Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8177456.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Chronicles_of_Narnia_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Edmund_Pevensie/Peter_Pevensie
  Character:
      Peter_Pevensie, Edmund_Pevensie, Lucy_Pevensie, Jill_Pole
  Additional Tags:
      Emotional_Manipulation, Murder, Dubious_Consent, Mentions_of_Terrorism,
      Blood_As_Lube, Abuse, Knifeplay, Dark, Modern_Setting
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-01 Words: 15768
****** il cuore non sbaglia mai ******
by SeeCee
Summary
     There are things Peter has done that can't be fixed. But he can still
     try.
      
     MI6!Agent/International!Criminal Pedmund!
Carefully, he steps over rubble and the occasional corpse. There are only a
couple of cars not bombed out. Their useless signal lights, combined with the
smoke permeating from all over the place, make it hard to calculate the damage
properly. It's the middle of the damn day, and apart from that one warehouse
it's an empty field with strewn about crates. He can't see shit. But he doesn't
need to, it's clear that there are no survivors.
Fuck. He had warned them that this would be suicide. But why would they listen
to him? It's not the first time. Showing up in his pristine, tailored suit,
holding his badge up only long enough for it to be recognized, certainly not to
be inspected, certainly not to be touched. Authoritatively, stating that he
wants their assistance but not interference. It's not unusual for them to
become hostile, defensive. They're the executive, the law enforcers, in this
town. They've always dealt with their criminals themselves. Sure, this case
took longer, was a bit out of the parameters of what the statistics would call
normal but that sure as shit didn't mean they needed a fucking Interpol Agent
to tell them how to do their job. Never mind, that he was only posing as one.
MI6 would hardly work voluntarily with these people.
It didn't matter to them how adamantly he had tried to make clear that this
wasn't the usual petty theft and collateral murder that this was much more
dangerous. Maybe if he had been allowed to show the deputy the evidence, the
trail that led his department to this remote little American town in the first
place. But it wasn't in their jurisdiction, they weren't important enough,
ranked high enough, to even be granted a glance. That might have been all it
took, hurt pride enough reason to dismiss his order and get themselves all
killed.
And he used to be so good at making people feel important and wanting to work
for him.
 
He came too late, by the time he arrived the last shots were already being
exchanged. Then, eerie silence. He waited five more minutes, observing the
smoke for moving silhouettes, before getting out.
 
He makes his way over to the warehouse slowly, ears strained for any blood
gurgling, for any twitching. There is nothing and the hideout is burning, he'll
be lucky if there'll be any scraps left for him to continue the trail.
Regardless, he traipses on, his gun cocked next to his leg, finger steady on
the trigger.
All of a sudden, his leg is blown away under him, impact forcing him on his
knees. Pain starts to blossom instantly. It's coming from his left thigh.
Chocking out a gasp, he lets one hand inspect the wound, not daring to take his
eyes off of his surroundings. The bullet went right through without hitting the
bone. However, his femoral artery is clipped, he has maybe ten, fifteen minutes
before the blood loss will cause him to faint. He should try to get to a
vehicle, contact emergency but he knows, too, that this shot was not aimed to
kill.
Then a figure steps forward. All dressed in black, even the motorcycle helmet
is tinted, the sniper rifle dangles idly from a shoulder. Peter turns off the
safety and aims. Unfazed, the unknown perpetrator comes closer, throwing the
rifle to the side and, right before he reaches Peter, discards the helmet, too.
Peter's eyes go wide.
"Long time no see, brother mine." He is greeted with a smile too feral to be
called human.
"Edmund."
He advances right up to him, his crotch centimetres from Peter's face, who
still looks up at him. Edmund unbuckles, unbuttons, zips the fly.
"Suck." He commands and Peter is faced with his brother's half hard dick
bumping against his lips. For a moment he forgets the pain in his leg, the
blood still gushing through the fingers of his hand, that meekly try to stem
it. If this is his atonement then there is no question of struggle, protest,
and least of all refusal.
So he opens his mouth, just that much that his tongue can lick at the tip but
the instant he relents Edmund claws a hand in the back of his head and forces
him to open up wide and take it all. It feels strange, tastes unfamiliar. Peter
hasn't done this in forever. But that's not to say he didn't miss it. Never
mind the circumstances. The tip hits the back of his throat and he tries to
mask the gagging with a moan. His tongue puts pressure on the underside, while
he works his cheeks to really suck him in and it seems to work. Edmund's hand
loosens a bit, giving some control back to Peter, who uses it to work his lips
from the shaft up to the tip. He considers taking his hand to grab the base of
Edmund's dick and looks up to see if he will let him, give up even more
control. But Edmund's face doesn't show any emotion. He looks down at him with
patience, maybe a hint of amusement. Next thing Peter knows the grip in his
hair tightens and Edmund slams in to the hilt.
This time Peter doesn't stop the sounds or tries to overrule his body enough to
prevent the tears from pricking at his eyes. Edmund doesn't waste a thought on
finesse and fucks his face relentlessly. His grunts drown out the pitiful
whimpers Peter can't suppress. He feels dizzy, too. But that's no wonder,
unable to breathe as he is. His hands support himself on Edmund's thighs and
it's only when he tries to shift his weight from one knee to the other that he
remembers. By the time he realizes how blurry his vision already is, Edmund
comes and Peter swallows what he can. He feels unbalanced, so he tries to hold
onto Edmund. But he won't let him, extricates himself from Peter's weak grip
mercilessly. Then Peter's on the ground. The rough gravel on his cheek, the
horizontal position momentarily stabilize his senses.
Ten feet away is the deputy slumped against a car and holding his side. There's
blood all over him, too. But his face is white, as white as his eyes staring
directly into Peter's. Man, he's glad he won't have to explain this later.
Meanwhile, Edmund must have knelt down because a light touch lands on his neck.
"Found you... " Peter croaks. "Finally... found you."
The last thing he feels is the light twitch of fingertips before the darkness,
mercifully, claims him.
 
 
 
 
“Not a vegetable then. That's a relief.”
Peter tries to open his eyes but his lids and brain do their damnedest to hold
him under. Everything is blurry and his throat is awfully dry. He tries to
speak but his vocal chords won't cooperate.
"Here, " Lucy says and pushes a straw to his lips. Between the few sips that he
manages his little sister finally comes into focus. There are bags under her
eyes, her hair looks unwashed.
"I suspect your superior has been informed as soon as you began to stir, he'll
probably be here soon. So, I'll just tell you what I know."
Gratefully, he smiles at her.
"You've been out for a little over two weeks. They wouldn't tell me the cause
for the state of your leg but I can tell it's a bullet wound. You had lost a
lot of blood but they flew you over as soon as you were somewhat stable. Then
your leg got infected. Really, really badly. They were this close to having to
amputate it. But your body finally responded to the antibiotics and here we
are."
Now Peter really wants to have a look at his leg but there's no way he'd ask
Lucy to show it to him. He rasps a couple times and Lucy holds the cup to him
again. He takes another sip.
"Parents?" He croaks. "Our parents?" Followed by a cough.
Lucy gives him a hard look.
"As protocol says I wasn't allowed to tell them. They have no idea you're
here."
He wants to ask about Susan, too, but already knows that answer.
"Susan won't be able to make it." Lucy fills in regardless. It's supposed to
sting him.
"Lu, listen- "
"No, Peter. It's okay. You chose this life and you chose us as your emergency
contacts, to do nothing but sit here every couple months wondering if this is
finally it."
He swallows hard, wants to say more but he's saved by a knock on his door. A
nurse peeks inside.
"I'm sorry Miss Pevensie but visiting hours are over."
"I'm as good as gone." She replies and the nurse disappears. Lucy gets up,
collects her jacket.
"'Visiting hours are over.'" She scoffs. "More like your boss is here and
doesn't feel like dealing with family members."
Peter wishes he could do something to have her leave in a better mood but he
doesn't know a thing to say. She closes the last button on her coat, her hand
already reaches for the door handle.
"I saw him." He rasps. "Edmund."
Lucy stills, then grips the doorknob and her knuckles turn white.
"He's been dead a long time."
She leaves without saying goodbye.
 
