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moogingThis fic comes with the message that I have gone fairly wrong, but what's new? I'm weirdly proud of this one, mainly because Tilda is ridiculously intimidating to write and also because it comes so soon after the last fic. IN YOUR FACE, WRITER'S BLOCK, I REFUSE TO BE DEFEATED. Also, a big gigantic thank you to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
likecharity, who somehow understands everything mental I write at her, and for making me think about this pairing. <333
I did have, at one point, vague qualms about this being my first fic posted this year but not for long. Start as you mean to go on?
And context is for losers.
Title: this is the challenge (what are you so afraid of?)
Fandom: Narnia RPF
Pairing: Skandar/Tilda.
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~4500
Disclaimer: This never happened, not saying it did, Narnia characters aren't mine, everyone real belongs to themselves, apologies to everyone involved. Title from 'Oblivion' by Patrick Wolf, and the cut text from 'Heavy in Your Arms' by Florence and the Machine.
Warnings: Oh god. Mild bondage, whip play, d/s dynamic, age gap (18 and 49), power play, pain kink, over-use of italics. That last one definitely requires a warning.
Summary: "Go on, then," Tilda says, flexing her wrists in the handcuffs over her head. "Do it."
"Go on, then," Tilda says, flexing her wrists in the handcuffs over her head. "Do it."
Skandar hesitates. He folds the whip around his hand, winding the thin leather between his fingers: a nervous tell. "I," he says, which is mostly ineffectual but does make Tilda tilt her head, look at him knowingly. Her eyes are very dark: secretive, people have said, but they hold other people's secrets, not her own.
"Skandar," she says, and her faintly exasperated sigh draws Skandar's gaze to the flush on her chest, her breasts moving on the rise and fall of her breath. He stares. "Skandar," Tilda says again, a soft tone of reproach. "What is it?"
Skandar keeps staring. Tilda is stretched out across the bed, wrists handcuffed through the iron bars of the headboard, her ankles bound one to each of the bottom bedposts by a couple of Will's scarves (Skandar stole them from Will's apartment last time he was there, guiltily, and either Will had never noticed or had actually possessed a degree of subtlety previously unknown and just never mentioned it). Tilda is naked, save for a pair of white cotton briefs, and Skandar shouldn't find them as attractive as he does: they're nothing special, plain like Marks and Spencer's when any other eighteen year old boy would prefer La Senza, Ann Summers, but Tilda is anything but plain, and so they look special.
With Tilda's arms stretched over her head, Skandar can see her skin moving taut over her ribs, the way her stomach hollows gently in, every time she takes a breath. Her hipbones jut beneath the elastic of her underwear. Skandar stares.
"Skandar," Tilda challenges. She sits up as far as she can, jangling the handcuffs. She looks at him for a long moment - Skandar is suddenly, hotly, conscious of his bare chest, his blue boxers tight around his crotch, the whip still curled around his hand - and then she changes her tone. "Are you all right with this?"
"Yes," Skandar says, fervent and immediate, and blushes when she smiles, slow and fond, at him.
"All right," she says. She lies back down, wriggles like she's trying to get comfortable. Skandar watches, transfixed, the sway of her breasts, the roll of her hips. Then he remembers himself, and jerks his gaze back to her face. She smirks; he blushes harder.
"Come on, then," she says, jutting her chin at the whip in his hand. "Hit me."
Skandar lets the end of the whip unfurl from around his fingers. He swallows. His throat is very dry; his heart is pounding.
"Hit me," Tilda says.
Skandar still hesitates.
Tilda laughs, quick and bright and knowing. Skandar almost squirms, bright red and wanting it, wanting her.
"Hit me," Tilda insists, and Skandar stares straight at her and does it, the whip cracking out across Tilda's pale stomach. She gasps, sharp, but doesn't flinch, and when the whip falls from her side, there's a red welt starting to blossom against her skin, a thin, white impact mark bright and glaring down the centre of it. Skandar stares at that instead, not quite able to believe it was his doing.
"Can I," he starts, "I mean, would it - "
"Don't ask me," Tilda snaps, suddenly impatient. "Just do it."
Skandar brings his fingers slowly to the mark on her skin, brushes it as gently as he can, still half wondering at it, and then he pulls back and snaps the whip across her again, before he can think about it. She does flinch this time, the tail of the whip catching her nipple and making her cry out, making Skandar catch his breath. He does it again (her side), again (her thigh), again, again, again until Tilda seems to have to keep her hips still by effort of will, until Skandar is rock hard and steam hot, until both of them are out of breath.
"Do it," Tilda pants, and hearing her like that, hearing her shaken and flustered - it makes Skandar moan, almost more than he can handle. Tilda eyes him, almost triumphant, and it's almost too much. "Do it," she tells him again, sharply, and Skandar steps forward and lashes the whip out once more, letting it catch across the crotch of her sensible underwear.
"Oh!" Tilda cries, and Skandar can't, he can't, and he drops the whip and straddles her, kissing her, leaning right over her, feeling her breasts heave against his chest. He shivers with it. She opens her mouth under his, lets his tongue slide against hers, breathing hot against his slick, wet lips. Skandar grinds his hips down instinctively and she groans: he can feel how wet she is, how wet he's made her, even through her underwear, and he's dizzy with it.
He reaches a hand down between them, fumbling, rubbing his fingers against her, trying to find her clit. She works her hips, angling up and bending her knees, pulling on the bindings round her ankles. He finds a hard nub beneath his fingers and rubs at it harder, and she shudders up at him, mouth open, face red. The heel of his hand drags against the head of his cock as he moves against her, and Skandar whimpers at it, bucking into the touch.
Tilda arches against him, throwing her head back. "Here," she pants, breathless, "put your hand here," and her pale throat works; he sees her swallow.
Carefully, as gently as he can, he places the palm of his hand across the front of her throat, wraps his fingers one by one around her neck. Tilda closes her eyes. Her face is so flushed that she is almost purple, her chest too, her nipples tight and hard. She's sweating. It might be ugly, Skandar thinks, and it's certainly not what sex looks like in Hollywood films, not what the women sleeping with James Bond look like when he's rolling them over in his bed sheets, but it's what Skandar has wanted for as long as he can remember: Tilda, near undone at his doing.
"All right?" he asks her, on a heaving breath.
She nods, and her throat moves beneath Skandar's hand. He grinds down against her on impulse, pushing his fingers harder against her clit without finesse, the base of his hand against himself. They both moan.
"Hit me," Tilda gasps, eyes still closed. "Hit me."
Skandar hesitates again, and Tilda's voice turns sly. "I know you want to."
