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It had been a particularly gruesome battle. Peter surveyed the battlefield one last time, taking in the sight of the once verdant grass, now stained red with the blood of Narnians and Calormenes alike. Well, not exactly alike; it seemed that for every fallen Narnian, five of the enemy had been felled. “Such a wanton waste of life,” he murmured, and gave the order to return to camp.
General Oreius fell in beside him while he rode past the corpses of friends and foes, sending the gathering crows flying off.
“My King, we’ve taken the wounded to the sick bay; there are quite a few, but the healers say they should all make it."
“Good, there’s been enough death as it is. What about the captives?”
“Under guard. Leaders and soldiers kept separately, as you instructed, my liege. They await your judgement.”
“Well done, Oreius. Send a raven to Queen Susan, let her know victory is ours.”
They slowed down as they entered the fortified camp; a hundred red and yellow tents sprawled through the rolling hills of the South-East, where the Calormenes had tested their defenses. The soldiers hailed him as he rode by and Peter nodded in recognition, but his heart was not in it. As they passed the armoury, he finally gathered enough courage to ask after his brother.
“King Edmund is in his pavilion, sire. Doctor Quagrim is attending to him.”
Peter studied the general’s face. If Edmund’s life had been in danger, he believed the general would have told him so at once, but his impassive countenance suggested that he was holding something back. Without waiting for Oreius to elaborate, Peter kicked his heels and sent his horse darting as fast as he dared between the tents and up the slight incline where Edmund’s pavilion had been erected. He dismounted hastily, handed the reins to the nearest guard, and entered the darkened tent.
His brother lay on the bed, breathing heavily. Three large strides and Peter was on his knees by the bedside, clutching his hand. “Ed! Are you alright?”
“Pete,” Edmund groaned weakly. His gaze was unfocused and he looked awfully pale. Cold sweat beaded his brow. He didn’t seem able to say anything else, so Peter turned to the doctor beside him, “Please tell me he’s going to be alright.”
Doctor Quagrim was a red-bearded dwarf from the South, very different folk from the black-bearded dwarves from the North who fought for Jadis almost a decade ago. He’d been accompanying the Kings and Queens into battle for years, and had healed them countless times. Peter had never seen him looking quite so worried before.
“My liege, King Edmund took a nasty cut to the thigh, very nasty indeed. If the blade had penetrated any deeper, I may well not have been able to save his leg.”
The room spun and Peter felt a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; he had to reach for the bedside table to keep from falling.
“But thank the Lion, the situation is not so dire as that. I’ve cleaned the wound with boiling wine, but now I must finish sewing it up. If your Majesty wishes, I shall send for you once we’re finished.”
“I’m not leaving him, Doctor.”
“If I may be so bold, sire, you’ve just come from battle yourself and are surely weary. You must rest,” the dwarf insisted. “Besides, there is not much your Majesty can do here. This type of work is best left to the professiona–"
“I am not leaving my brother, Doctor Quagrim,” Peter told him in a tone that brooked no argument. The dwarf could be stubborn, but so could he. “I won't get in your way, so please proceed.”
“Well, if your Grace insists…I suppose King Edmund would be glad of the company.” He took up the needle and continued stitching his brother’s thigh, while his assistant pushed the wound close.
Edmund grunted in pain and squeezed Peter’s hand, doing his best not to shout. “It’s alright, Ed. You’re going to be fine. It’s almost over,” Peter murmured over and over again, trying to soothe himself as much as his brother.
Peter couldn’t tell how long the whole procedure lasted, but by the time the doctor applied a healing salve and wrapped Edmund’s thigh in snow-white linen, Peter’s knees were stiff from kneeling on the cold, hard ground and his back was in agony from his awkward leaning over the bed and the weight of the chain mail. But his heart, at least, felt more at ease, knowing the worst was over and done with.
“Now for the sleeping draught,” said the dwarf, as he accepted the vial from his assistant’s hands and brought it to Edmund’s lips. “Sleep is the great healer, your Grace. That's right, now lie back and let it do its job.”
