Narnia fic: "Holiday" (Peter/Susan)
May. 28th, 2009 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardTitle: Holiday
Author:bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Incest
Summary: Now is an excellent time to have a well-deserved holiday. Golden Age, Peter/Susan.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Some characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to Walden Media.
Author's Notes: Forsnacky, who requested "something with them in the winter, staying in bed and staying warm."
The new year brings with it three feet of snow even in the Southern Marches, prompting a faun fortune-teller who calls himself a prophet to begin squawking about the fated return of the White Witch and a second Long Winter, sure to begin any day now. Peter would be somewhat more concerned about people believing him if the Southern Marches hadn’t gotten the least snow in the country; it’s over the head of a tall centaur in the High Reaches and the Western Waste isn’t much better off. Even the Great River has frozen for the first time in years. Spring thaw will be at its worst since the Long Winter this year.
This latest snowfall, in conjunction with the hard freeze that’s held Narnia in its grasp for the past week, puts the final nail in the coffin and shuts Narnia down for the immediate time being. The fact that it’s the next thing to impossible to go outside without freezing off some important body part or at the very least falling on your arse a round dozen times tends to put people off doing so - and that includes traveling long distances to see a so-called prophet. Peter’s spent the past week making sure there’s some kind of shelter available for those who normally spend even Narnia’s harsh winters out-of-doors, doubling the aerial patrols (this is just the kind of weather the few remaining White Witch supporters favor) since the army’s more likely to turn into a collection of glittering ice statues at this point than actually find anything, and making sure that there’s adequate food stockpiled to support Narnia through a long winter, even if he has to put the whole population on short rations. By the time an owl taps on his window to bring him news of the self-titled prophet - ha, let Edmund say Peter has no idea what’s going on in Narnia; people fall over themselves to give him news he cares absolutely nothing for - Peter’s more than decided now is an excellent time to have a well-deserved holiday.
He thanks the owl politely, latches the window with already frozen fingers, pulls the thick red velvet drapes after that, and blows on his hands to try and get them warm again as he staggers back to bed.
“Get those cold feet off me,” Susan mumbles, then squeaks as Peter runs his palms up over her ribs, settling his thumbs in the concavity between her breasts. “Peter!”
“I’ve made a royal decision,” he murmurs, settling his body over hers. He kisses the top of one breast, then the other.
Susan reaches to pull his hastily pulled-on shirt off over his head, tossing it blindly aside. “What’s that?”
“Today’s going to be a holiday,” Peter says, kissing her collarbone.
She tilts her head back so that he can kiss the long pale line of her throat, briefly illuminated in the flickering firelight. “What for?”
“Kissing your beautiful, brilliant, absolutely amazing sister,” he tells her, kissing her deeply. She curls her legs up over his hips, tangling her fingers in his hair, and murmurs, “Good holiday,” into his mouth.
“I think so,” Peter says. He cups her breasts in his hands, runs his thumbs over her nipples, making her shiver and arch against him.
Susan loops one arm around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss. “Good holiday,” she says again.
He licks a long stripe into her mouth, brushing his tongue against hers before he nips at her lower lip. She draws him back in, her kiss first light and teasing, a spring planting kiss, then a long and languorous midwinter kiss, then an autumn harvest kiss, full of promise, before at last she gives him a midsummer kiss, the kind that could scorch a selkie out of its skin. It’s slow, unhurried, without the desperation of those who don’t yet share a bed; they have each other, after all. They’ve had each other for more than twenty years already - a year and a half, nearly two, together - and Aslan and the Seven willing, they’ll have each other for a long time yet.
Susan rolls them over, fitting her body over his, and tangles her fingers in his hair. She kisses him slow and certain, her mouth warm against his, and Peter draws his hands up beneath her shift, across her bare back. Smiling at him, Susan straightens up to pull her shift off, then leans back down to kiss him again.
He doesn’t hear the hall door open, but he hears it when one of his bodyguards scratches at the bedroom door, calling, “Your majesties!”
“Today’s a holiday!” Susan shouts back. “Go away!”
Peter doesn’t look away from her face, but he asks, “What is it, Halmi?”
“A bird from the marshes, some kind of disturbance -”
“Peter,” Susan says meaningfully, kissing him. “It’s just the wiggles and the Bog People going at each other again.”
“Anything more specific?” Peter says, turning his face aside.
“No,” Halmi replies. “It’s probably just the wiggles and the Bog People going at each other again.”
“All right. Come and get me if there’s any more news,” Peter says, and listens to her claws click lightly on the floor as she pads away from the door before he turns back to Susan, who cups his face between her palms and kisses him.
“I thought today was a holiday,” she says.
“That’s why I’m not on a fast horse for the marshes,” Peter tells her, and she laughs.
Her smile is blinding in the darkness. “Workhorse,” she says affectionately, sliding her palms up his chest.
“Well, if you’re on holiday, someone has to keep this country running,” Peter teases, catching her mouth with his.
“We’re both on holiday,” Susan reminds him, sucking a kiss into his neck. “How cold is it outside?”
“Cold,” he says. “The Great River’s frozen over.”
She laughs, and her smile is blinding in the darkness as her hands wander down. “Then I suppose we should keep warm.”