And he does, he realises, he does want to, but he can't - as ridiculous as it seems, even to him, there's a difference between whipping her (oh god) and striking her, and the thought of it makes his heart beat faster, the colour rise higher in his cheeks, but he can't do it. He can't. Skandar feels himself turn hotter, embarrassed and angry, angry that even now she can so easily needle him, find and work his vulnerability. His heart hammers. He swallows hard, painfully.
"No," he says, voice hoarse, aroused and harsh. He hesitates again, not quite sure he can say it, but: "Um. Look at me."
Tilda laughs, an amused breath, though she's near shaking under the grip of Skandar's thighs, body hot under his. "What was that, Skandar?"
"Open your eyes," he tells her, pretending not to hear how his voice shakes. "I want you to look at me."
He stills his hand, leaves it there between them, stills his hips. He waits for her to grind up against him, waits for her to want the contact, to want him, but she doesn't. Skandar stares down at her flushed face, anger thumping in his chest, turning him almost faint. Even mostly naked, tied down and exposed to him, even as he's straddling her, she's completely, unquestionably, in control. Of course she is: he almost feels ridiculous for ever expecting it could be any other way between the two of them.
His voice almost scares him when he speaks, anger and humiliation, "Look at me."
Tilda smiles, predatory, showing her teeth. Skandar shudders and shakes and shouts, "Look at me!"
And, slowly, Tilda does what he tells her, opens her eyes.
Skandar almost comes right then, crumpling right over so that his sweaty forehead rests in between her breasts. He breathes hard and waits out the pulse of desperation in his groin. Tilda starts to shake, and he lifts his head, foggy and slow, to see her laughing.
"What?" he demands.
"Little man," she whispers, and her smile goes predatory again, more than normal. "Come here."
She lifts her chin and smiles wider. Skandar gathers himself together and shuffles awkwardly up her body, knees either side of her, until her mouth is right under his cock.
Everything starts to feel slightly surreal.
"Takes those off," she tells him, in a low voice. It goes straight to his crotch and he holds his breath to keep from squirming. He puts his hands uncertainly on the waistband of his boxers, and Tilda nods, encouragingly. Her voice turns oddly gentle. "Take them off."
Skandar wriggles his boxers off, balancing with difficulty on each knee in turn to hook them over his feet. He drops them over the side of the bed and tries not to think about how naked he suddenly is. She keeps her eyes locked on his, and he thrills at it, and then - and then she opens her mouth. She licks a stripe up the underside of his cock and he groans with it, unbidden. Tilda props herself up as best she can on her shoulders, wrists straining at the handcuffs, body bucking up as she positions herself.
She brushes and grinds against Skandar and he groans again, reaching up to brush sweaty hair out of his eyes. Tilda leans up as far as she can, and drags her wet, open mouth over Skandar's cock, letting her tongue catch the head as she pulls away. Skandar buckles forwards without dignity, catching himself jarringly on the iron headboard. When Tilda smiles, he feels it in the stretch and curve of her lips against the base of his cock. He has to rest his forehead against the backs of his hands, white-knuckled around the headboard bars.
"Come on, little man," she coaxes, a familiar taunt in her voice. "Come on. I'll let you."
Skandar stares down between his forearms, hesitant to meet her gaze. She purses her lips at him, and then smiles again. She's otherworldly in the shadows he's casting over her. "Come on," she says.
Skandar's hand shakes as he reaches his hand down to fumble with his cock, bringing the head up to Tilda's lips.
"Are you sure?" he asks, suddenly feeling young and inexperienced and all too aware of it, but Tilda holds his gaze and nods, lifting her head up to take as much of him into her mouth as she can. Skandar tightens his grip on the headboard, tips his head back.
"Fuck," he gasps, and he can't look back down at her, can't watch it happen.
She sucks at him and hollows out her cheeks, lets her tongue lap over the head of his cock. Skandar keeps a hand at its base, keeping it at her mouth; her lips drag across his the tips of his fingers on every other bob of her head. Her knee comes up to press against his back; she is on his every side.
Skandar is making these noises, low and gruff, croaking up and out of his chest. He can feel the building in the pit of his stomach, everything tightening. His breath comes with difficulty, catching and burning in his throat.
"Oh god," he croaks, struggling to get his eyes open. "Til- " - but he can't manage her name - "I'm going to - "
She shushes him, the sound coming out a sibilance around his cock, a vibration, and he does duck down his head, staring back at Tilda. He can't say her name but he can look at her, look at her mouth stretched wise around him, her eyes locked on his, teasing, dark and - and - yes, he can see it now: desire.
He comes fast and hard then, doubling back over, head back on his hands, panting strongly enough that it hurts his chest, dizzy. Tilda swallows everything down; he can feel her cheeks working with it, her tongue cleaning him off. He thinks, out of nowhere, about being wrapped in furs with the White Witch cleaning sugar from his mouth, and he shudders, and tries not to think it. He closes his eyes again.
Tilda pulls away when he is finally, completely, spent, and his cock presses wetly against her cheek. She doesn't turn her face away. It's enough to make him twitch again, but Skandar knows even at eighteen he doesn't have that sort of recovery time.
"Better?" she asks, almost conversationally.
Skandar laughs, breathy and shallow. "Yeah," he says, trying to match her tone, trying to blink cooling sweat out of his eyes. "I guess so."
"Good," she says, and waits until he meets her gaze again. Unblinking, she says, "My turn," and it's so matter-of-fact, so unfazed, so Tilda.
Skandar scrambles ungracefully down Tilda's body again until he's sitting, knees wide, just over her hips. He fidgets, locking his fingers together and disentangling them over and over. She watches him, and though her mouth still glistens wet, her eyes are glistening with her perpetual, sardonic, amusement. Skandar blushes still deeper.
"What shall I do?" he asks her, feeling completely out of his depth.
Tilda stretches, moving her shoulders as much as she can with her hands still cuffed over her head. Skandar can see the whip marks, the red stripes of skin, the livid white lines. She catches him staring.
"Touch them," she tells him.
"What?" he says, caught off guard.
"Touch them," she repeats, unexpectedly patient. She nods at him. "Go on."
Hesitantly, trying to keep his hands from shaking too hard, he presses the cold, clammy tips of his fingers to one of the purpling marks on Tilda's skin, just under her left breast. He licks his lips, nervous, and his knuckles brush the underside of her breast, the small, soft, curve.
"Yes," Tilda says. "Like that, but harder."
"Harder?"
"Yes, Skandar," she says, the same tone as she uses in interviews when he's said something she doesn't entirely approve of. "Harder."