Scarcely a minute later Frank Becket enters. Instinctively, Peter tries to sit
up straighter. Alas, his weak body won't allow him.
The Marshall foregoes the vacant chair and instead positions himself directly
at the foot of his bed, a chart between his hands.
"It's good to have you back, Pevensie."
"Sir." He nods.
"Well, I won't beat abound the bush, you left us quite the shit show over
there."
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"There's something to be sorry about, then?"
Trying to limit any further indictment Peter stays quiet. Becket sees through
that and grants him a small smile.
"As an MI6 Agent there isn't really a script, code or protocol to follow and in
your almost three years of being a full fledged one I hadn't had once the need
to reprimand you so I suggest you let me go through the report before giving
yourself up."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good."
Now Becket moves towards the chair but pulls it further away before settling
down.
"The police report I've got here ,which was, by the way, written by the last
remaining local policeman," He mentions with a raised brow. "Says that the
police squad dispatched without notifying you first and having thus neither
permission nor clearance."
"That is correct, Sir. I arrived to talk about the next proceedings with the
Sheriff when I was told they had left the station thirty minutes earlier."
"And you followed them without leaving any orders for the remaining officer or
without trying to get a hold of the Sheriff by phone or radio?"
Peter takes a concealing little cough.
"As the Sheriff and I had not exactly seen eye to eye the entire time of my
stay, I had calculated that it was my best option to try and catch up with them
before the situation could escalate."
Becket stares at him for a moment.
"We need to go over your working relation with that sheriff more detailed
later," He says then and scribbles something in the margins. Peter would like
to know why but isn't impertinent enough to ask.
"So. You get to that- " He thumbs through the notes. "Seemingly abandoned
farmhouse in the middle of nowhere about forty minutes later. What was going
down?"
"There had obviously been a shoot out. By the time I got there the farmhouse,
as well as a couple of cars stood in flames. I stayed in my vehicle from where
I could see a number of corpses. I was waiting for any further sounds or
movement. After five minutes I determined that no one else was coming or
leaving so I got out to salvage what I could."
"You didn't call for backup or notified anyone in the mean time?"
"I'm afraid my mind was preoccupied with hoping that I would still find enough
evidence left to continue my trail."
Again Becket scribbles something down. "I see."
Peter takes the moment to reach for his water. When Becket looks back up, he
continues.
"Before I could reach the building I was shot in the left upper thigh with a
sniper rifle and went down."
"Did you see the shooter?"
"Yes." Peter says and Becket makes a note. "He approached me."
Mid-scribble he looks up.
"The shooter approached you?"
"Yes."
"Could you identify him?"
Wrecked by a little coughing attack Peter shakes his head.
"He was clad head to toe in black motorcycle gear. Including helmet and
gloves."
Becket continues to stare at him.
"Shoe size would be about seven, I'd guess."
But he makes no note of that.
"What did he do? Didn't he say anything?"
"No, he just... stopped in front of me."
"Why didn't you shoot him down?"
"He still had the sniper rifle locked on me. I didn't dare."
Bewildered, Becket leans back in his seat.
"You're honest to God telling me that criminal did nothing else but stay there
and look at you?"
"Yes, until, eventually, I fell unconscious."
Becket looks at him for another moment before rifling through papers again.
"Your medical examination doesn't list any other injuries. Meaning he didn't
bat you over the head or did anything else to send you into a coma? He just
patiently stood there for what, fifteen minutes? Until you slowly fainted from
blood loss?"
"He had to walk over to me first. That took a couple of minutes."
Becket considers him disbelieving. Like a punch to the gut Peter remembers the
Sheriff.
"What- "His voice croaks and he rasps. "What about the Sheriff? I remember him
laying there, too. He was still alive, wasn't he?"
At this the Marshall's posture becomes a bit more rigid.
"He's dead."
On the inside Peter heaves a huge sigh of relief. Regardless, he doesn't show
any outwardly reaction because Becket seems to observe him very closely for
just that.
"I saw that he was bleeding but I thought... It seemed fine, better than my leg
for sure."
"It wasn't the abdominal injury that killed him, he was shot in the head."
Becket says. "With your weapon."
Peter's eyes widen but he doesn't know what to say.
"Wasn't you then?"
"No, I- Of course not, Sir."
"Yeah. I didn't think so." He sighs and shuts the folder. "Now, there's one
last thing."
Wary, Peter squares his shoulders.
"There had been fresh semen found on your hair and in your mouth." He states
and looks just that bit uncomfortable. "Care to explain why?"
Peter feels his ears grow hot but hopes to Aslan he isn't actually blushing in
front of his superior.
"It was... a private matter. Just before I drove over to the Sheriff's
department I- "
"All right," Becket holds up his hand. "That's- I really don't need to know any
details." He says and gets up. "Regardless, I do have to empathize that we
expect our Agents to fully concentrate on the Job while they're out in the
field."
"It won't happen again, Sir."
Becket harrumphs and turns back around to him.
"You're allocated another month for recovery, so I will see you then."
"Thank you, Sir."
When Becket reaches the door he suddenly stills.
"The sniper couldn't have been your... romantic involvement, could he?"
He looks back to Peter.
"Just- He's watching you bleed out on the ground and shoots the only other man,
who saw you two together in the head. Almost sounds like a vengeful lover,
doesn't it?"
But Peter doesn't answer him and Becket doesn't seem to expect him to anyway.
He just shakes his head and leaves without another word.
 
Back in solitude, Peter melts into the pillows.
"Edmund." He mumbles, eyes closing. "Edmund."
 
In his dream he's surrounded by his family members. They're all pulling at his
elbows or hands or shoulders, trying to catch his attention but Peter winds in
their grip. There's someone else he needs to find. Peter calls out a name but
there's no one answering. The other's won't let go of him and he can't make
them understand that he can't be there for them now, that he needs to talk to
Edmund before it's too late. But they won't budge and Edmund is lost.
 
The next day his parents come. As usual his mum fusses relentlessly, fluffing
up pillows, reorganizing the few things in the wardrobe and offering him all
kinds of food and beverages. His Dad at least stays seated, he's read Peter
from the papers and consults him now for the crossword puzzle. He seems more
relaxed than his mother but it's just a front. The familiarity between them had
shifted into awkwardness a long time ago. They missed the part where he grew up
and when they saw each other again he had been more of an adult than either of
them. Their dynamic had been off ever since.
When he had come back... Well, they all know what happened but thing is he
never made an effort to let his parents get to know him again, to reconcile
them with the firstborn son they had raised. That was the difference between
him and his siblings. He had no use for his parents anymore and especially Lucy
holds that against him. She's always had an overblown sense of loyalty. Susan
once said she's keeping us together like glue.
"Or resin." Edmund had retorted.
Peter believes he was right, because she doesn't let go and it takes a great
deal of pain for everyone to get her out. But like his unacknowledged
estrangement with his parents or Susan's blatant disdain, he had years to get
used to Lucy's terse mouth and quiet disapproval.
He had tried to do it right, to   be   right, at one point anyway. After he had
been wrong, after he had done all these many terrible things, he tried to go
back, to make amends. And they had all been so hopeful and approving,
enthusiastic in their support. But he couldn't keep it up and then they lost Ed
and maybe that's why they are so bitter in their resentment, because he
disappointed them a second time and without a second thought.
 
"You know, I've long had an inkling that you really don't mind pain all that
much."
His physiotherapist says, kneading the very sensitive skin around the bullet
wound.
"Looks like I was right." He grins past Peter's tented erection and
challengingly into his eyes. Alex had been his attending therapist for the last
couple of times already. He has dark hair and brown eyes and that's where the
similarities end. His hand works its way up from the inside of his thigh to
brush against his cock and balls. Peter breathes in sharply but lets him.
 
His recovery goes speedy and well, his body as eager as his mind to go back to
work. His parents visit him every other day and are even there to drive him
home on his discharge day. He doesn't invite them in. Lucy came back two more
times but the conversation was short and superficial. There was no mention of
Susan.
 
 
 
 
Back at the job he's confined to research and paperwork duties. He grumbles
only mildly. It might as well be that way, they don't mean to overexert him and
he is fine sitting on his ass if that means he'll be the first to know of any
case that could be linked to Edmund.
Six months go by before one of their tracked ID's beeps at Charles De Gaulle
and Peter catches sight of a familiar head of hair on the security cameras.
He's in Paris four hours later.
 
