Narnia ficbit: Peter/Edmund, adult
Sep. 28th, 2008 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardI was going to post a bunch of stuff all at once in a bundle, but apparently y'all would like it separately, so. (Also, today I wrote crack, so.)
Because Susan is on the edge of panic ("Where is he?" she demands of Edmund at breakfast. "He's not answering his door, he's not eating, no one's seen him --"), Edmund forces himself to go to Peter's room, hesitating before the door until he finally brings himself to knock. When there's no answer, only the memory of the terror on Susan's face keeps him from leaving then and there. Instead, he picks the lock and pushes open the door, calling his brother's name.
"Here," Peter says eventually, and his brother's voice sounds rough and disused, strange and high-pitched.
It's coming from the closed door of Peter's personal study, and Edmund crosses the sitting room quickly, glancing around and taking in the mess. The room is a disaster area, books and papers strewn around, a set of china smashed against one wall. "I'm coming in," he warns, and bites down on his panic before he opens the door.
The first time Edmund sees his brother in a week, it's to the realization that Peter looks like hell. He's gaunt, his hair is mussed, there's three days worth of beard on his face, and his pupils are blown wide.
"Aslan's mane," Edmund breathes, grabbing at him, and Peter goes limp in his arms.
Peter outweighs him by two stone, so Edmund goes down with him, sitting awkwardly on the floor with Peter sprawled against him. There's a sharp stab of desire that Edmund bites down on, because he knows the feel of Peter from sparring, from growing up together, from bloody wounds and desperate victories. From last week, Peter cradled between his thighs, his mouth on Edmund's neck, the two of them moving together as fire burned around them and Narnia guided Edmund's hands and body, proclaiming her love and her promises to Peter like it really had been a wedding ceremony.
"Peter," he says desperately, hearing the terror in his voice, because if they lose Peter -- for whatever reason --
Peter's hands come up to cup his face, and Edmund finds himself staring into his brother's mad eyes. "God, Ed," he says, and he sounds mad, like any trace of his sanity has left him entirely. He's shaking when he adds, "I can't -- I can't get her out of my head, Ed, I don't know how to --"
He stops abruptly, and before Edmund can say anything Peter's mouth is on his, graceless and desperate. He's opening his mouth to speak when Peter kisses him, though it's less a kiss than a smothering, and he kisses Peter back automatically, even though he's already trying to push Peter away. But Peter is Peter, even mad and possessed, and Peter keeps his grip on Edmund and somehow gets them sprawled over the floor, Edmund suddenly bracing himself on his knees and elbows between Peter's spread thighs.
He freezes, and Peter says, "Ed, please, I don't fucking remember who I am." And he sounds flatly terrified, and Edmund's still frozen, because they'd sworn never to talk about this again.
But they aren't talking at all, and Edmund shifts his balance and presses the palm of his hand to the center of Peter's chest as he leans down to kiss him. Peter arches up to meet him, his stubble an unfamiliar burn against Edmund's clean-shaven cheeks, and all he can taste is fear and the promise of madness.
He pins Peter to the floor, fingers making quick work of laces as he strips Peter out of his clothes, and scrapes his teeth down his brother's throat. He stops abruptly when he finds the bruises on Peter's torso.
"In the name of Aslan, Peter," he says, horrified. "How -- who --"
"I don't know," Peter says desperately.
Edmund drags his hand lightly down Peter's chest. They're fingerprint bruises, but the size doesn't match Peter's hands, or Edmund's, or anyone Edmund knows. They're too small, a woman's hands and not a man's, but Edmund can't think of a single woman who's been near Peter in the past week, and certainly not close enough or strong enough to do this.
"Ed," Peter whispers when he hesitates. "Ed, please, I can't -- I don't --"
Edmund kisses him again, Peter's teeth knocking against his desperately, like he's trying to draw blood, drowning and trying to grab a thrown rope. Despite his better instincts, the desire comes back, because this is Peter, and he knows his brother's body like he knows his own, knows the weight of Peter on top of him and the way he looks when he comes.