He presses his fingers harder against the mark; harder still at her nod, and she hisses out a breath, appreciative, arches her back. Emboldened, Skandar leans down and takes one of her nipples into his mouth. It's hot against his mouth, like it's throbbing where the whip caught it. He stops when Tilda stiffens, but she says, "Go on," again, in an odd voice, and so he does, mouthing at it, using his tongue, keeping his fingers firm on the bruise beneath her breast.
"Yes," Tilda says again, in an altogether different tone, her breath coming fast, and Skandar's heart beats faster still; he can feel his pulse quicken, headily. He wants more, wants to give her more.
He straightens up, and says, all in a rush, "Can I go down on you?"
He blushes again, like he expected, when she raises an eyebrow at him. There it is again, one of her unique Tilda expressions, the curious mix of amusement, query and detachment. It used to make Skandar horrifically uncomfortable, when he was younger: it still does, to an extent, but now it also makes him hot.
"You want to go down on me?" she asks, and it sound so ridiculous in the arch, throwaway lilt of her voice, but Skandar doesn't shy away.
"Yes," he says, quickly so his nerves don't show through.
Tilda's eyebrow rises higher. "Oh," she says, contemplative. "Well then."
"'Go on'?'" Skandar guesses.
"Quick learner, little man," says Tilda. She holds his gaze quite steadily; obediently, he waits for it. Finally, she says it. "Go on."
He shifts down between her spread legs, stroking a hand down to her bound ankles. He takes a breath almost to steel himself, and then puts his mouth over the crotch of her white underwear. She's wet enough that it's soaked through the fabric; Skandar tastes the wet spot under his mouth, tastes her when he flicks out his tongue, and it's that that gets him hard again. He groans with it, against her, and she rolls her hips up, urging him on.
Skandar can take a hint.
He hooks his fingers into the top of her underwear, feels her hot skin hotter where the lash of the whip has caught it, before he realises that her legs are spread too far apart for him to take her briefs off without untying one of her ankle restraints. Bent double over his knees in a crouch, mouth still open against her, he glances up, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be. She looks down the length of her body at him: a challenge.
Skandar ducks his head again and pulls the crotch of her underwear to one side. It goes easily. Another advantage this style of underwear has over tighter, smaller, sexier styles: its ability to move easily when required, permitting something between on or off. It gives Skandar room to work with.
Skandar pushes up a tuft of hair - as red down here as the hair sticking sweatily to Tilda's face - and darts out his tongue, tentative to start with, tasting, testing, rather than seeking anything else. His ex-girlfriends, the couple there have been, have been appreciative of his efforts in this area, but he can't help thinking of the difference in experience between girls his own age and Tilda fucking Swinton - not that he's calling her a slut, he thinks, hastily, but it's not like there isn't any pressure on him.
He does it again, flicks out his tongue to lick a long stripe up to the coarse hair between her legs, and he's about to do it again when she shifts her hips, bending her knees, impatient. At least that's one advantage Skandar has here: despite having 'girls' disease' for a debilitatingly large portion of his adolescence, he spent an equally large amount of that time with Tilda, and even though he'll never understand, never have the upper hand, he's always known how to pick up on whatever she wants him to do. It might be an approval thing, he thinks, that he wants it and she can give it, or possibly a more specific Tilda thing. If he were a betting man, Skandar would say the latter: the latter, he knows, is true.
He puts one palm out flat over one of her skinny hips, feeling her stretchmarks smooth under his fingers, and she hisses loudly when his fingers dig in accidently. He looks up at his hand, mildly surprised, to see that he's forgotten the lash mark there, directly under his touch. He presses against it again, experimentally, and she hisses again, more controlled this time, like it's a reward. Skandar readjusts, dragging her underwear further to the side so he can hook his thumb through a leg hole and tug the crotch of it out of his way; he keeps his palm where it is pressed tight over the jut of her hip, his fingers directly over the blossoming welt.
He brings two fingers of his other hand up to his mouth and sucks at them, tasting his own sweat and, more stale, the leather of the whip. He brings them down between Tilda's legs and pauses, waiting for her, a silent question. She cants her hips down in response, thigh muscles flexing as she pushes herself against his hand. He slides one finger inside her as gently as he can, adding the other when she shifts, impatient again, and another when she does it a third time, and when he is knuckle-deep inside her, she sighs out a long, slow breath.
He glances up at her again, wanting to see Tilda's face. It's difficult at this angle but he can see the curve of her smile, the flash of her dark, dark eyes as she watches him. As she watches him go down on her, Skandar realises, and his cock throbs with it, pressing against his bare chest as he folds back over.
He slides his fingers almost all the way out of her and finds her clit with his tongue as he slides them back in, and she sighs again, louder. She's not as tight as Skandar remembers an ex-girlfriend being around his fingers, but then she is older, and she has had two children - and Skandar has to stop himself thinking about that too.
He finds an easy, quick rhythm - easy only if he concentrates, and he does, because he wants this to be good for her, wants just to be good for her - and goes at it with vigour, ignoring his own pulse of arousal as much as he can with his erection leaving a wet streak across his chest every time he moves his head back and forth. He thinks about slowing down, about teasing her, about the gut-tightening prospect of making her beg him for it - but he doesn't, can't, because this is and always has been about Tilda. Even on her back, bound to the bed, she's still the one in control. So, he goes as fast as he can stand, fingers and tongue and the hint of teeth, occasionally, barely grazing wet, swollen flesh and every time she cries out, and he feels it in his blood.
Thinking about it beforehand, he might have expected her to sound low with arousal, voice gruff and catching, but her voice breaks high, as lyrical as her everyday speech but breathier, needier. It's an unbelievable turn on, but then, Tilda is a turn on even without trying.
Skandar worries that he won't be able to tell when she's getting close, but she starts to bend and straighten one leg, rolling her hips less rhythmically, and he decides to go for broke. He digs his fingers into the welt on her hip, getting his short nails into the tender skin, and does it again, jerkily at first but then, gradually, in sync with his fingers working inside her. He crooks his fingers up like his friends had told him about, telling dirty stories over cheap booze one New Year's, and he feels the rougher skin beneath the pads of his fingertips, feels her hips jerk and stutter, her breath catching on an "oh" of surprise.
He tongues at her harder, his jaw aching, his tongue cramping, working his hands as fast as he can stay in rhythm. Tilda starts to shake under him, her knee staying awkwardly bent, and then her breath catches again and she is silent, hips arching up, up against Skandar's mouth as she comes. He feels hotly proud, and works her through it, slowing everything down but leaving his fingers clamped down tight on her sore hip. She bucks a little - Tilda Swinton bucking against his mouth - and sighs out again, relaxing into the bed.
When she's still, Skandar pulls away to the side of the bed, fumbling for his cock. With no finesse, no real technique, he gives himself hasty, sloppy strokes, biting at his lip.