There's an enormous auction going off in the French Christie's. Monet, Vermeer
and a couple of Klimt's are making the rounds. If there is any reason why
Edmund should have come to Paris it is this.
His file, the unofficial one, the one Peter carried together, lists a variety
of passports and offences, including forgery, art and identity theft, arson,
drug dealings, smuggling and looks like murder is on the list now as well.
He's been accumulating this data almost since his first day at the office. Ever
since they interviewed him and asked him about his family situation. Monitoring
his reaction when they brought up his dead baby brother. Complete with photo of
that mangled, water destroyed corpse that Susan and him had to drive up to
Scotland to identify.
Lucy and their parents had sat in the waiting room, adamant that they wanted to
come along. But when they arrived their nerves had left them. So, they send in
their eldest children, hoping and fearing that they would not be able to
recognize their own brother.
It wasn't Edmund. Peter knew immediately. Even despite the pale, washed up body
and half eaten face he had not a single doubt. He knew that body better than
his own and for the first time he was glad of that fact.
Susan, who hadn't said a single word all day, began to sob.
"That's him."
Compassionately, the coroner excused himself to give them a moment. Probably
just wanting to get the paperwork ready.
As soon as they were left alone Susan composed herself again, dabbing her face
with an embroidered handkerchief.
"I know that this is your fault," She had said. "He wanted to talk to me. He
wanted to tell me something that day. But we were all so busy celebrating your
acceptance into the academy. You did this."
"Susan," Peter spoke up then, calming. "This isn't- "
"Mum and Dad haven't slept properly in almost a year. Lucy is... I don't even
remember the last time I saw her smile," She said warningly. "If you can't fix
this then we can at least give them this."
So it had been decided.
Susan talked to their family while Peter stood in the coroner's office, filling
out the forms, watching their parents succumb to their fulfilled fear but also
seeing the tension seep out of their shoulders. It was finally over. Nobody
else claimed the body and a week later they buried him next to their
grandparents.
 
"I didn't think they'd let someone from MI6 in here," Edmund says, casually
leaning his elbows on the counter next to Peter, motioning the waiter for a
drink. "You know, not to scare half the clientèle away."
"Today I'm Todd Hannigan, an art enthusiast like anybody else in the room."
He takes a sip from his own wine and doesn't need to turn around to see the
amused grin on his brother's face.
"And what, pray tell, have you locked your eyes on?"
“Hope, II.”
Edmund snorts.
"How very sentimental of you."
He downs the drink in one go, apparently losing interest and making to leave
again.
"Edmund." Peter finally turns around but Edmund doesn't stop walking away. When
Peter looks down on the overturned glass on the counter he sees a number
sequence scrawled on the napkin. He stuffs it into his pocket.
 
It takes him a moment to find the right hotel. It's a big, boisterous one, not
exactly subtle. The answer to his knock is a crisp "Come in."
Walking through the narrow hall, into an entrée room, Peter takes a moment to
take everything in. There are no documents or even clothes lying around. To the
left the bathroom door opens.
"Took you long enough," Edmund remarks absent-mindedly, typing away on his
phone and crossing the room without acknowledging Peter any further.
"I had expected something... less grand."
Edmund begins mixing himself a drink and doesn't offer one to Peter.
"Might as well travel in style. It's not like my lodgements will matter much
when you and your little flock of cops will arrest me." He takes a sip and
makes a pleased noise.
"So, you know why I'm here then."
Drink in hand Edmund crosses the room once more towards the double doors
leading to the bedroom. He throws Peter a playful smirk.
"Of course I do."
He deposits the clinking glass on a drawer and chucks out of his jacket,
leaving him in one less layer of his three-piece suit. He looks immaculate and
incredibly fit. Peter's eyes drift to his ass. Compared to him Peter feels
weirdly inadequate in his white collar suit. He's pretty sure not even the tie
lies even.
Then Edmund takes the drink back up, sits down on the edge of the bed and
knocks it back.
"Shall we?" He asks and lets his legs fall open. Looking expectantly at Peter
as if he was no more than a street hooker he called up here to service him for
twenty measly bucks.
The worst part about that is how much Peter wants to oblige. It's unbelievably
hard to keep walking until he can lean against the door frame instead of
falling right to his knees. What did he come here for again?
"Ed," He says and notices very well how the muscles around his eyes and mouth
harden at the sound of his familial nickname. "Come home."
His eyes become unfocused and his body relaxes despite Peter's expectation of
seeing him coil together like a viper before it snaps.
"To Susan and Lucy?" He wonders, the hint of a fondness showing in his
expression. "To see Mum and Dad again?"
"  Yes,  " Peter presses and comes closer, still fighting the urge to grovel.
"Let's go home," He persists. "Let's go home together."
That lets Edmund snap back into cold reality, looking like any unfamiliar young
man and purposefully, he gets up. Except that he doesn't meet Peter's eyes and
instead seemingly means to strut past his older brother.
"Ed." Peter grabs him by the wrist and Edmund stills. He turns slowly around,
looking for all the world like a chided child, his free hand fists in Peter's
shirt, right over his hipbone.
"I don't even know what home is any more."
"Then let me show you," Peter insists and cups, in a brazen act, his face,
prompting Edmund to meet his gaze. "Let me take you there."
And again Edmund transforms in front of his eyes. The childlike expression
making way for a dangerous smile. It would be seductive to anyone else but to
Peter these teeth only spell out: Run. Not that he could.
Edmund disengages his wrist from Peter's grip and moves it up to his collar,
divesting Peter off his tie and jacket, crowding him back towards the bed.
At least by the time Edmund unbuttons his shirt and his calves hit the bed
frame is it impossible to mistake the situation for anything else but what it
is. And Peter knows he should probably stop him. But how could he after what
happened all these years ago? So, he lets himself be pushed down on his back
and lets himself be straddled and lets Edmund roam the skin on his stomach with
his fingernails. Always keeping in mind that these are claws meant to tear
through flesh. The least he can do is lay still and not use his hands for the
things he actually wants.
 
Suddenly, there's vibration. With an annoyed cluck Edmund slips his phone out
of his pocket and reads the new text message. Swiftly, he types back but in the
meantime he swings a leg over Peter and gets up off the bed.
"Too bad you had to use up all our time with boring talk," He laments, moving
through the room without looking up from where he's typing. "Now I gotta run.
Business doesn't wait, you know?"
Peter sits back up, his eyes trailing Edmund who has put the phone away and
pulls his jacket back on, checking his reflection in a tall mirror, sifting
through his hair. Self-consciously, Peter looks down at himself. He has half
the mind to button his shirt back up but he probably looks softer this way,
less threatening and the last thing he needs right now is for Edmund to be
overly on guard. When he looks back up Edmund fixes him with a stare through
the mirror. Meeting Peter's eyes, he smirks.
"You should stay," He says, turns around, advances on Peter again. "And when I
come back we will pick up where we left off." His finger grazes from the middle
of Peter's chest up to his throat and jumps off his chin like a knife.
"I will," Peter answers. "I will wait for you."
A little scowl appears on Edmund's face but it's just as quickly replaced by a
pleased smile.
"Good. Shouldn't be more than a few hours."
Peter watches him naively-hopeful as Edmund grabs a black suitcase and leaves.
With the shut of the door Peter lies back down. He had hoped Edmund would leave
the case behind, Peter had noticed it was the only of Edmund's possession in
the whole suite, the only thing that could have entailed a clue. He should
follow him, try to figure out who he's working with. So that he has at least
some names to give to Becket.
Peter sighs. His fingertips trailing the places where Edmund had touched him.
He's not going to come back. Peter knows that but he doesn't get up.
 
The auction goes smoothly,   Hope, II   is acquired for 22 millions by an
anonymous buyer. A week later a security leak is noticed. The money never
arrived at the Paris Bank but was instead wired through a number of accounts
until somewhere along the line it disappeared from the books. Becket is
furious, although not at Peter. He is livid because they were so obviously
played. The person associated with the ID, that had drawn their attention in
the first place, had committed a series of art thefts two years ago in much the
same set up. Becket had never stopped to consider that that little thief might
have changed their target and tactic.
'Nonetheless,' Peter muses as he looks at the 22 million and the art now stowed
away by the anonymous buyer. 'He still got that painting.'
 
 
 
 
Malibu beaches. White sand. Blazing sun. Tacky swim clothes and freaky
cocktails that you slurp out of coconuts. The smile of a handsome stranger
nodding to you across the bar. Of course there are other things he could think
of to invoke the feeling of warmth.
The hot heat days of Narnia, for example. Except he doesn't really like to
remember Narnia anymore these days.
Or he could think of Edmund. Pinned and naked under him. How the ardour of
power and forbiddance raced through his veins. Except, he hasn't figured out
yet how to think about that without a cold wave of guilt washing over him.
So Malibu beaches it is.
 
