Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country)

[oxoniensis]

Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country) IS A GOTo join the battle, all you need to do is pick a prompt (any prompt, even if it's your own) and write the porniest bit of fiction you can, or make the hottest manip or painting or vid or song. Make it as kinky or as subtle as you like, but make it hot, melt your readers, create a stampede to all the

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refuses to call out, The Chronicles of Narnia, Susan/Peter, the first year

[violacoye]

The first year is the hardest, of that she is certain. Less than a month after the accident her hands have begun to crack and bleed from her work - a girl without family or fortune must take whatever she can get. Five months later she admits her menial job simply cannot put food in her belly. So one day she stops showing up at the Mason house (it is large but still much smaller than the Professor’s) and shows up at five on a street corner across town. She stands under a flickering streetlamp (fixing problems on this side of the city was not a priority even before the war) wearing her stockings and little else. No one speaks to her that night, nor the next, nor the next. On the fourth day, the red-head across the street takes pity and shares the tricks of her trade over half-cold chips that are fit more for the garbage than her stomach, but it is more substance than she has had in a week.

The next day she is taken into an alleyway by a balding man in a brown coat. She emerges without a scratch (at least where anyone can see) and with a small quantity of bills stuffed inside her tattered brassiere. That night she dreams of a golden cat with a mane as bright as the sun who stares at her as she turns and walks away.

She improves. By the third month in her new profession, she stops calling out when she comes. By the end of the fourth, she barely makes a sound, just the hint of a Pe that escapes on a breath. In the fifth month, she smiles and laughs and deceives these men (balding, desperate, lost men) into loving her for a moment. Her touch is gentle and sure and she runs her hands over them as lovingly as she once did shining wood limbs and the sinew stretched between them. She smiles and she nods and she turns her head and closes her eyes as the men call out into her neck.

Sometimes as the sun peeks over the dilapidated buildings that line her street, as she walks up the crumbling stairs, as she pushes open the door and collapses on the mussed bed, as she removes lipstick and rouge from her cheeks, sometimes she allows herself to glimpse a tall man out the corner of her eye. His crown, glinting in the sunlight, almost makes her turn and call out “Pe-”. But then she remembers she stop calling out months ago and she blinks and refuses to look until she is safely away. (In sleep, though, she cannot turn away from the glittering crown and the gentle touch on her thighs, her collar, her breasts, her stomach. Here she calls out, shouting to the heavens and as she comes down she feels his weight pushing her into the grass and the brush of fur around her ankles and wrists. She wonders if she will ever be rid of the shackles.)

After the first year, things got easier. She married. He is not a client nor a knight in shining armor but a librarian who never knew of his wife’s past except that yes - she lost her family young and yes - times were hard and yes - she left London during the Blitz and no - she does not want to talk about it. She had a boy named Jack and when her husband suggested another name, in tribute of her dead brothers, she did not talk to him for five days. (She still will not call out to him, not even to call her son in for dinner.) She worked in the library, handing out books to children about kings and queens and battles and talking animals (and she did not read them herself. She was far too practical for that.) And if occasionally she saw a crown glinting in the sunlight at the peripherally of her vision or a swishing tail disappear around the side of a building, well, such things were only the result of coffee and sleep, a lack of one and an abundance of another.

And if she dreamed of a man (or boy) with callused hands who moved in her and through her and around her as the scene shifted from the kitchen counter, to a strange bed, to a stone table, to a forest where trees danced around them and whispered about the rites of fertility and spring and new life, if she awoke her husband with her hands and her mouth and her teeth in her forearm to prevent calling out the name she lost, she was only assuring that the lion would come again with eyes full of sadness and regret. She was only assuring that she would be the one walking away, that this time she was not the one left behind

Re: refuses to call out, The Chronicles of Narnia, Susan/Peter, the first year

[elzed]

Oh, Susan... I have wondered about what happened to her after, and this - well, this is cruel and painful and strangely compelling.

Re: refuses to call out, The Chronicles of Narnia, Susan/Peter, the first year

[browngirl]

Oh, Susan! This is sad and hot and astonishing.