"Go on," he hears Tilda say, lazy and wrung out, and he looks up to find her watching his hand move, her eyes testing, so dark. He spills over his hands with a shout, graceless, doubling forward again, and when he can catch his breath he straightens up to see the splashes across Tilda's stomach, standing out pale against the red, red lash marks.
"Um," he says, suddenly awkward. "Sorry?"
She laughs, at him, he knows, but it is never unkind.
"You did very well," she tells him, and though he blushes at her praise, it makes him feel warm. Special.
He gets up and wipes himself down with a tissue from the pocket of his discarded jeans, conscious of Tilda's eyes on his back. He finds his boxers and makes a face at the wet patch on the front, pulls on just his jeans instead. He turns back to Tilda, shuffling his feet, feeling every one of his eighteen years and no more. He looks at her properly again, without the haze of need and desperation. She is stretched out across the bed, whip marks striped clear across her chest and stomach, a bruise starting to shine out over the hip he had held. He's left nail marks, he realises, white crescents beginning to fill out pink beneath the slowly purpling bruise. Her face and chest are still flushed, her hair a sweaty, rumpled mess. Her underwear is still dishevelled, not quite back in place. Her wrists are starting to bruise too, where she's pulled and strained against the handcuffs, but the scarves binding her ankles are thick enough that Skandar can't see if they've left their own marks.
"Um," he says again. "Er, are you all right?"
"Yes, Skandar," she says, in a level, patient tone, like she might use with a skittish horse. "Are you?"
"Yes," he says, slowly, but it sounds unsure even to his own ears. He's still staring at her.
"Shall we undo these?" Tilda says, shaking her wrists, making the handcuffs clatter against the iron headboard bars.
"Yes," Skandar stumbles, fumbling the key off the bedside table. He bends over her to reach the handcuffs, and pauses. He thinks about the way she included herself in an action entirely of his doing. Shall we undo these? Whether he undoes the handcuffs is entirely in his control, but Tilda said we and Skandar didn't blink. Distantly, he thinks that he could leave her like this, look at her like this for as long as he liked. It scares him a little to think of having this modicum of control, power, almost, but at the same time it makes something thrill in him, his cheeks heating up. He looks down at her again, at her dark eyes, and she smirks like she knows exactly what he's thinking and is finding it diverting, but not serious.
He's used to that smirk.
"Go on," Tilda challenges, and he thinks, but can't be certain, that she's calling his bluff. Leave me like this. I dare you.
Out of nowhere, Skandar thinks of the White Witch, holding out a hand to Edmund. I can make you a man. The key shakes in his hand.
"Go on," Tilda tells him softly, and Skandar's heart pounds and pounds.
She throws him off balance, always has, always will. And -
- and he likes it.
Skandar unlocks the handcuffs and Tilda sits up with a sigh, rolling out her shoulders and flexing out her wrists. She seems not the slightest bit perturbed that Skandar could have chosen otherwise, or even that she noticed him considering it.
The room is quiet and Skandar feels like he's surfacing, not dissimilar to coming out from the cinema after a film, coming up with an oxymoronically slow jolt from one world and emerging, blinking and disorientated, into the light of another. He rolls the key to the handcuffs over his fingers, over and back, over and back.
Tilda swings her legs over the side of the bed, smoothing back her hair with her long, pale fingers. Skandar looks at her, and loves her.
"Hey, little man," she says, quietly, like she's feeling it too, and Skandar passes her the key.
///
Er, Happy New Year?
likecharity, who somehow understands everything mental I write at her, and for making me think about this pairing. <333I did have, at one point, vague qualms about this being my first fic posted this year but not for long. Start as you mean to go on?
And context is for losers.
Title: this is the challenge (what are you so afraid of?)
Fandom: Narnia RPF
Pairing: Skandar/Tilda.
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~4500
Disclaimer: This never happened, not saying it did, Narnia characters aren't mine, everyone real belongs to themselves, apologies to everyone involved. Title from 'Oblivion' by Patrick Wolf, and the cut text from 'Heavy in Your Arms' by Florence and the Machine.
Warnings: Oh god. Mild bondage, whip play, d/s dynamic, age gap (18 and 49), power play, pain kink, over-use of italics. That last one definitely requires a warning.
Summary: "Go on, then," Tilda says, flexing her wrists in the handcuffs over her head. "Do it."
"Go on, then," Tilda says, flexing her wrists in the handcuffs over her head. "Do it."
Skandar hesitates. He folds the whip around his hand, winding the thin leather between his fingers: a nervous tell. "I," he says, which is mostly ineffectual but does make Tilda tilt her head, look at him knowingly. Her eyes are very dark: secretive, people have said, but they hold other people's secrets, not her own.
"Skandar," she says, and her faintly exasperated sigh draws Skandar's gaze to the flush on her chest, her breasts moving on the rise and fall of her breath. He stares. "Skandar," Tilda says again, a soft tone of reproach. "What is it?"
Skandar keeps staring. Tilda is stretched out across the bed, wrists handcuffed through the iron bars of the headboard, her ankles bound one to each of the bottom bedposts by a couple of Will's scarves (Skandar stole them from Will's apartment last time he was there, guiltily, and either Will had never noticed or had actually possessed a degree of subtlety previously unknown and just never mentioned it). Tilda is naked, save for a pair of white cotton briefs, and Skandar shouldn't find them as attractive as he does: they're nothing special, plain like Marks and Spencer's when any other eighteen year old boy would prefer La Senza, Ann Summers, but Tilda is anything but plain, and so they look special.
With Tilda's arms stretched over her head, Skandar can see her skin moving taut over her ribs, the way her stomach hollows gently in, every time she takes a breath. Her hipbones jut beneath the elastic of her underwear. Skandar stares.
"Skandar," Tilda challenges. She sits up as far as she can, jangling the handcuffs. She looks at him for a long moment - Skandar is suddenly, hotly, conscious of his bare chest, his blue boxers tight around his crotch, the whip still curled around his hand - and then she changes her tone. "Are you all right with this?"
"Yes," Skandar says, fervent and immediate, and blushes when she smiles, slow and fond, at him.
"All right," she says. She lies back down, wriggles like she's trying to get comfortable. Skandar watches, transfixed, the sway of her breasts, the roll of her hips. Then he remembers himself, and jerks his gaze back to her face. She smirks; he blushes harder.
"Come on, then," she says, jutting her chin at the whip in his hand. "Hit me."
Skandar lets the end of the whip unfurl from around his fingers. He swallows. His throat is very dry; his heart is pounding.
"Hit me," Tilda says.
Skandar still hesitates.
Tilda laughs, quick and bright and knowing. Skandar almost squirms, bright red and wanting it, wanting her.
