chin, kissing her too.
She arches her back as an archer's callused hands trail up the insides of her thighs, thumb briefly on her clit before someone else brushes it away, their fingers sliding inside her. Lucy rolls her hips, liking the faint push of it, and kisses the woman again. She's briefly aware of the sound of another couple kissing a little ways away and puts out her hand, wanting to touch someone. Lips brush soft against her palm, then up the stretch of her inner arm, fluttering butterfly light against the inside of her elbow.
"More wine," she orders, and listens to the sound of falling water as someone refills her wine glass. The taste is sweet on her tongue, sweet as a kiss.
The moment the Rising Sun runs aground, it's all Peter can do not to vault over the side of the ship and kiss the earth. Mostly because he's still lashed to the deck. He's not the only one, though; no one comes on deck without being lashed to something, not in this storm.
The wind screams in his ears, rain whipping into his face and stinging his exposed skin. Peter clings to his line and fights his way back up the slippery deck to the wheel, which Osumare has been clinging to determinedly for the past -- Aslan only knows how many hours now.
"Your majesty!" Osumare shouts when he sees Peter dragging himself up the steps to the quarter-deck.
"Where are we?" Peter shouts in his ear; it's the only way Osumare has a chance of hearing him.
There are lanterns festooning the ship, most of them still burning through the storm, but they can't see past the rails. Osumare squints into the darkness, then turns and bellows for his first lieutenant. When Greywater doesn't appear, Osumare reaches out with one hand and grabs a passing sailor, shouting the question in his ear. The man goes down to the main deck clinging to his line.
Chinyere Greywater appears a few minutes later, her dark hair somehow still in a severe braid down her back. Peter repeats his question.
"The storm blew us completely off-course," she shouts. "We're off the map!"
Okay, we shall try this with a handful of the prompts from the
fanfic100 Big Damn Table.What Peter's done beats at the inside of her head, rushes through her blood veins, threatens to overwhelm her. Susan loses herself in drinking and dancing, the firelight playing hot over her face as her bare feet beat on the cool grass, watching Edmund and Lucy and Tumnus and a dozen other people she knows disappear into the shadows with lovers. Desire itches at her as the night goes on, the full moon high in the night sky, and Susan doubles her fervent dancing, throwing her face up to the wind, trying to dance it away. Blood and fire, Narnia's borders increased by league upon league -- Aslan, she can feel it! The Deep Magic, working at her from the inside out.
Make it to the dawn, she thinks. Make it to the dawn. It won't go away, but it will get less, and sooner or later it will go away entirely. The first night is the worst, and all of Narnia can feel it, but them most of all. She can't imagine what it's like for Peter, and she hasn't seen him leave tonight.
The firelight catches in his golden hair, crowning him, and Susan tastes desire in the back of her throat.
They glitter in his palm like a handful of stars, each one no larger than the nail on his smallest finger and many half that size. Edmund lets them trickle between his fingers, then looks up at the Calormene merchant.
"How much?"
The man smiles, pleased. "For how many, your most gracious majesty?"
Edmund frowns down at the tray of diamonds, mentally calculating the number that are going on Susan's new dress. She prefers pearls, but this is the crown prince of Calormen come calling; diamonds it is. At least they've passed the point where Narnia has to beggar itself so as not to seem like the White Witch has left the treasury bare.
"A dram," he says. "No, make it two."
"Twelve thousand crescents," the diamond merchant says immediately, and Edmund gets down to the serious business of making sure he doesn't accidentally strip Narnia's treasury empty in the process of bargaining the price down.
Warm hands on her thighs, on her back, on her breasts. Lucy tips her head back against someone's shoulder and sighs, raising her wineglass lazily to her lips and tasting the last dregs of it on her tongue.
"Thirsty, my queen?" someone murmurs, and at her slight nod, covers her mouth with his warm one. She drinks faun wine from his mouth and kisses him once she's finished, their tongues tangling lazily together before she turns her head at a woman's long fingers on her chin, kissing her too.
She arches her back as an archer's callused hands trail up the insides of her thighs, thumb briefly on her clit before someone else brushes it away, their fingers sliding inside her. Lucy rolls her hips, liking the faint push of it, and kisses the woman again. She's briefly aware of the sound of another couple kissing a little ways away and puts out her hand, wanting to touch someone. Lips brush soft against her palm, then up the stretch of her inner arm, fluttering butterfly light against the inside of her elbow.
"More wine," she orders, and listens to the sound of falling water as someone refills her wine glass. The taste is sweet on her tongue, sweet as a kiss.
The moment the Rising Sun runs aground, it's all Peter can do not to vault over the side of the ship and kiss the earth. Mostly because he's still lashed to the deck. He's not the only one, though; no one comes on deck without being lashed to something, not in this storm.
The wind screams in his ears, rain whipping into his face and stinging his exposed skin. Peter clings to his line and fights his way back up the slippery deck to the wheel, which Osumare has been clinging to determinedly for the past -- Aslan only knows how many hours now.
"Your majesty!" Osumare shouts when he sees Peter dragging himself up the steps to the quarter-deck.
"Where are we?" Peter shouts in his ear; it's the only way Osumare has a chance of hearing him.
There are lanterns festooning the ship, most of them still burning through the storm, but they can't see past the rails. Osumare squints into the darkness, then turns and bellows for his first lieutenant. When Greywater doesn't appear, Osumare reaches out with one hand and grabs a passing sailor, shouting the question in his ear. The man goes down to the main deck clinging to his line.
Chinyere Greywater appears a few minutes later, her dark hair somehow still in a severe braid down her back. Peter repeats his question.
"The storm blew us completely off-course," she shouts. "We're off the map!"