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Incest
Summary: Now is an excellent time to have a well-deserved holiday. Golden Age, Peter/Susan.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Some characters, settings, situations, etc., belong to Walden Media.
Author's Notes: For
snacky, who requested "something with them in the winter, staying in bed and staying warm."The new year brings with it three feet of snow even in the Southern Marches, prompting a faun fortune-teller who calls himself a prophet to begin squawking about the fated return of the White Witch and a second Long Winter, sure to begin any day now. Peter would be somewhat more concerned about people believing him if the Southern Marches hadn’t gotten the least snow in the country; it’s over the head of a tall centaur in the High Reaches and the Western Waste isn’t much better off. Even the Great River has frozen for the first time in years. Spring thaw will be at its worst since the Long Winter this year.
This latest snowfall, in conjunction with the hard freeze that’s held Narnia in its grasp for the past week, puts the final nail in the coffin and shuts Narnia down for the immediate time being. The fact that it’s the next thing to impossible to go outside without freezing off some important body part or at the very least falling on your arse a round dozen times tends to put people off doing so - and that includes traveling long distances to see a so-called prophet. Peter’s spent the past week making sure there’s some kind of shelter available for those who normally spend even Narnia’s harsh winters out-of-doors, doubling the aerial patrols (this is just the kind of weather the few remaining White Witch supporters favor) since the army’s more likely to turn into a collection of glittering ice statues at this point than actually find anything, and making sure that there’s adequate food stockpiled to support Narnia through a long winter, even if he has to put the whole population on short rations. By the time an owl taps on his window to bring him news of the self-titled prophet - ha, let Edmund say Peter has no idea what’s going on in Narnia; people fall over themselves to give him news he cares absolutely nothing for - Peter’s more than decided now is an excellent time to have a well-deserved holiday.
He thanks the owl politely, latches the window with already frozen fingers, pulls the thick red velvet drapes after that, and blows on his hands to try and get them warm again as he staggers back to bed.
“Get those cold feet off me,” Susan mumbles, then squeaks as Peter runs his palms up over her ribs, settling his thumbs in the concavity between her breasts. “Peter!”
“I’ve made a royal decision,” he murmurs, settling his body over hers. He kisses the top of one breast, then the other.
Susan reaches to pull his hastily pulled-on shirt off over his head, tossing it blindly aside. “What’s that?”
“Today’s going to be a holiday,” Peter says, kissing her collarbone.
She tilts her head back so that he can kiss the long pale line of her throat, briefly illuminated in the flickering firelight. “What for?”
“Kissing your beautiful, brilliant, absolutely amazing sister,” he tells her, kissing her deeply. She curls her legs up over his hips, tangling her fingers in his hair, and murmurs, “Good holiday,” into his mouth.
“I think so,” Peter says. He cups her breasts in his hands, runs his thumbs over her nipples, making her shiver and arch against him.
Susan loops one arm around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss. “Good holiday,” she says again.
He licks a long stripe into her mouth, brushing his tongue against hers before he nips at her lower lip. She draws him back in, her kiss first light and teasing, a spring planting kiss, then a long and languorous midwinter kiss, then an autumn harvest kiss, full of promise, before at last she gives him a midsummer kiss, the kind that could scorch a selkie out of its skin. It’s slow, unhurried, without the desperation of those who don’t yet share a bed; they have each other, after all. They’ve had each other for more than twenty years already - a year and a half, nearly two, together - and Aslan and the Seven willing, they’ll have each other for a long time yet.
Susan rolls them over, fitting her body over his, and tangles her fingers in his hair. She kisses him slow and certain, her mouth warm against his, and Peter draws his hands up beneath her shift, across her bare back. Smiling at him, Susan straightens up to pull her shift off, then leans back down to kiss him again.
He doesn’t hear the hall door open, but he hears it when one of his bodyguards scratches at the bedroom door, calling, “Your majesties!”
“Today’s a holiday!” Susan shouts back. “Go away!”
Peter doesn’t look away from her face, but he asks, “What is it, Halmi?”
“A bird from the marshes, some kind of disturbance -”
“Peter,” Susan says meaningfully, kissing him. “It’s just the wiggles and the Bog People going at each other again.”
“Anything more specific?” Peter says, turning his face aside.
“No,” Halmi replies. “It’s probably just the wiggles and the Bog People going at each other again.”
“All right. Come and get me if there’s any more news,” Peter says, and listens to her claws click lightly on the floor as she pads away from the door before he turns back to Susan, who cups his face between her palms and kisses him.
“I thought today was a holiday,” she says.
“That’s why I’m not on a fast horse for the marshes,” Peter tells her, and she laughs.
Her smile is blinding in the darkness. “Workhorse,” she says affectionately, sliding her palms up his chest.
“Well, if you’re on holiday, someone has to keep this country running,” Peter teases, catching her mouth with his.
“We’re both on holiday,” Susan reminds him, sucking a kiss into his neck. “How cold is it outside?”
“Cold,” he says. “The Great River’s frozen over.”
She laughs, and her smile is blinding in the darkness as her hands wander down. “Then I suppose we should keep warm.”