"Hit me," Tilda insists, and Skandar stares straight at her and does it, the whip cracking out across Tilda's pale stomach. She gasps, sharp, but doesn't flinch, and when the whip falls from her side, there's a red welt starting to blossom against her skin, a thin, white impact mark bright and glaring down the centre of it. Skandar stares at that instead, not quite able to believe it was his doing.
"Can I," he starts, "I mean, would it - "
"Don't ask me," Tilda snaps, suddenly impatient. "Just do it."
Skandar brings his fingers slowly to the mark on her skin, brushes it as gently as he can, still half wondering at it, and then he pulls back and snaps the whip across her again, before he can think about it. She does flinch this time, the tail of the whip catching her nipple and making her cry out, making Skandar catch his breath. He does it again (her side), again (her thigh), again, again, again until Tilda seems to have to keep her hips still by effort of will, until Skandar is rock hard and steam hot, until both of them are out of breath.
"Do it," Tilda pants, and hearing her like that, hearing her shaken and flustered - it makes Skandar moan, almost more than he can handle. Tilda eyes him, almost triumphant, and it's almost too much. "Do it," she tells him again, sharply, and Skandar steps forward and lashes the whip out once more, letting it catch across the crotch of her sensible underwear.
"Oh!" Tilda cries, and Skandar can't, he can't, and he drops the whip and straddles her, kissing her, leaning right over her, feeling her breasts heave against his chest. He shivers with it. She opens her mouth under his, lets his tongue slide against hers, breathing hot against his slick, wet lips. Skandar grinds his hips down instinctively and she groans: he can feel how wet she is, how wet he's made her, even through her underwear, and he's dizzy with it.
He reaches a hand down between them, fumbling, rubbing his fingers against her, trying to find her clit. She works her hips, angling up and bending her knees, pulling on the bindings round her ankles. He finds a hard nub beneath his fingers and rubs at it harder, and she shudders up at him, mouth open, face red. The heel of his hand drags against the head of his cock as he moves against her, and Skandar whimpers at it, bucking into the touch.
Tilda arches against him, throwing her head back. "Here," she pants, breathless, "put your hand here," and her pale throat works; he sees her swallow.
Carefully, as gently as he can, he places the palm of his hand across the front of her throat, wraps his fingers one by one around her neck. Tilda closes her eyes. Her face is so flushed that she is almost purple, her chest too, her nipples tight and hard. She's sweating. It might be ugly, Skandar thinks, and it's certainly not what sex looks like in Hollywood films, not what the women sleeping with James Bond look like when he's rolling them over in his bed sheets, but it's what Skandar has wanted for as long as he can remember: Tilda, near undone at his doing.
"All right?" he asks her, on a heaving breath.
She nods, and her throat moves beneath Skandar's hand. He grinds down against her on impulse, pushing his fingers harder against her clit without finesse, the base of his hand against himself. They both moan.
"Hit me," Tilda gasps, eyes still closed. "Hit me."
Skandar hesitates again, and Tilda's voice turns sly. "I know you want to."
And he does, he realises, he does want to, but he can't - as ridiculous as it seems, even to him, there's a difference between whipping her (oh god) and striking her, and the thought of it makes his heart beat faster, the colour rise higher in his cheeks, but he can't do it. He can't. Skandar feels himself turn hotter, embarrassed and angry, angry that even now she can so easily needle him, find and work his vulnerability. His heart hammers. He swallows hard, painfully.
"No," he says, voice hoarse, aroused and harsh. He hesitates again, not quite sure he can say it, but: "Um. Look at me."
Tilda laughs, an amused breath, though she's near shaking under the grip of Skandar's thighs, body hot under his. "What was that, Skandar?"
"Open your eyes," he tells her, pretending not to hear how his voice shakes. "I want you to look at me."
He stills his hand, leaves it there between them, stills his hips. He waits for her to grind up against him, waits for her to want the contact, to want him, but she doesn't. Skandar stares down at her flushed face, anger thumping in his chest, turning him almost faint. Even mostly naked, tied down and exposed to him, even as he's straddling her, she's completely, unquestionably, in control. Of course she is: he almost feels ridiculous for ever expecting it could be any other way between the two of them.
His voice almost scares him when he speaks, anger and humiliation, "Look at me."
Tilda smiles, predatory, showing her teeth. Skandar shudders and shakes and shouts, "Look at me!"
And, slowly, Tilda does what he tells her, opens her eyes.
Skandar almost comes right then, crumpling right over so that his sweaty forehead rests in between her breasts. He breathes hard and waits out the pulse of desperation in his groin. Tilda starts to shake, and he lifts his head, foggy and slow, to see her laughing.
"What?" he demands.
"Little man," she whispers, and her smile goes predatory again, more than normal. "Come here."
She lifts her chin and smiles wider. Skandar gathers himself together and shuffles awkwardly up her body, knees either side of her, until her mouth is right under his cock.
Everything starts to feel slightly surreal.
"Takes those off," she tells him, in a low voice. It goes straight to his crotch and he holds his breath to keep from squirming. He puts his hands uncertainly on the waistband of his boxers, and Tilda nods, encouragingly. Her voice turns oddly gentle. "Take them off."
Skandar wriggles his boxers off, balancing with difficulty on each knee in turn to hook them over his feet. He drops them over the side of the bed and tries not to think about how naked he suddenly is. She keeps her eyes locked on his, and he thrills at it, and then - and then she opens her mouth. She licks a stripe up the underside of his cock and he groans with it, unbidden. Tilda props herself up as best she can on her shoulders, wrists straining at the handcuffs, body bucking up as she positions herself.
She brushes and grinds against Skandar and he groans again, reaching up to brush sweaty hair out of his eyes. Tilda leans up as far as she can, and drags her wet, open mouth over Skandar's cock, letting her tongue catch the head as she pulls away. Skandar buckles forwards without dignity, catching himself jarringly on the iron headboard. When Tilda smiles, he feels it in the stretch and curve of her lips against the base of his cock. He has to rest his forehead against the backs of his hands, white-knuckled around the headboard bars.
"Come on, little man," she coaxes, a familiar taunt in her voice. "Come on. I'll let you."
Skandar stares down between his forearms, hesitant to meet her gaze. She purses her lips at him, and then smiles again. She's otherworldly in the shadows he's casting over her. "Come on," she says.
Skandar's hand shakes as he reaches his hand down to fumble with his cock, bringing the head up to Tilda's lips.
"Are you sure?" he asks, suddenly feeling young and inexperienced and all too aware of it, but Tilda holds his gaze and nods, lifting her head up to take as much of him into her mouth as she can. Skandar tightens his grip on the headboard, tips his head back.
"Fuck," he gasps, and he can't look back down at her, can't watch it happen.