“Thank you, Doctor Quagrim,” his brother rasped while Peter adjusted his pillows.
“Please, your Majesty, the honour was all mine,” Quagrim bowed.
While the doctor and his assistant tidied their instruments and gathered the blood-stained sheets, Peter smiled down at his brother.
“You gave me quite the fright,” he said as he brushed back the black locks clinging to Edmund's sweat-beaded brow.
“Thought it was high time I had…a badass…scar,” Edmund said, and slipped into a deep slumber. Peter tucked him in with clean, warm blankets.
When he finally straightened up, every joint in his body screamed in protest, and as he turned he almost stumbled over Doctor Quagrim, who was standing right behind him.
“Now, I trust your Grace will let me have a look at that gash on your head.” It was the dwarf's turn to be stern, and Peter submitted to his care.
The gash turned out to be only a superficial cut, but head wounds are wont to bleed profusely, so the good dwarf cleaned it and bandaged his forehead tightly. After much fussing over bruises and a dislocated finger, the doctor and his assistant left for the night, promising to be back to check on King Edmund first thing in the morning.
Peter summoned Julien, his squire, and asked for hot water for a bath, a clean change of clothes and for a cot to be brought to King Edmund’s tent, where he planned to spend the night. In the meantime, he sat down at his brother's writing desk and penned a letter explaining the situation to Lucy, bidding her to come with all haste and to bring her healing cordial.
It must have been past midnight when an exhausted King Peter finally climbed under the blankets. His body was tender and bruised and his head was swimming from exhaustion. He sighed and shuffled closer to Edmund, the cot he'd had brought in for appearance's sake standing forlorn to the side.
He’d almost lost his brother today.
The thought tied his stomach in knots. Peter had almost forgotten what that felt like. Not since the Battle of Beruna had the Pevensies come this close to losing one of their own. They had all seen their fair share of battles since then, and had the scars to prove it. Even Susan, who seldom joined them in the field, had a star-shaped mark on her left shoulder where an arrow once pierced her. But what happened today was different. It made him afraid in a way he hadn't been for many, many years.
He needed to get some rest, tomorrow would be a busy day, more so with Edmund out of commission. But as soon as Peter closed his eyes, he saw his brother lying in the grass, blood pooling beneath him. So much blood, spreading, spreading, spreading. No. No matter how bone-tired he was, he’d rather stay awake than to risk seeing that again. He reached for Edmund’s hand, just to be sure he was still there, and tried to plan their next course of action.
Time trickled by slowly, and no matter how much he tried to focus, his thoughts went round and round like a dog chasing his tail. Groaning with frustration, he turned on his side. Edmund was sleeping peacefully beside him, his features that had been twisted in agony mere hours earlier were now calm as still water. Peter propped his head up, and gently traced his brother's nose, his cupid's bow, his perfect, plump, pink lips. Unable to resist, he leaned down to claim them in a kiss. “So soft,” he whispered to the darkness.
Peter slipped a hand under the covers and his brother’s chemise, and let it make its slow, winding way up his unconscious body. Edmund’s skin was warm and silky, with thin white scars scattered here and there. Peter knew them by heart, constellations in the star chart of his brother’s body. He let the tip of his finger run over them, feather-light, and felt goose bumps rising in his wake.
He could feel the muscles underneath, firm but not overly pronounced. His brother was strong, no one could deny it, but his true gift was agility, of brain and body. He had always been the smaller of the two. Peter liked that. Liked that when push came to shove, Edmund would always be overpowered by him. Liked that even though his little brother was all grown up, he could still protect him.
Peter buried his nose in his brother’s neck and inhaled his familiar scent, the scent he had come to love so well, that could both soothe him and inflame him. Earthy and musky and slightly sweet; like cedar, like leather, like cloves, like home. Peter nuzzled him, feeling himself grow hard.