Peter's big hands splay across his back, calloused in all the familiar places, and Edmund's not sure when he's lost his shirt. Or the rest of his clothes. He tries to be gentle, but that's not what Peter wants, and he leaves thumbprint bruises next to the handprints that aren't his, mouthing at Peter's collarbone, catching his brother's wrists above his head with one hand and cupping his cock with the other, the weight of it heavy in his palm. Peter arches up at his touch, eyes snapping open, and Edmund kisses him again before he can speak.
"Ed," Peter says against his mouth, the single syllable a muttered prayer, and then hooks a leg around Edmund's waist to press their cocks together. Edmund hisses a curse at the feel of it, unexpectedly shaken and abruptly reminded of the fact that Peter has a lot more experience with this sort of thing than he does. Osumare Seaworth. Aliecer Greyjoy. Eskil Sigurdsson. Darbhi Jahangir. Raedwulf of Northhope.
Why hadn't Peter gone to one of them?
Sigurdsson is at sea. Jahangir is on Terebinthia. But Raedwulf, Greyjoy, and Seaworth are all at Cair Paravel. Why had Peter gone to Edmund and not one of them? Raedwulf and Greyjoy are unknown quantities, too much so for Edmund's taste, but Seaworth is Peter's oldest lover, a trusted confidante. Why?
"Don't trust them," Peter mumbles. "Not the way I trust --"
Edmund turns his head to kiss him again; he doesn't want to hear Peter's admission. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, and there are things he doesn't want to know.
"-- you," Peter finishes, and Edmund realizes that Peter hasn't spoken at all.
What the fuck did you do to me? he wants to scream, and then he tastes Peter's fear in the back of his mouth, sharp and desperate, and the echo of his own hands stroking against his brother's body as he draws a gasp from Peter. Left to his own devices, he'd pull away, curl up in a corner with his hands over his head, but Peter's pleasure is his too, now, and he doesn't want to stop.
He feels his brother come, the realization of it a sharp -- almost pain, Aslan in the east, pain and pleasure together just behind his eyes, the same white-hot shock that comes every time he's hit over the head with a shield or sword-blade. It's enough of a shock to bring on his own orgasm, gasping against Peter's cheek, his fingers closing around Peter's wrists like a vice.
Later, quiet against Peter's side, the stone floor hard beneath them, Edmund moves. Pushes himself up on his elbow, frowning at his brother. Peter's out like a light, and Edmund knows him well enough to understand that if he's not waking at Edmund's movement, he's not going to wake up for anything short of a siege. Usually he's the lightest sleeper in Narnia.
He looks like he's been attacked, bruises dark across his body. Some of them Edmund left behind, and he clenches his fists in anger about that. He shouldn't have done -- he shouldn't have. Most of them aren't, though, and he takes advantage of Peter's current comatose state to measure one of the handprints against his own hand. Not his; not Susan's or Lucy's, either, and Peter hasn't had a female lover in two years. Except for --
She can't touch him.
Edmund massages his forehead. There's no one in his head but him now, but he remembers what it felt like, the faint echo of Peter there. Not her, and not to the extent he remembers (that he'll never fucking forget, being a passenger in his own skin, a stranger, an outsider, in his own body, and Aslan's mane, if he'd known --), but an echo nonetheless. Not her. Peter.
"What did you do to us, you bitch?" he whispers, and Narnia doesn't answer. She's not here.
Because Susan is on the edge of panic ("Where is he?" she demands of Edmund at breakfast. "He's not answering his door, he's not eating, no one's seen him --"), Edmund forces himself to go to Peter's room, hesitating before the door until he finally brings himself to knock. When there's no answer, only the memory of the terror on Susan's face keeps him from leaving then and there. Instead, he picks the lock and pushes open the door, calling his brother's name.