He tightens his thermal blanket around his crouched body, his thumb scratching
at his stubbly cheek. The rise of steamy exhale continuously destroys his
mental images. It's his third week in St. Petersburg and he's huddled in the
same fucking spot for hours on end, watching a street and a warehouse were
nothing ever happens.
The place where he hides for the stake out is supposed to be an abandoned
apartment complex so he can't even risk bringing a heater with him, lest
someone would notice any source of electricity. He's taken to bring his flask
with him now. Allowing himself a sip or two whenever the cold crawls too deep
into his stiff bones.
 
Every night as Peter makes his way back to the room he's staying in, he puts
the heater up to full blast and still in his full gear rubs himself all over
while his computer is connecting him with headquarters. Then he gets his flask
out, usually drains the rest and sits down to give his exciting report of 'All
clear.'
Margery, his coordinator, always tries to give him some uplifting words and
assures him that Intel is certain if something is going down then it will be
soon and it will be there. And he tells her not to worry, it's not his first
stake out, he'll be fine. Unfailingly, she will then paint him a glorious
future of what his life will be like when he delivers the final proof to
warrant an arrest of Mikhail Biryukov, Russian's most notorious gangster boss.
That one mob boss, who prides himself on handling his affairs in broad daylight
right under the nose of every cop in town. Making him a pretentious dickwad. On
the other hand, it means Peter spend his nights in a warm bed.
Peter has always thought Margery too soft for their line of work and he knows
that he had gotten her is a small punishment from Becket.
He doesn't give a shit about Biryukov. Sure, it would be nice to put a real
dent in the drug and sex traffic but Peter is a realist. Arresting him and a
bunch of his accolades won't change anything. The only reason MI6 even send him
here is because Biryukov has been widening his market up to Great Britain,
though it's mostly focused on the underground scene of London. But none of that
matters to Peter. The only reason why he volunteered to take this job was
because Edmund had worked for him before. Or at least, Peter is pretty sure he
has. The case file he made for Edmund can't exactly be cross-referenced by one
of their trained researchers. So he's aware it's a thin lead but he hasn't had
so much of a whiff of Edmund in eight months and he's getting desperate.
 
That's when it happens, an unmarked car pulls up, then another, then a
motorcycle. And Peter recognizes the figure. He watches Edmund take the helmet
off and swagger over cocksure. They start talking, negotiating, arguing. All
the while Peter takes photographs, trying to capture Edmund in as few of them
as possible.
Suddenly, one of the guys gets a gun out. Edmund is faster and punctures him
with a knife. Chaos breaks out, Peter throws his camera to the side and storms
out of the apartment, taking the stairs five steps at a time. When he barges
through the front door all of Edmund's affiliates are down and he grapples with
two guys at the same time. He sticks his knife in the eye socket of one and
Peter clips the other in the head with his gun. Edmund's back is heaving
inconspicuously, he doesn't let Peter see his face. In the distance police
sirens pick up, Peter turns, trying to locate their direction.
When he focuses back on Edmund, he's walking calmly towards his bike.
"Ed!"
But his brother doesn't react to that, just gets on and picks up his helmet.
Peter hurries over to him, finger still on the trigger.
"You know I can't just let you leave."
This earns him a brilliant smile.
"Get on then, will you?" Edmund fastens the strap, turns the key and Peter
takes a leap.
 
Edmund obviously knows his way around and Peter is certain they're actually
getting away when, unfortunately, they take a harsh turn and almost clash with
a cop car. The policeman looks more startled than anything but then his gaze
narrows. The blood on Edmund and Peter's poorly concealed gun give them away.
Edmund kicks the bike into gear and screeches off. A chase ensues, claiming a
couple of market stands and heart attacks of pedestrians.
Somehow, Edmund still manages to elude them. He drives into a way too narrow
street at which end the motorcycle keels over and they're on the ground
rolling.
Soon enough Edmund is back up on his feet and running. He loses his helmet and
jacket in a dumpster, throws a lighter in after. Then the sirens blare back up
and he's off again, Peter hot on his heels.
Edmund ends up slipping through the heavy double door of a neighbourhood
church.
Finally, Peter means to fall in step with his brother, who's hurrying down
along the pews.
“So, what is this some kind of Romeo and Juliet crap?” He quips and loosens his
tie. “The priest is gonna give us shelter?”
Edmund doesn't react and instead turns the corner. Peter is pumped full of
adrenaline but he also wants some answers. When he grabs for Edmund's arm,
Edmund dodges him and, unexpectedly, pushes Peter into the confessional
instead.
 
His back hits a wall and Edmund's hands are right there unbuckling his pants,
crowding him in with his body. Startled, Peter needs a moment to get with the
action before he grabs Edmund's waist to crush their hips together. At the same
time he leans forward to kiss Edmund, yet, he only turns his face away and
plunges a hand into Peter's briefs, working him to hardness. Being denied the
intimacy of a kiss, Peter at least plans to return the favour and his fingers
soon cease their groping of Edmund's ass to find themselves occupied with his
brother's freed dick.
“Imagine the priest stumbling over us now,” Edmund groans out.
“He'd summon God and let him smite us straight into hell.”
“Or he'd watch.”
At that Peter gives off a harsh moan.
“You'd like that?” He grins. “Or do you imagine being the priest yourself.
Catching two naughty boys in the act and forcing them to do all kinds of shit
just so he won't tell their parents?” He whispers hotly into Peter's ear.
“Isn't that more up your alley?”
Edmund's comments simultaneously turn him on and off. The fantasy is nice but
it hits too close to home to be comfortable for him.
To retaliate he therefore lets go of Edmund's dick and brings his hand back to
his waist, rocking into him evenly. Feeling Ed slide and press against his
thigh and tummy.
“Look at you,” Edmund continues. “I bet you wanna bend me over the altar right
now. Make me take your cock so far up my ass that I can't walk for days. Jesus
looking down at us. Making me come with your dick alone.”
“Fuck, Ed.”
“Want you to give it to me so good, father. Want to be a good boy for you. Let
the whole parish see you fuck my dripping hole.”
Peter comes right on the spot, digging his fingers into Edmund's flesh as his
brother strokes him through it. But he hasn't forgotten Edmund. He holds him
close with one hand at the nape of his neck and the other wanks him off. Not
letting Peter take the sole lead, Edmund keeps rocking his hips into Peter's
fist, sucking a mark into his skin. Never before has he been this responsive.
Then he comes, too, a throaty moan filling the small space and all of Peter's
thoughts.
 
Soon enough their panting dies down. Ed puts some space between them and they
both right themselves. When Edmund opens the door again and takes a step out
Peter grabs him by the wrist.
"Let me fix this."
He looks deep into Edmund's eyes, has the urge to gesture between them.
Edmund's face is unreadable but his eyes are icy. Vehemently, he yanks his arm
away. This time Peter doesn't have the heart to follow. There is only so much
rejection a man can take.
 
He takes a cab back and walks the rest of the way from the police blockade to
the warehouse. All kinds of personnel pulled up by now to investigate the
corpses and cars. No one's been inside the warehouse, yet. They still think
it's some kind of drug deal gone awry. Up to now Peter himself hadn't even been
allowed to have a look inside in case he'd accidentally tip someone off. He
approaches one of the nearby police officers and is met with an incriminating
stare. It's the cop Edmund and him had almost crashed into. Nonetheless, the
guy makes no further comment and breaks the lock open. Inside are almost a
dozen full carts of cocaine, as well as an address to a farmhouse outside of
Rybinsk where they, as Peter later finds out, hide almost twenty children. None
of them older than fifteen. Peter shudders to think whether Edmund was the one
buying or selling them.
 
It's a victory, with casualties and it could have been cleaner but it's a
victory, so Becket is happy with him. Mostly. Because Peter's camera 'got
destroyed' and because the policeman ratted him out. A bike driver, clad in all
black, the Agent Pevensie sitting behind him, yet scarcely a mention in the
report? Peter makes up a story. Becket has no reason to believe its a lie and
he likes Peter. Kind of. So he sits down and looks at him intently.
"Is there a bigger picture here I don't see?"
"I think I... I might be onto something, Sir. And this guy he- I mean he
clearly has an interest in me, as well, so I don't want to scare him away."
He receives another endlessly long stare then Becket leans back in his chair.
Peter gets the permission to continue. For now. If that guy shows up on any of
their radars Peter will be given priority of investigation. He doesn't have to
file official reports but Becket wants to know what's up every step of the way.
 