He touched himself beneath the blankets but it was not enough, he needed more. He decided Ed would forgive him, if he ever came to know it. Throwing the covers aside, Peter straddled his brother’s unconscious body, taking care not to touch his wounded leg. He hiked up the chemise that was all Edmund was wearing, and found that he was already stiffening.
“That’s my good boy,” Peter whispered, smiling to himself. “Even unconscious, your body knows me, responds to my touch,” he spit in his hand and stroked his brother’s cock. It didn’t take long for it to become fully erect. “Don’t worry, Ed. I’ll take care of you.”
Soft voices and shuffling feet outside meant the watch was changing, new guards taking their posts outside the King’s tent, just a few feet away from where Peter stood groping his younger brother. The knowledge sent a thrill down his spine. Trying not to make a sound, he united his own throbbing member to his brother’s and stroked them together, head falling back as he revelled in the wrongness and the sweetness of the feeling. Peter wondered what those guards would say if they could see their High King now.
He moved his hips in a steady rhythm, fucking into his hand and rubbing hard against his brother’s cock, their precum making mixing and sticking to Peter’s hand. Edmund frowned and squirmed beneath him. Peter leaned down and licked into his slightly parted mouth, kissing and biting his lips. He hardly dared to breathe and the lack of oxygen was making his head swim, but somehow even that felt so damn good!
Not long after, Edmund moaned low in his throat and split in his brother’s hand, a few strands escaping to land on his bare chest. “Fuck yes, Ed,” Peter panted, more mouthing the words than actually saying them. “You came so much for me. Guess you really needed that, hm? No one knows how to care for you like I do.”
He didn’t slow down in the slightest, however, and soon Edmund grew agitated due to the discomfort of overstimulation. That and the added wetness of his brother’ seed sent Peter over the edge. He bit the area where Edmund’s neck met his shoulder in order to keep silent and came hard, his ears ringing.
He stayed there for a few moments, feeling like his heart was about to climb out of his mouth. When his breathing went back to normal, Peter rose carefully, wet a cloth in the basin standing on the bedside table, and gently cleaned his brother. Still feeling a little dizzy, he picked up the blankets where they’d fallen on the ground, covered Edmund, climbed back in bed beside him, and slipped into a dreamless sleep, a smile on his face.
*******
Edmund dreamt of a summer day long ago.
Lucy was still a baby in their mother’s arms and Edmund was a stumbling toddler, chasing ducks in the park. Susan was a little lady even at five; she sat by mother’s side, throwing bread crumbs to the flocking pigeons. Peter was big enough to go play with his own friends, but today he was running with him.
Suddenly, a duck came towards them quaking furiously and flapping its wings. They must have strayed too close to a brood of ducklings. Edmund gasped and ran away as fast as his little legs could take him, but before he’d got far he fell and skinned his knee.
Peter shooed the bird off, and knelt next to him. “It's alright Ed, the bad ducky is gone,” he reassured him and brushed the dirt off Edmund’s knee. “Come, hop on,” he said, and gave Ed a piggyback ride back to the bench where their mum and sisters awaited.
Without warning, the dream changed.
A thunderstorm raged outside, and Edmund was afraid the house would come crashing down on his head. The wind was howling so fiercely it was rattling the locked windows. Ed was too proud to go hide in their mother’s bed, so he gritted his teeth and cowered under the covers. The thunder made him jump bolt upright, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard a scream and looked around wildly before realising it had come from him.
“Ed?” Peter called from the bed to his right. “Do you want to go to mum's? I'll take you, if you like.”
“N-no. I'm not a little kid any more, Pete,” he would've pouted if he weren't shaking so badly. “Besides, I'm not scared!” The lighting flash illuminated the room just long enough to show the lie plain on Edmund's face, and then the thunder made him whimper, for good measure. Somehow, this was even more embarrassing than that time he'd wet the bed.
“Well, I'm pretty scared,” Peter said.
“R-really?” Edmund had never known Peter to be afraid of anything. Maybe he wasn't such a wimp, after all, if even his big brother was scared.
“Yeah,” he said. “Do you think you could lie down with me for a bit? Just until the storm passes.”