"Here," Peter says eventually, and his brother's voice sounds rough and disused, strange and high-pitched.
It's coming from the closed door of Peter's personal study, and Edmund crosses the sitting room quickly, glancing around and taking in the mess. The room is a disaster area, books and papers strewn around, a set of china smashed against one wall. "I'm coming in," he warns, and bites down on his panic before he opens the door.
The first time Edmund sees his brother in a week, it's to the realization that Peter looks like hell. He's gaunt, his hair is mussed, there's three days worth of beard on his face, and his pupils are blown wide.
"Aslan's mane," Edmund breathes, grabbing at him, and Peter goes limp in his arms.
Peter outweighs him by two stone, so Edmund goes down with him, sitting awkwardly on the floor with Peter sprawled against him. There's a sharp stab of desire that Edmund bites down on, because he knows the feel of Peter from sparring, from growing up together, from bloody wounds and desperate victories. From last week, Peter cradled between his thighs, his mouth on Edmund's neck, the two of them moving together as fire burned around them and Narnia guided Edmund's hands and body, proclaiming her love and her promises to Peter like it really had been a wedding ceremony.
"Peter," he says desperately, hearing the terror in his voice, because if they lose Peter -- for whatever reason --
Peter's hands come up to cup his face, and Edmund finds himself staring into his brother's mad eyes. "God, Ed," he says, and he sounds mad, like any trace of his sanity has left him entirely. He's shaking when he adds, "I can't -- I can't get her out of my head, Ed, I don't know how to --"
He stops abruptly, and before Edmund can say anything Peter's mouth is on his, graceless and desperate. He's opening his mouth to speak when Peter kisses him, though it's less a kiss than a smothering, and he kisses Peter back automatically, even though he's already trying to push Peter away. But Peter is Peter, even mad and possessed, and Peter keeps his grip on Edmund and somehow gets them sprawled over the floor, Edmund suddenly bracing himself on his knees and elbows between Peter's spread thighs.
He freezes, and Peter says, "Ed, please, I don't fucking remember who I am." And he sounds flatly terrified, and Edmund's still frozen, because they'd sworn never to talk about this again.
But they aren't talking at all, and Edmund shifts his balance and presses the palm of his hand to the center of Peter's chest as he leans down to kiss him. Peter arches up to meet him, his stubble an unfamiliar burn against Edmund's clean-shaven cheeks, and all he can taste is fear and the promise of madness.
He pins Peter to the floor, fingers making quick work of laces as he strips Peter out of his clothes, and scrapes his teeth down his brother's throat. He stops abruptly when he finds the bruises on Peter's torso.
"In the name of Aslan, Peter," he says, horrified. "How -- who --"
"I don't know," Peter says desperately.
Edmund drags his hand lightly down Peter's chest. They're fingerprint bruises, but the size doesn't match Peter's hands, or Edmund's, or anyone Edmund knows. They're too small, a woman's hands and not a man's, but Edmund can't think of a single woman who's been near Peter in the past week, and certainly not close enough or strong enough to do this.
"Ed," Peter whispers when he hesitates. "Ed, please, I can't -- I don't --"
Edmund kisses him again, Peter's teeth knocking against his desperately, like he's trying to draw blood, drowning and trying to grab a thrown rope. Despite his better instincts, the desire comes back, because this is Peter, and he knows his brother's body like he knows his own, knows the weight of Peter on top of him and the way he looks when he comes.
Peter's big hands splay across his back, calloused in all the familiar places, and Edmund's not sure when he's lost his shirt. Or the rest of his clothes. He tries to be gentle, but that's not what Peter wants, and he leaves thumbprint bruises next to the handprints that aren't his, mouthing at Peter's collarbone, catching his brother's wrists above his head with one hand and cupping his cock with the other, the weight of it heavy in his palm. Peter arches up at his touch, eyes snapping open, and Edmund kisses him again before he can speak.