 
 
 
Slums, poverty, prostitution, crime, murder. Earth is a shithole. Is it any
wonder that he lost faith there for a time?
In a way Bogotá reflects him like no other city. It has a solid foundation,
blooms extraordinarily under the right care, shows to this day excellent
promise and still goes down the wrong path every time.
If he had tried harder to get along with his siblings then maybe their parents
had never thought about sending them to the country, putting them in the care
of his mother's somewhat estranged Godfather. They explained to them that some
space outside their tiny apartment away from the big, anonymous city would do
them all good.
If only he hadn't suggested to play hide and seek, if only he had never
followed Ed and Lucy into the wardrobe, if only he had never fallen out, if
only, if only... then maybe he could have been a normal, average Peter. Then he
wouldn't have cultivated such a rage, wouldn't have become so murky and
dubious  . Wouldn't have done to Edmund what he did. Wouldn't have enjoyed it
so.
 
He hadn't gone home that night. Spent it drinking and brawling. He was sixteen
and fucking fed up. He didn't know how to fit back in, had become someone else
a while ago, was used to make the rules himself. People used to utter his name
with respect. This here? This penny-saving, meek-options, dead-end-
opportunities, slaving-away-for-others life wasn't his.
After he had the shit kicked out of him by a chippy and his equally oafish
friends he had wandered down to the docks and passed out amidst some crates.
When he woke up hours later, aching, hungry and stinking like a sewer he
decided to drop by home.
Coincidentally, he didn't have his key or felt like ringing so he went around
to the back door and picked the lock. The house was void of any noise. He
walked straight into the kitchen, got out some OJ and drank right from the jug,
traipsing along he glimpsed on the calendar.
Sunday,   Bake Sale  .
It would probably be a while then before they'd be back. Suited him just fine,
he'd be out again by that time. He took another gulp. Then he heard water
rushing through the pipes and the unmistakeable sound of the shower running. He
put the can down and went upstairs, glimpsing at the shoes, he saw right away
who had ditched church today.
First, he went into his bedroom and pulled out some fresh clothes. On his desk
was a bunch of mail addressed to him. He sifted through them mindlessly,
nothing in there of real importance. Then the juice made itself known again.
 
When Peter opened the bathroom door he was greeted by Edmund's soapy backside.
Noticing how Edmund managed, despite the uncommonly sunny summer, to stay that
pale he walked to the toilette and unzipped. Pissing in the bowl like that,
Edmund suddenly flinched.
"Jesus Chri- ! Peter?" He yelled. "You scared the crap out of me."
Peter didn't answer. Just flushed and pulled his shirt over his head.
"Why the hell are you even home." He heard Edmund mutter once he got inside the
shower. When he reached for the tap Edmund flinched again.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" He complained. Peter didn't pay him any
attention just got under the spray and started scrubbing himself. Edmund
grumbled but stayed inside, angling his back pointedly towards Peter. He
quickly noticed why.
Hands in his lap, he was trying to conceal an erection from his big brother.
Peter smirked.
He stroked his wet hair backwards and came up behind Edmund, crowding him
further against the tiles. Surprised, yet no less annoyed Edmund peeked over
his shoulder.
"What- ?!"
But then Peter had already cupped his dick. Edmund had moaned as if he didn't
mean to and almost clamped his hands over Peter's.
"If you don't want this," Peter hissed into his ear and watched the flush
spread out over his cheeks. "Just say No."
And he began to jerk Edmund off in quick strokes.
For his part, Edmund didn't really react at all, he seemed determined to just
let it happen. Even when Peter grew hard himself and thrust along the crack
between his asscheeks, he only splayed his hands against the tiles to brace
himself. Peter brought him off rather swiftly, with Edmund clamping a hand on
his own mouth to mask the needy sounds he couldn't suppress, and then didn't
stop until he found completion for himself. When he was done he simply got some
shampoo and finished the shower. Edmund didn't move once until Peter was out of
the room.
 
They had figured Bogotá would be another drug errand but he comes back to his
safe house one day and there is a note stuck in his door frame with a time and
the address of the train station.
 'If you want to fix something. Fix this.'   It taunts.
Peter gets in a cab immediately. He might still make it on time.
Just as the station comes into view a car explodes in the crowd. 47 dead.
Hours later, after finally making it back to his quarters, it was broken into.
They took sensitive information, including the names of three undercover Agents
stationed in Columbia. By the time he can inform headquarters the Agents can't
be reached anymore.
 
Becket assigns him a partner for any further mission.
 
 
 
                                                                               
They're supposed to be on a flight to Indonesia, posing as newly-weds. Never
mind, that Jill seems to miss it.
Peter had been informed per text message which plane to catch. At the airport
Margery waited with their documents and a dreadful It's-6.30am-and-I'm-happy-
to-be-alive smile.
“Did you meet her, yet?” Was her first question. “Picked her out myself.
Couldn't believe Mr. Becket would even consider my opinion!” She chuckled.
“You've been doing good work, Margy,” Peter retorted, thumbing through the
papers quickly until he found the passports and ID's. “You've earned it.”
Jill hadn't arrived at the check-in on time so Peter simply boarded without
her.
He feels already relieved when lo and behold she flops down in the seat next to
him after all. Immediately, she leans over and gives him a peck.
“Told you I'd make it, love.”
“Glad you did,” Peter smiles but doesn't take the sunglasses off.
When Margery told him her real name – Jill Pole – a bell rang immediately and
he quickly figured out why that is. He had heard her name before. Margery went
on to say that she may be young and this would be her first mission in the
field but she is absolutely promising, very enthusiastic, a bit head strong
and, incidentally, she went to school with his cousin Eustace.
“I know that you're more of a lone wolf but everyone at work also knows how
important your family is to you, so I thought you might be more amenable to
someone, who already has a connection to yours.” She poked him in the ribs with
her elbow, grinning palsy-walsy.
Apart from the fact that he probably hasn't seen or spoken to Eustace in well
over ten years, she couldn't have been more wrong.
 
Jill pulls him into mindless chitchat, which soon she gracefully steers over to
their current case.
“So, you've met this guy what, like five times already and you still know next
to nothing about him?”
“If it were that easy then you wouldn't be here, would you,” He snaps. There's
everything she needs to know laying encrypted in her lap for God's sakes.
Deliberately, Peter angles his body towards the window. She takes the hint.
 
You still know next to nothing about him?
Rather, he knows next to everything about him.
How he smells at the juncture where his shoulder becomes his neck right before
he comes, because Peter used to pull him into his lap when they were home alone
and watching TV. He'd jerk him off to the images of some bloody, sweaty action
hero. He'd start slowly. Beckoning Edmund over or demanding that he got up so
that Peter could sit down before rearranging them both. Then he would just put
his hands on Ed's thighs or curl around his belly and they would sit like that
for a while, chest pressed to back. When the action picked up, so would his
hands. Stroking along the inseam of his pants and slowly work him to hardness.
When the first big explosion happened, he would get Edmund's and his own cock
out. He'd wank him off while he was rutting and rubbing into Edmund's backside.
Usually, Ed would come before him and Peter would snatch his soiled hand away
and use it on himself until he spilled all over Edmund's back and, more often
than not, Hoodie.
During the whole act, Edmund would not say a single word.
 
He's heard and coaxed noises that no brother should know of their younger
sibling.
By the time summer ended and they went back to another year of boarding school
Edmund had himself so much under control that not a single sound would slip
from between his lips, sometimes not even his breathing seemed to pick up. That
simply wouldn't do.
“Let's get out of here. I already told your teacher you weren't feeling well
today.” Peter had appeared in Edmund's door right as he was about to leave.
“Okay,” He answered.
Peter took him up to the attic. Their school was surrounded by miles and miles
of fields and forest. There was no way he would do something like this
surrounded by bugs.
He didn't have much of a reference point. The internet could only help so much.
In the end he went out on a date with one of Susan's girlfriends and had her
suck him off. He had no interest in her but she was known for being quite
experienced. Peter tried to concentrate on picking up on as many pointers as
possible. And her reputation wasn't false.
 
Edmund's scent was so very different and so very intense in his crotch. For
some reason he hadn't expected that. He still liked it, though. So he spent a
considerable amount just nuzzling into it, touching and feeling without
reserve. Edmund reacted accordingly and Peter's first taste sealed the deal.
The flavour, the noises Ed couldn't hold back, how hard his hands clenched on
the table he had leaned against, Peter knew he would do this over and over and
over.
When Edmund had spilled and Peter swallowed all of it, he reversed their
position.
“Now you,” He said and guided Edmund's head to his open fly.
Edmund's eyes had been closed practically the whole time they were up there.
 