Edmund considered for a second. “Alright. Just until the storm passes,” he slipped out of his bed and Peter held the covers back for him. As soon as he'd climbed onto his brother’s bed, thunder crashed again and Ed found himself hugging Peter, his face buried in his chest. He knew he should pull away, but couldn't bring himself to.
“There's this trick dad taught me,” Peter draped his arm protectively over him. “Every time the thunder crashes, you start counting. That way you can see whether the storm is moving closer or further away. Do you want to try?”
Edmund nodded.
But the dream was gone with the next thunderclap.
This time they were in Peter's chambers in Cair Paravel. They had drunk too much wine in the feast for the Terabinthian ambassador, and had barely made it to Peter's room before they were on each other, their kisses sloppy and with too much teeth. Back then they still blamed their teenage hormones.
Edmund pressed his erection against his brother’s, earning a hiss and a butt squeeze.
“Is that a sword or are you just happy to see me?” He quipped.
“It's a sword in sore need of a scabbard,” Peter picked him up, making Edmund squeal, probably too loudly. “Do you think your arse is up to the task?”
Grinning like an idiot, Edmund wrapped his legs tighter around his brother. “Always.”
The rest was a blur of mouths, hands and moans, skin against sweaty skin, and the fluttering butterflies in his navel that meant sweet release.
When he awoke it was dark, but he could see the blue-ish light of approaching dawn from beneath the tent flaps. There was a dull throb coming from his injured leg, but it didn't matter, Edmund was just grateful he still had a leg.
He turned his head and a smile spread through his face. Peter was sleeping next to him, looking for all the world like a cherub come down from the heavens. Edmund chuckled at the notion, snuggled closer to him and let sleep claim him once more.
*******
“Oh, Ed!” exclaimed Lucy as soon as she entered the pavilion. She rushed to his side and hugged him tight. “Susan and I were worried sick!”
Lucy released him and sat on the bed. “She wanted to come, but someone needed to stay behind in Cair Paravel. She sends her love.”
“It was kind of you to come, Lu, but there was no need for Peter to bother you. I'm quite alright,” he protested weakly.
“Don't be daft, Edmund. From what I heard, it was a close call, too close for comfort!”
“Well, be that as it may, doctor Quagrim fixed me up,” he insisted.
“Really? Let's see you walk across the tent, then,” she challenged, crossing her arms.
When Edmund only grimaced, she sighed and picked up the cordial strapped to her belt. “I thought you would've grown out of your stubbornness by now.”
“I just don't want you to waste it on me. Every drop is precious.”
“You are precious to me. To all of us,” she gently squeezed his hand. “Now, open up!”
It never ceased to amaze Edmund how fast the cordial worked. Within a few seconds, all pain melted away like the morning mist, even the low fever and bed sores that had plagued him for the past couple days vanished without a trace. Ed sat on the edge of the bed, moving his leg back and forth and flexing his muscles while Lucy undid the bandages.
“There,” she said as the last strip of linen fell away. “Good as new!”
“Thank you, Lu,” he gave her a kiss on the cheek, earning a smile. “You're the best.”
After bathing and dressing himself, Edmund met up with Lucy to walk around the camp together. He closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling of the morning sun on his skin and the chilly breeze of early spring after spending almost a week cooped up in his tent. Peter came to visit as often as he could, to consult him on their next course of action as well as to simply chat, but his brother was still commanding a military operation and had duties to attend to, more so with Edmund bedridden.
“So, how did it happen?” Lucy asked once they were done with the small talk.
Edmund took a deep breath, trying to make sense of the chaotic scenes that formed his recollection of the battle.
“It was towards the end, I suppose. We had suffered losses, but the Calormenes were breaking hard all around us. I was on foot by that point, someone had shot my horse from under me,” Edmund grimaced. Even though his horse had been a dumb beast, it hurt to lose him. He thought of Phillip back in the Cair Paravel stables, and was grateful they'd decided long ago that no Talking Horse was to be ridden into battle except in the greatest of needs. Lucy gave him a sympathetic look.