She sucks at him and hollows out her cheeks, lets her tongue lap over the head of his cock. Skandar keeps a hand at its base, keeping it at her mouth; her lips drag across his the tips of his fingers on every other bob of her head. Her knee comes up to press against his back; she is on his every side.
Skandar is making these noises, low and gruff, croaking up and out of his chest. He can feel the building in the pit of his stomach, everything tightening. His breath comes with difficulty, catching and burning in his throat.
"Oh god," he croaks, struggling to get his eyes open. "Til- " - but he can't manage her name - "I'm going to - "
She shushes him, the sound coming out a sibilance around his cock, a vibration, and he does duck down his head, staring back at Tilda. He can't say her name but he can look at her, look at her mouth stretched wise around him, her eyes locked on his, teasing, dark and - and - yes, he can see it now: desire.
He comes fast and hard then, doubling back over, head back on his hands, panting strongly enough that it hurts his chest, dizzy. Tilda swallows everything down; he can feel her cheeks working with it, her tongue cleaning him off. He thinks, out of nowhere, about being wrapped in furs with the White Witch cleaning sugar from his mouth, and he shudders, and tries not to think it. He closes his eyes again.
Tilda pulls away when he is finally, completely, spent, and his cock presses wetly against her cheek. She doesn't turn her face away. It's enough to make him twitch again, but Skandar knows even at eighteen he doesn't have that sort of recovery time.
"Better?" she asks, almost conversationally.
Skandar laughs, breathy and shallow. "Yeah," he says, trying to match her tone, trying to blink cooling sweat out of his eyes. "I guess so."
"Good," she says, and waits until he meets her gaze again. Unblinking, she says, "My turn," and it's so matter-of-fact, so unfazed, so Tilda.
Skandar scrambles ungracefully down Tilda's body again until he's sitting, knees wide, just over her hips. He fidgets, locking his fingers together and disentangling them over and over. She watches him, and though her mouth still glistens wet, her eyes are glistening with her perpetual, sardonic, amusement. Skandar blushes still deeper.
"What shall I do?" he asks her, feeling completely out of his depth.
Tilda stretches, moving her shoulders as much as she can with her hands still cuffed over her head. Skandar can see the whip marks, the red stripes of skin, the livid white lines. She catches him staring.
"Touch them," she tells him.
"What?" he says, caught off guard.
"Touch them," she repeats, unexpectedly patient. She nods at him. "Go on."
Hesitantly, trying to keep his hands from shaking too hard, he presses the cold, clammy tips of his fingers to one of the purpling marks on Tilda's skin, just under her left breast. He licks his lips, nervous, and his knuckles brush the underside of her breast, the small, soft, curve.
"Yes," Tilda says. "Like that, but harder."
"Harder?"
"Yes, Skandar," she says, the same tone as she uses in interviews when he's said something she doesn't entirely approve of. "Harder."
He presses his fingers harder against the mark; harder still at her nod, and she hisses out a breath, appreciative, arches her back. Emboldened, Skandar leans down and takes one of her nipples into his mouth. It's hot against his mouth, like it's throbbing where the whip caught it. He stops when Tilda stiffens, but she says, "Go on," again, in an odd voice, and so he does, mouthing at it, using his tongue, keeping his fingers firm on the bruise beneath her breast.
"Yes," Tilda says again, in an altogether different tone, her breath coming fast, and Skandar's heart beats faster still; he can feel his pulse quicken, headily. He wants more, wants to give her more.
He straightens up, and says, all in a rush, "Can I go down on you?"
He blushes again, like he expected, when she raises an eyebrow at him. There it is again, one of her unique Tilda expressions, the curious mix of amusement, query and detachment. It used to make Skandar horrifically uncomfortable, when he was younger: it still does, to an extent, but now it also makes him hot.
"You want to go down on me?" she asks, and it sound so ridiculous in the arch, throwaway lilt of her voice, but Skandar doesn't shy away.
"Yes," he says, quickly so his nerves don't show through.
Tilda's eyebrow rises higher. "Oh," she says, contemplative. "Well then."
"'Go on'?'" Skandar guesses.
"Quick learner, little man," says Tilda. She holds his gaze quite steadily; obediently, he waits for it. Finally, she says it. "Go on."
He shifts down between her spread legs, stroking a hand down to her bound ankles. He takes a breath almost to steel himself, and then puts his mouth over the crotch of her white underwear. She's wet enough that it's soaked through the fabric; Skandar tastes the wet spot under his mouth, tastes her when he flicks out his tongue, and it's that that gets him hard again. He groans with it, against her, and she rolls her hips up, urging him on.
Skandar can take a hint.
He hooks his fingers into the top of her underwear, feels her hot skin hotter where the lash of the whip has caught it, before he realises that her legs are spread too far apart for him to take her briefs off without untying one of her ankle restraints. Bent double over his knees in a crouch, mouth still open against her, he glances up, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be. She looks down the length of her body at him: a challenge.
Skandar ducks his head again and pulls the crotch of her underwear to one side. It goes easily. Another advantage this style of underwear has over tighter, smaller, sexier styles: its ability to move easily when required, permitting something between on or off. It gives Skandar room to work with.
Skandar pushes up a tuft of hair - as red down here as the hair sticking sweatily to Tilda's face - and darts out his tongue, tentative to start with, tasting, testing, rather than seeking anything else. His ex-girlfriends, the couple there have been, have been appreciative of his efforts in this area, but he can't help thinking of the difference in experience between girls his own age and Tilda fucking Swinton - not that he's calling her a slut, he thinks, hastily, but it's not like there isn't any pressure on him.
He does it again, flicks out his tongue to lick a long stripe up to the coarse hair between her legs, and he's about to do it again when she shifts her hips, bending her knees, impatient. At least that's one advantage Skandar has here: despite having 'girls' disease' for a debilitatingly large portion of his adolescence, he spent an equally large amount of that time with Tilda, and even though he'll never understand, never have the upper hand, he's always known how to pick up on whatever she wants him to do. It might be an approval thing, he thinks, that he wants it and she can give it, or possibly a more specific Tilda thing. If he were a betting man, Skandar would say the latter: the latter, he knows, is true.
He puts one palm out flat over one of her skinny hips, feeling her stretchmarks smooth under his fingers, and she hisses loudly when his fingers dig in accidently. He looks up at his hand, mildly surprised, to see that he's forgotten the lash mark there, directly under his touch. He presses against it again, experimentally, and she hisses again, more controlled this time, like it's a reward. Skandar readjusts, dragging her underwear further to the side so he can hook his thumb through a leg hole and tug the crotch of it out of his way; he keeps his palm where it is pressed tight over the jut of her hip, his fingers directly over the blossoming welt.
