And If I Can't Have Everything (Well Then Just Give Me A Taste)
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by C.S. Lewis, Walt Disney, et al. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Word Count: 1,735 words
Spoilers: CoN: Prince Caspian
Prompt: 01 - Feast
Summary: One kiss melts into another, and then another – they separate only for brief gasps of air, but Susan thinks that she might give up breathing if she could only kiss him forever.
Susan slips outside – the heat inside is unbearable, the crush of bodies – both Narnian and Telmarine – oppressing. Not two days ago you were eagerly planning to kill each other, she wants to scream out – but she is Queen Susan, the Gentle, so she doesn't.
She laughs – the sound leaves a bitter aftertaste on her lips, but that seems to have been the standard for this foray into Narnia. Gentle, she thinks, is a misnomer. Sometimes she imagines that she's still standing in the clearing, calmly notching arrows into her bow, watching the Telmarine's fall to the ground. She can still see the blood seeping from the cracks in their armour – red that made the feathers on her arrows seem a pale imitation.
Sighing, she looks over the balcony and up at the towers. There, her mind points out – there is where Lysander carried you above the ramparts. At least she can now say that she's experienced flying with a gryphon. It's pointless though, she thinks – who's she going to tell? Susan shifts uncomfortably – here in Narnia, gryphons are strong, noble creatures – in England, they are merely flights of fantasy. She wants to see the look on Lysander's face when he hears that – gryphons, on the whole, are terribly proud.
Her hand slips down to her waist from habit – she craves the familiar feel of her horn. She misses the comforting touch of carved bone – in another lifetime, Susan knows, the mere thought of touching bone would have disturbed her. Still – the year they were gone, her fingers itched for the white curve – a parabola of dead something that was synonymous with home.
And that's the crux of it, Susan thinks. Aslan will send them back – she knows that he thinks it's for the best – but Susan knows better. Home is Narnia now – this place of talking animals and great battles and friends. She has left once before – it wasn't her fault, she wanted to cry when they first left the wardrobe. Sometimes, in the deep dark of her mind, where she would never let anyone see, she hates Lucy for running off, and Edmund and Phillip, who stopped by that dratted lamppost when the others had all ridden past, none the wiser.
She turns around at the sound, her eyes drinking in the sight before her. This, she knows, is why she can't bear the thought of returning. "Hello Caspian." He shifts closer to her – the fluttering in her belly increases, her heart beat picks up speed. His lips curve into a shy smile – her lips move of their own accord, and they stand there, simply smiling at each other.
"Were you not enjoying yourself inside?" His smile drops so suddenly she is left staring – he moves even closer, and her hand is suddenly clasped in his. Her skin tingles – his hands are warm above hers, and the heat slides from his skin into hers. "Susan? Are you alright?" He is looking at her, concerned, and she realises that she has yet to reply to his question.
"I'm fine," she says softly but she can feel heat rising to her cheeks and if his wondering smile is anything to go by, she is blushing. Surely, she'd felt like this before, she thinks. But she hasn't – not this slow slide of warmth along her skin, nor the unfamiliar heaviness in her breas – startled at her thoughts, she snatches her hand from his, her face aflame.
His eyes widen – they look like bitter chocolate in the soft light, and she hopes that he doesn't know what she is thinking. Her hand feels bereft without his warmth – her feet move of their own will, closer to him until she can feel warmth settling over her body. She has to tilt her head back to look at him in this position – she is tall, but he is taller.
She wonders what her eyes are telling him – his own are expressive and show her everything. His hand moves, and cradles her cheek – his palm is calloused and rough from holding a sword – and her lips part instinctively, pressing a light kiss on the crease of his lifeline.
He gasps, and his hand tightens on her cheek momentarily – Susan thinks she might just resemble a tomato soon, but then his lips are brushing over hers, swift and light. He pulls back from her, and his eyes are dark when he looks at her. "Is that alright?"
She turns her face into his hand, finding comfort in the warm cradle. He smells like woods, and the oil that they use on their armour to keep it from rusting and warm cinnamon – he smells like home, she thinks. She nods, and her smile is shy – but she reaches for him in the same moment he reaches for her and their lips press together, and oh.