From there it didn't take long to evolve further.
Inadvertently, Peter established somewhat of a routine. He would, for whatever
reason, tend to end up in a fight with someone and then he would find Edmund.
At first he didn't even get admonished by any of the teachers.
'Not Peter Pevensie!' They would exclaim when they heard of a brawl he was
supposedly a part of. A lot of the time none of the boys involved would even
speak up. Especially, when it was three of them and only one of Peter and they
still lost. But they couldn't pretend forever where the bruises had come from
and when Peter kicked the shit out of a fellow classmate right in the
cafeteria, they couldn't overlook it any further.
A stern warning.
“Anybody else would have been thrown out. Not the golden boy, though,” Edmund
remarked as Peter came to his room afterwards. They told him to get his hand
looked at in the infirmary, but his blood was still thrumming so he didn't.
“Just get on the bed,” Peter said.
That was the first time he pushed a finger into Edmund's ass, he hadn't planned
on it so he made do with spit, but the way Edmund's body violently shuddered
and made him gag on his cock was worth everything.
It would quickly become one of his favourite things. Forcing more and more of
his fingers into Ed's hole. Sometimes, he wouldn't do anything else and Edmund
never spoke when they were doing these things, so they would just lie mutely on
a bed. Edmund usually naked from the waist down and Peter reading for class or
fucking around on his laptop, fingers shoved into Ed's virgin hole. He would
curl them from time to time just to feel Ed clench around them. A guy could
become addicted to a feeling like that.
 
Inevitably, like everything else around him, he destroyed this, too.
They were home for their winter break. The streets were decorated with reds and
greens, knee-high snow was laying all around, children with rosy cheeks
meandered with their equally serene parents. Lights and bells and steamy foods
and belly-warming drinks. The mood couldn't be more festive. Even in their own
home. Susan's and Lucy's wariness concerning Peter's behaviour had made way for
boisterous playfulness. He was charming to their parents' friends, polite to
their daughters, obliging with the chores accompanying all kinds of little
interim gatherings, he told jokes and harmless anecdotes, and hadn't touched
Edmund all week. He was on his best behaviour, a real delight as it were.
On Christmas Eve, after church and after dinner, they had all retired to the
living room. Lucy and Edmund sat with their hands around hot cocoa mugs, Susan
and their mother elected to take a cup of tea, leaving their father with a
glass of sherry and Peter also with tea, plus the rest of the Scotch he had
brought back from school. Their mindless chatter had grown into more sincere
heart-to-hearts and Peter thought wistfully to the empty bottle hidden in the
cupboard.
His father, with a slightly reddish nose, began to talk about how proud he was
of all their children and even though he knew growing up can sometimes mean
growing apart, he was glad that their family had such a strong bond. Then their
mother, with increasingly wetting eyes, had chimed in that none of them could
ever do anything that would lessen their love and that she all just wants them
to find their path and be happy. Regardless, how thinly veiled this all was
Peter made an attempt to meet their gazes unperturbed. His eyes tended to flick
over to Edmund. Sitting in the armchair, knees up to his face, mug on top,
looking outside and watching the snow as if none of this concerned him.
In the end he was the first to go to bed and after Peter could disengage
himself from their parents, who hugged him at the same time and Lucy, who
honest to God cried into his neck and Susan, who at first only settled a hand
on his shoulder and then, overcome by whatever emotion compelled her, flung
herself into his arms, as well.
Happy bloody Christmas, indeed.
 
When he finally closed the door behind him, the bedroom was illuminated solely
by the holiday lights draped around their window. Edmund watched them and
scooted wordlessly over when Peter got in beside him. Divesting him quickly of
his clothes Peter pulled Edmund's legs apart and without much preamble worked a
slick finger in.
“Keeping in spirit with the festivities I figured we'd go all the way tonight,”
He declared, casual as if predicting the snowfall for tomorrow. Edmund didn't
agree or stiffened or made any indication either way. He just adjusted his head
until he could watch the lights again.
After rushing the preparation, having barely worked the third finger in, he
motioned for Edmund to sit up.
He pulled a bit of cloth from his backpack by the bed.
“Open your mouth,” He said. “You don't want to disturb the others.”
Edmund hesitated and that made a sinister warmth spread in Peter's belly.
“If you don't want this, just say No.”
Edmund opened his mouth. Peter tied the kerchief securely around his head. Then
he lay back.
“Turn around and sit down. Fuck yourself on me.”
Slowly, a bit shakily, Edmund complied. His pale thighs quivered as he
positioned himself astride Peter's crotch and lowered himself. Peter crossed
his hands behind his head.
“If you want it in there, you'll have to guide it.”
Again Edmund stopped, just for a second, then he grasped Peter's cock and
positioned it at his entrance.
Torture. How tight he squeezed him, the heat surrounding him further and
further. He wanted nothing more than to buck up into it but this hadn't been
the time for that. Ed, though muffled, kept making pathetic whimpers and
hitching his breath.
Once Edmund had taken him fully, he stilled, his shoulders heaved.
“Get on with it, then.”
Edmund flexed his toes, bunched his fingers into the sheets but did as he was
told. Peter endured a couple more of these slow drags of up and down before he
grabbed both of Edmund's wrist and pulled them behind his back. It forced
Edmund to sit a lot more upright but he didn't resist and actually began to
speed up.
That was more like it. Peter shifted his grip until he held Edmund's wrists
together with one hand, while his other latched onto his hip, tugging him
harder back onto his cock. Fuck, it felt so good, Peter almost worried he'd
make too much noise.
Then he saw something that made him let go of his baby brother in a flash. Ed
was crying. Almost imperceptibly tears rushed down his cheeks. Surely, he had
noticed Peter's abrupt shift but he didn't falter much in his movements and
certainly didn't turn his head so Peter could see the full extent of his
misery.
“Stop,” He murmured. Reluctantly, Edmund did. Waiting anxiously while Peter
took a few deep breaths.
Abruptly, he decided to move, toppled Ed over until he lay askew on the bed,
face pushed into the mattress, knees and elbows sticking out in odd angles. He
was about to right himself again when Peter pushed his head further down,
holding it there and breached him anew.
He picked up a rough pace that didn't fully allow Edmund to right or brace
himself in any way. He just had to lay there and take it. Take it and take it
until eventually Peter pulled out to come all over his ass and back.
Then he left. Not checking if Edmund had managed to come himself, doubting he'd
even been hard.
 
Peter didn't come back for three days. When the phone rang and his father
bailed him out of jail an hour later, none of his family members said anything.
 
Just say No.
 
Just say ...
 
Just- !
 
 
They arrive in Kuala Lumpur and Peter wakes with a start.
“Shall we?” Jill smiles complacently and holds out her hand for him to take.
Newly-weds, right.
 
They spend the day exploring the commerce district, keeping an eye out for
their mark. Nothing even remotely promising comes their way though and by dusk
they make their way back to the hotel.
Crossing one of the big markets, with their stands laden with fish and fruit,
Jill suddenly stops. Peter notices it a moment later but when he turns around
her posture is relaxed enough. Behind his sunglasses he rolls his eyes, goes to
retrieve her nonetheless.
“Find something?”
“No, I... Do you see this lion statue there?” She asks instead. At the other
end of the market stands a temple, guarded by two lions on each side.
“What about it?”
Awkwardly, she scratches her head.
“Not to sound completely weird but I... I met a lion once.”
Peter looks back to the statues and thinks again about hearing Jill's name
before. It wasn't because she was in a grade with Eustace. It was Lucy. Lucy
had mentioned this girl to him.
“It was an important, truly defining moment of my life really. That lion... I
was just any ordinary girl, you know? I never thought I'd accomplish much. No
one I knew ever had. But after meeting Him, I... that encounter made me realize
who I wanted to be. And how I could make that happen. Helping many people,
changing the world, but also keeping it safe.”
“A lion told you to become an Agent for the Secret Service?”
“In a way.” She grins, makes an half-aborted attempt to show her respect to the
statue and strolls on. Peter throws one last look at the lion's eyes and
follows her then.
 
Two weeks after jail, after Edmund, they meant to head back to school and
landed in Narnia instead. There isn't really much to say about that time,
except that he felt like an imposter. And that that broke his heart. Because if
he didn't fit in in England and if he didn't fit in in Narnia, anymore then
what the hell was he to do?
In the end his glorious series of fuck ups prevailed. Even when he tried to do
the noble thing, or the valiant thing, or the right thing. Ultimately, the
happy end was all due to the others and none of it was him.
Long live the damn King, and all that.
Then Aslan sought him out, or Peter probably did.
 