He brings two fingers of his other hand up to his mouth and sucks at them, tasting his own sweat and, more stale, the leather of the whip. He brings them down between Tilda's legs and pauses, waiting for her, a silent question. She cants her hips down in response, thigh muscles flexing as she pushes herself against his hand. He slides one finger inside her as gently as he can, adding the other when she shifts, impatient again, and another when she does it a third time, and when he is knuckle-deep inside her, she sighs out a long, slow breath.
He glances up at her again, wanting to see Tilda's face. It's difficult at this angle but he can see the curve of her smile, the flash of her dark, dark eyes as she watches him. As she watches him go down on her, Skandar realises, and his cock throbs with it, pressing against his bare chest as he folds back over.
He slides his fingers almost all the way out of her and finds her clit with his tongue as he slides them back in, and she sighs again, louder. She's not as tight as Skandar remembers an ex-girlfriend being around his fingers, but then she is older, and she has had two children - and Skandar has to stop himself thinking about that too.
He finds an easy, quick rhythm - easy only if he concentrates, and he does, because he wants this to be good for her, wants just to be good for her - and goes at it with vigour, ignoring his own pulse of arousal as much as he can with his erection leaving a wet streak across his chest every time he moves his head back and forth. He thinks about slowing down, about teasing her, about the gut-tightening prospect of making her beg him for it - but he doesn't, can't, because this is and always has been about Tilda. Even on her back, bound to the bed, she's still the one in control. So, he goes as fast as he can stand, fingers and tongue and the hint of teeth, occasionally, barely grazing wet, swollen flesh and every time she cries out, and he feels it in his blood.
Thinking about it beforehand, he might have expected her to sound low with arousal, voice gruff and catching, but her voice breaks high, as lyrical as her everyday speech but breathier, needier. It's an unbelievable turn on, but then, Tilda is a turn on even without trying.
Skandar worries that he won't be able to tell when she's getting close, but she starts to bend and straighten one leg, rolling her hips less rhythmically, and he decides to go for broke. He digs his fingers into the welt on her hip, getting his short nails into the tender skin, and does it again, jerkily at first but then, gradually, in sync with his fingers working inside her. He crooks his fingers up like his friends had told him about, telling dirty stories over cheap booze one New Year's, and he feels the rougher skin beneath the pads of his fingertips, feels her hips jerk and stutter, her breath catching on an "oh" of surprise.
He tongues at her harder, his jaw aching, his tongue cramping, working his hands as fast as he can stay in rhythm. Tilda starts to shake under him, her knee staying awkwardly bent, and then her breath catches again and she is silent, hips arching up, up against Skandar's mouth as she comes. He feels hotly proud, and works her through it, slowing everything down but leaving his fingers clamped down tight on her sore hip. She bucks a little - Tilda Swinton bucking against his mouth - and sighs out again, relaxing into the bed.
When she's still, Skandar pulls away to the side of the bed, fumbling for his cock. With no finesse, no real technique, he gives himself hasty, sloppy strokes, biting at his lip.
"Go on," he hears Tilda say, lazy and wrung out, and he looks up to find her watching his hand move, her eyes testing, so dark. He spills over his hands with a shout, graceless, doubling forward again, and when he can catch his breath he straightens up to see the splashes across Tilda's stomach, standing out pale against the red, red lash marks.
"Um," he says, suddenly awkward. "Sorry?"
She laughs, at him, he knows, but it is never unkind.
"You did very well," she tells him, and though he blushes at her praise, it makes him feel warm. Special.
He gets up and wipes himself down with a tissue from the pocket of his discarded jeans, conscious of Tilda's eyes on his back. He finds his boxers and makes a face at the wet patch on the front, pulls on just his jeans instead. He turns back to Tilda, shuffling his feet, feeling every one of his eighteen years and no more. He looks at her properly again, without the haze of need and desperation. She is stretched out across the bed, whip marks striped clear across her chest and stomach, a bruise starting to shine out over the hip he had held. He's left nail marks, he realises, white crescents beginning to fill out pink beneath the slowly purpling bruise. Her face and chest are still flushed, her hair a sweaty, rumpled mess. Her underwear is still dishevelled, not quite back in place. Her wrists are starting to bruise too, where she's pulled and strained against the handcuffs, but the scarves binding her ankles are thick enough that Skandar can't see if they've left their own marks.
"Um," he says again. "Er, are you all right?"
"Yes, Skandar," she says, in a level, patient tone, like she might use with a skittish horse. "Are you?"
"Yes," he says, slowly, but it sounds unsure even to his own ears. He's still staring at her.
"Shall we undo these?" Tilda says, shaking her wrists, making the handcuffs clatter against the iron headboard bars.
"Yes," Skandar stumbles, fumbling the key off the bedside table. He bends over her to reach the handcuffs, and pauses. He thinks about the way she included herself in an action entirely of his doing. Shall we undo these? Whether he undoes the handcuffs is entirely in his control, but Tilda said we and Skandar didn't blink. Distantly, he thinks that he could leave her like this, look at her like this for as long as he liked. It scares him a little to think of having this modicum of control, power, almost, but at the same time it makes something thrill in him, his cheeks heating up. He looks down at her again, at her dark eyes, and she smirks like she knows exactly what he's thinking and is finding it diverting, but not serious.
He's used to that smirk.
"Go on," Tilda challenges, and he thinks, but can't be certain, that she's calling his bluff. Leave me like this. I dare you.
Out of nowhere, Skandar thinks of the White Witch, holding out a hand to Edmund. I can make you a man. The key shakes in his hand.
"Go on," Tilda tells him softly, and Skandar's heart pounds and pounds.
She throws him off balance, always has, always will. And -
- and he likes it.
Skandar unlocks the handcuffs and Tilda sits up with a sigh, rolling out her shoulders and flexing out her wrists. She seems not the slightest bit perturbed that Skandar could have chosen otherwise, or even that she noticed him considering it.
The room is quiet and Skandar feels like he's surfacing, not dissimilar to coming out from the cinema after a film, coming up with an oxymoronically slow jolt from one world and emerging, blinking and disorientated, into the light of another. He rolls the key to the handcuffs over his fingers, over and back, over and back.
Tilda swings her legs over the side of the bed, smoothing back her hair with her long, pale fingers. Skandar looks at her, and loves her.
"Hey, little man," she says, quietly, like she's feeling it too, and Skandar passes her the key.
///
Er, Happy New Year?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:07 pm (UTC)I could also easily hear their voices in my head for all of the dialogue, which doesn't always happen for me with fic, and I wasn't sure it would with this because of the SITUATION, so. Well done. God, Tilda repeatedly telling him to hit her and do it, and then when Skandar tells her to do something and she's just winding him up for the hell of it by ignoring him.