“I remember looking over the battlefield, trying to assess the situation, find a new target, when I saw this burly Calormene warrior making straight for me. Maybe he thought if he cut down a King our army would lose heart and retreat,” he shrugged his shoulders. “That's not a bad strategy. He came up swinging this scary-looking greatsword…”
“Don't the Carlomenes usually fight with spears and scimitars?” Lucy asked, puzzled.
“Usually, yes. I suppose he might have picked up the sword from one of our fallen centaurs, but he seemed way too proficient with it for that to be the case. Anyway, between his arm and the length of the blade, his reach was very long. The best I could do was dance around him, trying to make him grow too tired to lift the damn sword. But I must have been too tired myself,” he felt his face burn with shame. “I stumbled on a fallen soldier, lost my balance, and the sword came swinging down. I don't doubt it would’ve cut me in half if I hadn't spun away, somehow.”
Lucy stopped in her tracks, horrified. “By Aslan, Ed! How did you defeat him?”
“I didn't. I fell down fully expecting the killing blow, but it never came. When I looked up, Peter was between us.” Edmund felt his sister's fingers tighten on his arm. “I never saw him coming, so for a second I thought I was hallucinating, but when I heard the clash of swords I knew it was real. I tried to get up, to fight by Peter's side, but I couldn't. I looked down and saw my leg awash in blood, but it was the most curious thing, I didn't feel any pain, just cold. Cold all over,” Edmund shuddered at the memory.
“Then Peter was shouting for Oreius. I thought they were sure to win now.” Lucy nodded. The centaur was their trainer and highest ranking general, widely regarded as the best swordsman in Narnia.
“But instead of having Oreius join him, Peter told him to take me back to camp, and before I knew we were riding back, leaving Peter with the Calormene warrior. I ordered Oreius to turn back, to help Peter, but he wouldn't listen. That's when I passed out.”
“And the warrior?” Lucy asked, holding her breath.
“Peter told me he yielded. He's in one of the tents, under heavy guard.”
“By the Lion’s Mane, we could've lost you both,” his sister seemed exhausted by Edmund’s retelling. They had left the camp behind them some time ago, and were now on a grassy knoll. She sat down and leaned on a flowering tree, picking up the fallen petals absentmindedly. Edmund sat beside her.
“Not Peter,” Ed said softly. “He must have given the Calormene the battering of a lifetime to get him to yield.” Conflicting feelings swirled in Edmund's chest. Shame for being defeated, fear for his brother's life, and pride for his brother's prowess. He suspected Lucy felt a similar mixture.
They rested under the tree, talking of this and that, until one of the centaurs came to summon them back to camp. “Your Majesties,” he bowed before them. “High King Peter requires your presence.”
*******
Peter had the carpenters raise a wooden platform in the middle of the camp, with an executioner’s block placed in the centre. He stood beside it, his hands resting on the pommel of the heavy, two-handed greatsword.
The High King took a moment to examine the crowd from his vantage point. The Narnian soldiers and Beasts formed a ring around the platform; he could see Edmund and Lucy standing among them, their faces as stern as his own. The few Calormenes who survived the battle were placed in the middle; some stood proud and defiant, some with lowered gazes. All awaited with bated breath to hear the High King’s sentence.
“Those who yielded will be ransomed back to their families once they swear a holy oath never to take up arms against Narnia again. If they dare to rise against us a second time, they won’t be shown the same mercy.” The relief of the prisoners was palpable, even the most defiant among them seemed to breathe a little easier, but Peter was not done yet.
“Bring forth the Tarkaan Artrosh,” he called.
The Tarkaan had been kept separate until the last possible moment, and the crowd of Narnians and Calormenes alike parted as two of their strongest fauns escorted him into the circle and up the wooden steps.