He could still redeem himself. Anger wasn't necessarily a terrible trait. It's
not Aslan's forgiveness he needs to seek out.
No, Peter, there will no longer be a place here for you. As it has to be. For
you are needed elsewhere. Become once again the man who used to carry his crown
with humbleness.
 
He shrunk away, after, too crushed to face even the most well-meaning creature.
Edmund found him, or stumbled over him, more likely.
Peter had retreated to one of the most secluded spots, no one intentionally
strayed this way. It was a balcony-like alcove high up on the castle,
overlooking a vast expanse of forest.
Edmund opened the door, an apology about to spill from his lips when he
realized it was Peter he had walked upon. He stilled, as did Peter.
They hadn't spoken a word since ….
There were none now, either.
Peter turned back around to watch the sky, Edmund had come in further and
closed the door. An undeserved warm presence next to Peter.
They stayed like that for a long while until Peter could not take it any
longer. But it was Edmund who grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him.
After all the things they had done together, Peter could not believe he had
neglected to try this. Peter's hands came to a rest upon Edmund's waist. The
kiss deepened. Then ended.
Edmund walked away, taking everything, every explanation, accusation, and
vindication with him.
All that remained was Peter; sliding down the wall and breaking apart.
 
Once more he had become different after returning, or at least he had been
determined that that was the case.
He submitted to his lot. Did homework, stayed out of trouble, became a glowing
example of coming out of the 'rebellious phase' and landing on top. Younger
students looked up to him, his own class members celebrated him, the teachers
praised him. Mum and Dad were so happy. Susan and Lucy incredibly relieved.
He kept this up for a whole year.
Wouldn't have been able to if Edmund hadn't been there. That was the only thing
he couldn't give up. Sleeping with him. And what did one flaw matter if no one
knew of it?
It's not like he didn't try to be more affectionate and considerate in
satisfying Ed's needs. But he just didn't respond either way, he never said No,
so... .
 
After graduating he applied to the training program for the Secret Service
without telling anybody. The teachers had almost stumbled over themselves to
write recommendations for him and his track record didn't show off any of his
misdemeanor. He got in. His mum cried out of happiness. Everyone was proud and
supportive and fucking ecstatic. Edmund had been gone back early to school by
then, he had enrolled in a two week intensive science class. But he had called
that evening. Probably just to check in, Susan was the one to answer, to tell
him the great news, to tell him “We were just about to go out and celebrate a
bit, I'll call you back tomorrow, all right?”
Except they couldn't reach him then, no one was worried though. It was very
much like Edmund, they'd get a hold of him soon enough.
It took two weeks before the school called and asked if their Father had
recovered well and would Edmund join them again soon?
 
Needless to say, Peter's been chasing him ever since.
 
They're sitting down for an early dinner when both their phones get a text
message from Intel. Smuggled goods are being transported.
The coordinates bring them to a stretch of seemingly abandoned train tracks.
 
Both of them have their guns out, split up enough to cover a good amount of
ground but still staying in sight of one another. Peter's just peeking into a
rusty trolley carriage when Jill shouts “Watch out!”
A grenade flies their way and they both jump into cover. Then there's
screeching and a hissing sound. One of the trains furthest away gets into
motion and the grenade turns out to be nothing but a smoke bomb.
“Fuck!” Peter curses and dashes for the waggon.
Keeping his eyes locked on the train, while trying to navigate sure-footed over
the tracks and gravel, he watches the door of the last compartment open. Edmund
steps out. Jill yells something but Peter can't listen. Edmund is calmly
loosening a plate hanging from the handrail, not paying them a mind in the
slightest.
The train is gaining more and more speed. Peter's heart rate is going through
the roof but finally he risks a jump and just so manages to land with one foot
on the ledge.
He grips the handrail with both hands and pants heavily.
That's when Ed turns, a brilliant, beaming smile on his face, as if they hadn't
seen each other in years and Peter happened to drop in for a surprise visit.
“Ed- “
But Edmund only closes the distance between them, hauls Peter in by the tie and
plants a tender kiss on his lips. The train is going into a bend at nearly full
speed and the wind whips past but Peter barely takes note of these things. When
he lets go of the handrail to hold onto his brother instead, Edmund pushes him
off.
The last thing he sees is Edmund's back, walking away, not even staying to see
if Peter will survive the fall, then he crashes down a ravine.
 
“What were you doing? I told you to stop!” Jill yells as soon as she finds him.
“I had him!”
“Oh really?” She interjects. “Jumping on a waggon with who knows which
criminals and potentially dangerous weapons and- !”
“What would you have done?!”
“Get in a bloody car? Get a hold of Margery to give us traffic cameras? I was
ready to at least take a picture! When you suddenly obstructed my view! Now we
have nothing!”
They angrily stare at each other for another moment until Peter turns away and
kicks an empty soda can in frustration.
 
“Did you know that I met your brother once?” Jill says, a damp towel around her
shoulders, sitting down on the opposite side of the kitchen table, where Peter
had strewn a variety of maps and books and documents. He doesn't even deign
this with looking up.
“And then this guy today... “ She trails on, absent-mindedly rubbing strands of
her hair. “For a second there I could have sworn- “
“My brother died a long time ago,” Peter clips, writing unimportant nonsense
down.
“Fuck, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to open old wounds- I just... “ She
shakes her head. “Never mind. I should probably just go to bed.”
And with that she gets up and disappears into their bedroom. A king-size bed,
that Peter is supposed to share with her for the sake of their cover. Whatever,
Peter decides, it's unlikely they'll be allowed to stay in Indonesia any
longer, he can sleep on the plane tomorrow. So, he finds the liquor supply and
gets in the shower later, rubbing one out to the image of Edmund's tear-
streaked face smashed into pillows.
 
 
 
 
A month later they attend a meeting with Germany's department of protection
against foreign threats. There are indicators that smuggled arms are
distributed among potential risk groups. In other words: terrorists in
training. Jill forwards all their information unreluctant and the Germans repay
the favour. In the end it's still scarcely enough to pinpoint any certain
location. However, they do need an access point, or rather an access person –
here Jill throws him a quick displeased look – if they want to get anywhere.
The meeting ends with promises to keep each other posted. Not that either of
their Agencies will do that if it can be helped.
 
As they step out into the street Jill stretches her arms over her head,
groaning downright obscene.
“Perfect weather for some sight-seeing,” She remarks, looking pointedly at him
through her sunglasses. “Care to tag along?”
“Not really,” He grouses and makes for the hotel.
 
He's already laying out plans of getting wasted on the Room's mini bar and
dozing away to mind-numbing Daytime TV when he opens the door.
“Don't be alarmed, it's only me!” Edmund calls before Peter can even see him.
“No reason to get your gun out.”
Peter finds him lounging on the bed.
“Unless you take 'gun' as an euphemism for 'penis', in that case don't let me
hold you back,” He winks, relaxed against the backrest, shoes on the bed. At
least, some things don't change.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Peter grumbles but walks past him to the
closet, getting rid of his jacket and tie, and goddamn shoes. He's not an
animal.
“I did the dreadfully cliché thing of bribing the lobby boy.”
When Peter doesn't seem to be responding anything, Edmund just chatters
mindlessly on.
“I mean I'm pretty appalled by myself. I kinda like to think I've come far
enough in the corporate ladder not to have to resort to this kind of amateur
methods but, you know, back to basics and all that. At least I had money and
didn't have to offer up my body like in the beginning,” He woes. “Didn't want
to exhaust myself before even making it here, you know? Also I don't think you
would have appreciated my hole dripping with someone else's come already. You
never did like to share your toys- “
“Stop!” Peter brittles. “Edmund, just- just stop.”
Fists unclenching, he slowly turns around and meets Edmund's unimpressed gaze.
“I need you to give me something here, okay? I need you to tell me what you're-
why are you doing this?”
“Seriously? You want to waste all our time with talking? Yet again?” He raises
an eyebrow. “Back then you could barely keep your paws off me.”
“All these people... “ Peter stays resolutely on track. “You don't care about
them at all, do you? They don't mean anything to you.”
“What people?” He snickers.
“What people? The people you killed! Moscow and Bogotá and that arse-end of the
world shit village in Tennessee and where ever else you fuck around. What do
you think happens to those people you sell drugs and arms to? What do you think
this is?”
Edmund scoffs.
“What exactly makes you think I'm the one responsible for all that, huh? God
forbid, that your traitor brother actually buy these things for myself so they
don't get to circulate around. I mean, could you imagine? No, of course not.
How could the spare brother of the good, great, magnificent Peter Pevensie
possibly be like that! Have you, Pete, ever imagined that your way of following
the law is not actually helping anyone? Do you really think that your fucking
MI6 or whoever you work for gives a shit about the people who die at 'my'
hands? Don't be ridiculous.” He spits. “Tell me, why do you think I lured you
to all these places? I wanted to strike a deal with Biryukov and that stuff in
the warehouse could have put a lot of pressure on him, in the right hands, mind
you. In Bogotá, I wanted you to stop that fucking suicide bomber but you were
doing what exactly? Moping around in your little hacienda, doing fuck all the
entire time. And then you left all your stuff unprotected behind! Same thing in
goddamn Tennessee and Indonesia and Shanghai, two years ago. I mean what
exactly is it that you do? What does MI6 actually ever fucking do for anybody?”
Peter heaves a great sigh.
“Edmund, I don't know what to do. What do you- what do you want me to do?”
“Well, at this very moment, I had merely hoped for you to stick your dick in me
but I guess the moods kinda ruined now.”
Edmund gets off the bed, smoothes his outfit out. Peter comes over to him. Not
daring to do anything but unwilling to let Edmund leave him behind, yet again.
Seemingly satisfied with his appearance Edmund grants Peter a gullible smile.
Then he takes Peter's face tenderly in his hands.
“Do you do all this because you hate me so much?”
“You really don't understand anything, do you?” He says but it's a
treacherously cold statement. Devoid of any sentiment. Like Peter's a lost
cause he is fed up bothering about. So, his hands glide away and he is
obviously aiming for the exit. Peter grabs him by the waist and hauls him in
for a desperate kiss. He gets a syringe jammed into his neck for the trouble.
 