"Ed," Peter says against his mouth, the single syllable a muttered prayer, and then hooks a leg around Edmund's waist to press their cocks together. Edmund hisses a curse at the feel of it, unexpectedly shaken and abruptly reminded of the fact that Peter has a lot more experience with this sort of thing than he does. Osumare Seaworth. Aliecer Greyjoy. Eskil Sigurdsson. Darbhi Jahangir. Raedwulf of Northhope.
Why hadn't Peter gone to one of them?
Sigurdsson is at sea. Jahangir is on Terebinthia. But Raedwulf, Greyjoy, and Seaworth are all at Cair Paravel. Why had Peter gone to Edmund and not one of them? Raedwulf and Greyjoy are unknown quantities, too much so for Edmund's taste, but Seaworth is Peter's oldest lover, a trusted confidante. Why?
"Don't trust them," Peter mumbles. "Not the way I trust --"
Edmund turns his head to kiss him again; he doesn't want to hear Peter's admission. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, and there are things he doesn't want to know.
"-- you," Peter finishes, and Edmund realizes that Peter hasn't spoken at all.
What the fuck did you do to me? he wants to scream, and then he tastes Peter's fear in the back of his mouth, sharp and desperate, and the echo of his own hands stroking against his brother's body as he draws a gasp from Peter. Left to his own devices, he'd pull away, curl up in a corner with his hands over his head, but Peter's pleasure is his too, now, and he doesn't want to stop.
He feels his brother come, the realization of it a sharp -- almost pain, Aslan in the east, pain and pleasure together just behind his eyes, the same white-hot shock that comes every time he's hit over the head with a shield or sword-blade. It's enough of a shock to bring on his own orgasm, gasping against Peter's cheek, his fingers closing around Peter's wrists like a vice.
Later, quiet against Peter's side, the stone floor hard beneath them, Edmund moves. Pushes himself up on his elbow, frowning at his brother. Peter's out like a light, and Edmund knows him well enough to understand that if he's not waking at Edmund's movement, he's not going to wake up for anything short of a siege. Usually he's the lightest sleeper in Narnia.
He looks like he's been attacked, bruises dark across his body. Some of them Edmund left behind, and he clenches his fists in anger about that. He shouldn't have done -- he shouldn't have. Most of them aren't, though, and he takes advantage of Peter's current comatose state to measure one of the handprints against his own hand. Not his; not Susan's or Lucy's, either, and Peter hasn't had a female lover in two years. Except for --
She can't touch him.
Edmund massages his forehead. There's no one in his head but him now, but he remembers what it felt like, the faint echo of Peter there. Not her, and not to the extent he remembers (that he'll never fucking forget, being a passenger in his own skin, a stranger, an outsider, in his own body, and Aslan's mane, if he'd known --), but an echo nonetheless. Not her. Peter.
"What did you do to us, you bitch?" he whispers, and Narnia doesn't answer. She's not here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 04:45 am (UTC)I love the mysterious woman's handprints on Peter! The reverberating pain-fear-pleasure, and then the subsequent ANGER and realization that they are seriously fucked up now...oh, yes.
CANON.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 04:58 am (UTC)Peter's terrified. Now Edmund's terrified too, and pissed. THIS WAS NOT IN THE MANUAL.
*hums*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 08:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 12:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 06:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 07:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 07:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 07:24 pm (UTC)Well. The homework I have to do. SILLY COLLEGE.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 07:29 pm (UTC)you know what's fun, is applying some theory or other from your homework to a fic. like how my susan/tom riddle was pretty much emancipation theory in disguise. and i have been toying for a while now with the idea of writing karl marx/friedrich engels. theirloveissorevolutionary!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-29 07:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-30 01:02 am (UTC)The manual can always be re-written. *pets*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-30 01:20 am (UTC)The poor darlings are so screwed. If only they knew that it only goes downhill from here! In ten years, Edmund may be looking back at this as a high point!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-13 05:49 am (UTC)