“Artrosh Tarkaan, you have led an armed invasion of Narnia. The Tisroc disavows your actions. As the unauthorized raising of an army and unsanctioned military campaigns are both serious crimes, tantamount to treason, he asks that you be returned to Calormen to be dealt with directly by your own sovereign. You shall be sent back with the other captives.”
The smug half smile on the hateful man’s face was admission enough that all along this had been their plan in case of capture, as Edmund had warned him. Peter remembered the corpses of the fallen Narnians, his brother’s blood on the grass, and rage stirred hot inside him.
“Or at least, your body will be.”
The disbelief on Artrosh’s face was honey-sweet. He struggled to free himself, but the fauns had him well in hand. The crowd erupted in a thousand voices, the Narnians cheered while the bravest of the Calormenes protested loudly.
Peter raised his voice, to ensure all would be able to hear him. “I, Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election and by conquest, High King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel and Emperor of the Lone Islands, do hereby sentence the Tarkaan Artrosh to death! Have you any last words?”
“Only this, lion cub: we are coming for you!” Artrosh growled. “We will find our way in and Narnia will be ours!” When he spat on the platform by Peter’s feet, the fauns forced him down on his knees.
The sword descended in a silvery arc, taking Artrosh's head off with a single stroke. The ruby-red blood splattered on Peter’s face and tunic, and started to pool and slip through the wooden planks into the grass beneath. “You are welcome to try,” Peter told the dead man.
His squire fell in beside him as he came down the steps. “Have the head sewn back into Arthrosh’s body and see that it is ready for the journey south. I want him gone with the first ship to Calormen,” Peter said as he handed Julien the bloody sword. He started to make for his pavilion, standing solitary on raised ground, much like his brother’s. “Summon King Edmund. And Julien,” he caught the man's eye, “we’re not to be interrupted.”
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
*******
Edmund knew his brother would call for him. The first time they’d touched each other was after a battle, adrenaline rushing through their veins. Edmund remembered shaking so much he couldn’t even undo the lacing on his breeches, only succeeding in making the knot even tighter. Peter had to cut them open with a dagger. He liked to think they’d gotten better at managing the impulse after so many years, but he had to admit, the sight of Peter covered in blood like an avenging golden god had stirred him.
As soon as Edmund stepped into the tent, Peter fell on him. Their kiss was a wild, frenzied thing, two hungry beasts intertwined. Their hands and mouths seemed to be everywhere at once, they stumbled backwards (or was it forward?) and bumped against a table, sending whatever was on it crashing to the floor. The next minute, Edmund was sitting on it, throwing Peter’s blood-stained tunic halfway across the tent, and flattening his palms against the lightly tanned, toned chest, dusted with fine blond hair. He raked it with his nails. Peter hissed, and pulled Edmund’s long black hair back to expose his neck, kissing it wetly from collarbone to jaw and sucking on his pulse.
“Missed you so much, Ed,” he rasped. “When I saw you fall on the battlefield, I almost had a heart attack, I thought I’d lost you,” his hand tightened on Edmund’s hair, the grip almost painful now.
Edmund put his legs around Peter’s waist, trying to reassure him by pulling him closer. “How did you get there so fast?”
“Damned if I know. My body just moved on its own,” he rested his head on the crook of Edmund’s neck, his voice strained. "If I hadn't made it in time, you... I don't know what I would have done..."
“Hey, it’s alright, Pete. I'm right here,” Ed said softly, as he caressed Peter’s hair. “You won't get rid of me so easily.”
"Promise me," he choked out. "Promise me you will never leave me."
Edmund cradled his brother's face. Peter had to grow up so quickly; first the war made him responsible for his younger siblings, then Aslan made him responsible for a whole kingdom. He couldn't afford to show weakness, doubt, or fear. But that didn't mean he wasn't plagued by those feelings, and sometimes they came spilling out when they were alone. Edmund counted it a privilege to be able to comfort his brother on those occasions, as he and his sisters had been comforted so many times through the years.
"I promise," he said solemnly. "I promise never, ever to leave you. It’s you and I, Pete. Together in this life and the next."