Ugh it's so hard to put into words what I love about this. The whole 'domming from a sub position' is really difficult to pull off, and I was worried I'd be weirded out about her seeming in any way submissive to Skandar, like even sucking him off, but IT JUST WORKED SO PERFECTLY, there was no point at all where it felt like she might not have the upper hand. Despite being tied down and basically completely at his mercy. And that is just...awesome.
God, what else did I love. EVERYTHING? I love that you used 'little man', and that she wanted him to put his hand on her throat, and how young he kept feeling, and that whole thing about how hot she is to him and how he feels she shouldn't be (the underwear thing! All the teenage boy THINGS like comparisons to ex-girlfriends and movies and stuff), and THE EYEBROW THING. And how he's so embarrassed to ask if he can go down on her (also: asking, hnng) and she REPEATS IT and there's no need to, but it doesn't make her feel at all uncomfortable so it's like she's just enjoying seeing him squirm. YES.
All of the bit from despite having 'girls' disease'... to the latter, he knows, is true SORT OF KILLED ME and I don't know why. I just. THEIR WEIRD RELATIONSHIP. An approval thing. God. Also: description of the noises she makes = hnnnnng A+. TELLING HIM HE DID WELL. The way she's just totally at ease still all tied up and covered in marks while he's like OH GOD WHAT DID I JUST DO. Oh man – that bit where he realises he actually could have the upper hand if he wanted to, could just leave her tied up, and the way she seems to know what he's thinking BUT KNOWS HE WOULDN'T, but she taunts him about it just for the fun of it, oh god oh god. I LOVE THAT BIT THE MOST I THINK.
Oh man, and the mentions of the White Witch, and THE TITLE (!!), and the way he can't stop just staring at her at the beginning, and god I can't get over how easily she can rile him up and I know that's how I wrote them in my fic but IT'S BETTER WHEN I DIDN'T WRITE IT MYSELF. I love how angry he gets about her not obeying him, and like, how he's mostly just angry at HIMSELF for thinking that she would. And guh this line: he glances up, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be. And how she's trying to get him to do things without asking but he JUST ASKS ANYWAY. OH and stealing the scarves from Will, and Will not mentioning it, ahaha yessss.
♥ GOD I KEEP RE-READING BITS. I love this. Soooo much. It's so perfect. I knew you would pull it off, but you seriously pulled it off SO WELL that I am really impressed.
I think I have to go watch I Am Love now.
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:46 pm (UTC)I am so relieved it worked for you, because of your long-standing a+ness in the field of Narnia RPF fics and the fact that your writing is SO GOOD, and because we've both gone so Tilda-mental, so the fact that you liked it means A LARGE AMOUNT. <333
a) I am super, super glad allllll the porn worked for you. It's not only the first porn I've written in absolutely ages, it's also the longest porn thing I've written and also I think the porniest? LOTS OF PORN, is what I am saying. So. THANK YOU FOR THINKING IT WAS HOT.
b) THANK YOU FOR THINKING TILDA WAS WRITTEN OKAY, oh my godddd, whyyy is she so difficult to write? why why why. Every time I got to a bit where I had to be like "....and then PORN WITH TILDA", which is, you know, approx. 98% of the fic, I had a little panic and then was just like "just write it, just write it" and I was particularly worried about the dialogue, but then you LIKED THE DIALOGUE, homg. I have the exact same problem as you in that the dialogue in fics in certain situations sometimes doesn't work for me but you LIKED IT.. *draws tiny hearts around you*
Their whole dynamic, aside from being super stressful, was really fun to write (AS I AM SURE YOU KNOW), mostly because Skandar is just so in awe of her/slightly resents being so in awe of her and that is just a++ to write, idek, okay, I just enjoyed that. AND I had the same worry about Tilda seeming submissive at any point, because she just isn't at all, so, again, glad that worked for you.
c) Skandar asking if he could go down on her! I was so sure that he would, just because, um, Tilda. I'd sort of want to ask to check if I could walk within a fifty mile radius of her. akjsdghgsjdf
YES that bit where he realises he could just leave her tied up: that happened sort of without me meaning to write it but I am glad I did. I think it is my favourite part too, if I'm allowed to say that, so THANK YOU for liking it as well.
AND THE CREDIT FOR THE TITLE SHOULD BE YOURS: I had so much trouble giving this thing a title, and it was going to be something from a Florence and the Machine song, because I listened to Lungs while I was writing this, but nothing seemed to fit properly, so I went back to your Edmund/Jadis fanmix post to look for parallels and then not only did I find one but TILDA WAS THE ONE SAYING IT, homg homg.
It's always better when you don't have to write something yourself, I agree (but this one was actually really nice to write? despite the stress etc, I did enjoy it!)
YES WATCH I AM LOVE AND TEXT ME ALL YOUR THOUGHTS
WHEN YOU GET TO THE SCENE IN THE FIELD ESPECIALLY
WE ARE GOING TO HAVE TO DISCUSS THAT FILM AT LENGTH.
ps: THANK YOU FOR THIS COMMENT BB. <3333 I may have mentioned this before, but SO PLEASED it worked for you.
pps: I love your icon: she looks so unflinching.
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:22 pm (UTC)Oh good job Moog, very good job. I do love the way you write.
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:33 pm (UTC)And thank you for your nice words about my writing: I wrote this with a background noise of first The Vicar of Dibley and then Miss Marple, so I did worry slightly that I would just start coming out with, idek, "I say, Skandar, wouldn't it be jolly if you handcuffed me to the bed? What japes!" etc, but I seem to have avoided that.
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Date: 2011-01-22 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-03 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-22 08:34 pm (UTC)Oh my ACTUAL god.
I do not have words for how hot that was.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-03 05:50 pm (UTC)The porn is excellent. I like knowing how they were moving, what was going on body language wise, but it can be hard to pull off without sounding mechanical... regardless, you totally managed it. Loved the mind games at the end with the handcuffs - I really appreciate BDSM-type fic that isn't afraid to play with the power, because that's to my personal taste.
Off now to see what else you've written!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-22 08:02 pm (UTC)i LOVE LOVE LOVE skandar/tilda and i even wrote it once but THIS. this is so.. i don't even know what WORDS to use. they both feel so real here and it never made me feel awkward or want to back button.
SO GOOD.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-25 08:40 pm (UTC)skdhjdfgg YOU WROTE SKANDAR/TILDA? WHERE WHERE WHERE?
and thank you so much, the fact that it never made you feel awkward is such a compliment. I am essentially too tired to be allowed on the internet at the moment, but ♥ thank youuu, ilu.