His lips are soft and move over hers lightly – she responds in turn, learning the curve to his lips while her hand slides over his chest and rests her hands on his shoulders. He groans, the sound vibrating from his mouth to hers. She sighs in response – her mind feels hazy and the chill of the night has been burned away by his heat. His tongue presses against the crease of her lips, gently stroking the plump flesh – she parts her lips, and then, oh, she can taste him.
She has a brief moment of panic – what if she didn't taste nice? She pulls away, mortified. His teeth haven't knocked against hers like the girls in her form talked about, but he'd put his tongue in her mouth. And she'd let him.
"Susan?" His voice is hoarse – she thinks he sounds like molasses, because his voice settles over her skin and sinks in, ever so slowly.
"Your – your tongue was in my mouth," she squeaks, and then closes her eyes. God, when has she ever sounded like that?
"Did," he paused, and she opened her eyes, looking up at him. He was blushing. "Did you not like that?" It startles her, that he should be insecure.
"Oh, no, I did," she assures him hastily, blushing "Only, well, what if I don't taste nice?" The words slip out of her mouth in a rush – she slaps her hand to her mouth, mortified. Caspian blinks slowly and smiles, a husky laugh leaving his lips.
"Oh, Susan..." he breathes her name, like if it was the last thing he ever said he'd die happy. She doesn't like that, doesn't want to think of him dying. He lowers his head, stopping inches away from her lips. She would happily drown in his eyes, she thinks. His breath feathers over her lips, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. "You taste like freshly ripened rubi," he whispers to her, mentioning the flowering berries that were found in the fields near Cair Pareval.
Her belly tightens at his words, at the husky sound of his voice. It's like free falling, she thinks, when his lips settle over hers again. They shift against each other and then her body is flush against his, his arms wrapped around her waist. One kiss melts into another, and then another – they separate only for brief gasps of air, but Susan thinks that she might give up breathing if she could only kiss him forever. Her breasts feel swollen, and she wonders how it would feel to have his hands on them. The thought dazes her and she moans helplessly – for she is helpless – she can no more stop this than she can forget Narnia – she doesn't want to, anyway.
Caspian's arms tighten around her waist, his fingers digging into her hips. He pulls his lips from her – she murmurs discontentedly, but he skims her neck with his lips, settling over her pulse and she can only moan his name into the night. Her arms circle his neck and she slides her fingers through his hair – its satin soft and falls through her hands like water. She tugs at him, needing to have his lips on hers again.
One last time, she thinks, pleads. Just once more.
He seems to sense her urgency and covers her mouth with his, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue. His hand rubs her hip in a circular motion, comforting – her heart fills at the gesture and she presses closer still. She needs to remember every moment of this, of the way his lips slide over hers, the tingling in her belly, the soft press of his hand on her hip. She moans his name again – he swallows the sound and the kiss intensifies.
Later, hours, she thinks, but knows that mere minutes have passed; they stand silently, facing each other. Her fingers touch her lips – they feel swollen to her touch. Caspian smiles, as if pleased by the notion – she doesn't mind either. It's proof, after all, tangible evidence that proves that this happened, that it isn't merely a dream.
"They'll be wondering where we are." He breaks the silence with the simple statement – she nods, albeit reluctantly.
"We should probably go back inside." It's the last thing in the world she wants to do – but Susan knows her brother, and if Peter realises that both she and Caspian are absent from the feast, he will come looking. "You must be hungry," she adds as an afterthought. She walks inside, smiling vaguely at those she recognized. Caspian's long strides quickly catch up to her, and they walk in unison towards the large chamber.
"I seem to have formed a craving for rubi berries," he whispers into her ear as they step inside. She bites her lip at his words – she cannot believe that the words have just left his lips. He laughs softly at her reaction, and then they are both swept up into the revelry – and away from each other.
Her hands drift to her lips again – she can still taste him, she thinks, wonderingly. Lucy appears at her side, bursting with news to depart, tales to tell. Susan sighs, and shakes off the lingering thoughts, turning her attention to her little sister. Still, she eats little that night, drinks even less.
Later, she falls asleep with the memory of their kiss and his lingering taste on her lips and a wide smile on her face.