“This life and the next,” Peter echoed before capturing his lips once more. This time they kissed slow and deep, until Peter picked him up as effortlessly as if Edmund were still a kid, and carried him to the bed.
He threw him lightly on the mattress, undid the lacing of his breeches and took himself in hand, never taking his eyes off his brother. Edmund knew the look on his face, like a predator who'd finally cornered his prey. If he hadn't already been rock hard, that look would be enough to make him so.
He lay back on the bed, while Peter straddled him, coming as far as Edmund's chest. Languidly stroking his cock, his brother took a moment to brush back his hair.
“So beautiful,” he said. Edmund let out an involuntary whine.
Peter touched the tip of his dick on Edmund's lips, smearing glistening precum on them as if it were one of Susan’s expensive lipsticks.
“Open up,” he rumbled.
Edmund did.
He sucked on the tip, while Peter rocked his hips slowly in and out. Gradually, he picked up the pace until he was almost all the way down Edmund’s throat, grabbing his hair to force his head back and forth and swearing down his breath.
Edmund loved the feeling of Peter sliding down his throat, loved how messy it was, how it made his brother forget himself and say all kinds of perverted shit, loved how it made Peter tower over him, loved the total surrender that came with being barely able to breathe while his brother took his pleasure.
He'd been jerking himself off when Peter pushed himself balls deep in. Edmund gagged and felt hot drool running down his cheeks and chin. He tapped Peter's thigh, and saw his brother's cock come out dripping from his mouth. He took a deep breath, blinking back tears.
“You'd better move on if you don't want me to spill here and now,” he warned.
“Don't threaten me with a good time, Ed,” he grinned. “I'm almost tempted to watch you come while swallowing my load, your mouth is so sweet,” Peter leaned down and gave him a quick kiss. “Is that what you want?”
Edmund considered the offer, but he knew that today they needed something else, something more intimate. “No. I want you inside me.”
Without wasting a moment, Peter climbed off and pulled Edmund’s breeches, making him squeal and slide down the bed. They laughed while Peter took off his boots and breeches off for him.
Then he got down to business. He licked and kissed Edmund’s hole with the voracity of a starving man, opening him up with his fingers and his tongue until Edmund felt he was going crazy.
“It's not getting any looser! Come on, Peter, please!”
Ever obliging, Peter lined himself up and entered him with a single, brutal thrust that had Edmund's eyes rolling to the back of his head. He pushed Edmund’s legs down his sides and held him there, driving in and out of him at a punishing pace.
“Is this what you wanted?” Peter all but growled. “Is my cock deep enough in your arse yet?”
“Y-Yes!” Edmund answered, holding on to the sheets for dear life beneath the onslaught of his brother. “So deep, Peter!”
“God, I wish you could see how gorgeous you look when I’m fucking you! Maybe I’ll commission a portrait. We’ll hang it in the foyer in Cair Paravel, hm?”
Edmund blushed. Having his relationship with Peter become public was a kink of sorts. He’d never said it out loud, but his brother knew him too well.
Peter started stroking Edmund’s bouncing, dripping cock, his grip viciously tight. “Should I get Julien to send a painter in right now? To capture how you blush so pretty like a maid on her wedding night, even while taking my cock like a hungry little whore?”
Edmund whined and Peter laughed.
“No, on second thought, I don’t think so. I’d be much too jealous,” his hand picked up the pace. “Who do you belong to?” He demanded.
“I'm yours, Pete. All yours. O-only yours.”
“That’s right,” Peter said, his voice catching in his throat. “My sweet baby brother.”
Edmund came hard. Back-arching, toe-curling, mind-numbling hard. Peter was not far behind him.
Afterwards, he rested his forehead on Edmund’s. “And I’m yours,” he said, voice shaking, trying to catch this breath. He stayed inside, and Edmund hugged him tight; neither of them willing to break the connection just yet.
Soon they would need to get up, clean and dress themselves, go back to being just brothers, go back to being Kings. Julien could only keep people away for so long. But not yet.
Not yet.