 
 
 
Only a week later they're dispatched to Casablanca, Morocco.
Jill had been gone on another mission so they arrive on separate planes. He
reads through the file; telling him they're here to catch a rogue Agent with
access to sensitive data and bring him home. Or dispose of him. Whatever seems
more doable. Then the door to their rented rooftop apartment jostles open and
there she is. Looking more like a tourist than anything with her giant purse,
sunglasses dropping down her nose and that scarf slung around her head.
When she sees him, her face turns a bit more inert and tentatively she pulls
her hair free of the garment.
“Let's get that son of a bitch home, hm?”
Peter merely gives a vague nod in her direction.
 
They begin by tracking down the people he's been in contact with and from there
they find his hideout. Then it's only waiting. Peter in a chair, gun pointing
at the front door. Jill behind it, ready to grab him. And it works just fine.
At first. He seems to be willing to comply but then he makes a grab for Peter's
gun and Jill jumps out and they grapple. She overpowers him. Then she doesn't.
Peter tries to beat him down but he's fighting like a rabid dog and then...
well, Pete's shirt is definitely ruined. No way, he's gonna get that much blood
out. And he had just bought it, too.
 
They scour the house to take everything valuable and potentially incriminating
with them and then stage it like a robbery gone wrong.
 
They slink around the back alleys trying to get back to the hotel as
inconspicuously as possible. Peter's shirt taken off and bunched in his hand.
He's seriously about to fucking lose it with his 'great, enthusiastic' partner.
“Jill!” He snubs at her. “Is there anything in particular you need to get off
your chest?”
She looks at him caught but doesn't offer anything up.
“No? Can we then please just get back to our bloody room so I can shower and
you can stop staring at me as if I murdered your cat?” He stares her down for a
moment longer, then simply huffs and stomps away.
“I talked to Lucy,” She admits finally.
That gets him to stop.
“Whatever it is you're about to say, don't,” He warns.
But, alas it was 'great, enthusiastic   and   headstrong', after all.
“It's just- If you thought it was Edmund and I did then maybe- “
“Don't!”
Now he does turn on her, as menacing and dangerous as he dares. She meets him
there.
“Really! Because it would explain a lot actually! Your track record has always
been disgustingly immaculate, but ever since you met this guy- !”
“I said give it a rest!”
She continuous to glare at him but keeps her mouth shut.
“You think just because you're a field Agent now, you know all about the
business. Running around in ludicrous outfits, with all your ideas how things
should be done and your annoying as shit know-it-all attitude. You were afraid
that you're just an ordinary girl? Well, let me reassure you there. You're a
fucking nobody and nothing you do will ever change that. Wrong fucking career.”
The wetness springing to her eyes, almost produce something akin to guilt in
him. But as he had just laid out to her; she is a nobody and her feelings mean
absolutely nothing.
“Screw you, too, Peter,” She counters then and storms past him.
 
He stomps into the opposite direction. Dumping the shirt deep in a random
dumpster, acquiring a cheap new one and ducking into the shadiest bar he can
find.
He's three drinks in when the bartender makes a casual pass at him. She's
pretty with her blonde hair, busty rack and lips pulling ever so slightly into
a mischievous grin. He lets her talk to him for the rest of her shift. With a
slow night like this, it's probably just as well for her.
“So, I'm off in half an hour,” She mentions, leaning much too far in while
pouring him yet another shot. “You think you're still around by then?”
“Depends,” He muses and sets the glass to his lips.
“On?”
“Whether or not you'll be fine with a shithole of a hotel because I pretty much
already spend all my money here.”
“Ah, I think I know just the place,” She chuckles and goes to tend to another
costumer.
 
She brings him to probably the seediest Motel in all of bloody Morocco. He can
hear people yelling and throwing shit even from where he stands and waits in
the parking lot. Finally, Salma comes back crooks her finger at him and entices
him with a come-hither look.
 
It's been a while since he fucked pussy but ramming into her and fondling her
breasts makes him realize that he should be doing this much more. Fuck, she
felt amazing around him. Her velvety folds pulling him in so good, her warmth
and squishy wetness just making him want to rut harder. And, God, she didn't
hold back, either. Screaming and yelling at the top of her lungs.
By the time they had switched to their third position he came and immediately
she pulled him down to eat her out.
Afterwards, they lay there lax and exhausted. Still, he gets up soon enough and
makes for the shower.
“You're not a nice person, are you?” She asks serenely into the room.
Peter stops in the doorway for a moment.
“No,” He answers then. “I'm really not.”
 
When he gets back she's asleep. Remembering his apartment and Jill in it, he
lays back down with her.
 
The first thing he registers when he wakes up are the contorted grey shadows
across the room, accompanied by indiscernible noise produced by the TV. Through
his clenched eyes he can still discern that Salma is not beside him anymore,
out of reflex he sits up.
At the little table sits Edmund, idly munching on a paprika and following the
telly programme enraptured. Further towards the bathroom is Salma, tied to a
chair. Her head is drooping and it looks like there's dried blood at her
temple.
Peter tries to overrule his body's instinct to tense up and instead means to
address Edmund calmly. But as soon as he opens his mouth does Edmund hold a
finger up towards him, albeit not taking his eyes off of the unfolding soap
opera.
 
Peter takes a moment to survey the room. Pants plus phone are right by the bed,
gun is under it, he had slid it down there as soon as they had stumbled in,
Shirt is by the door. He slinks towards the jeans. Both he and Salma are only
in their underwear, not ideal.
“Can't believe Juan Carlo would do something like that,” Edmund shakes his head
in disbelief, turns the TV off and pops the last of the paprika into his mouth
before turning towards Peter. “Going somewhere?”
“Just kinda cold, nights a pretty chilly here.”
Edmund humphs in agreement and watches while Peter puts his pants back on.
“How's Jill?” He asks. “Haven't seen her in forever.”
“Good. She's good. Her grandma caught a cold recently but she's out of the
woods now.”
“Good to hear, good to hear,” Edmund muses disinterested. “You fucked her,
yet?”
“80 plus isn't really my type, you know,” Peter clicks and zips up his fly.
Edmund's laugh is stilted.
“Real comedian, you are.”
 
Just then Peter notices a knife sitting by Ed's elbow, when he meets his gaze
again Edmund smiles smugly. He slides his fingers around the handle and gets
up, not looking away from Peter for a single second.
“Let's wake your whore, huh?” He suggests and saunters over to her.
“Edmund, come on. What are you doing?”
“Wakey wakey,” He sing-songs. “What's her name? No, don't tell me I want to
guess. Sara? Fatima? Ghita? Is it Jasmine?”
“Edmund.” Peter pleads. Wrong choice. Edmund backhands her.
“Wake up!”
Groaning and whimpering through her mouth gag she slowly slips back into
consciousness. Assisted by Edmund's grip in her hair, she lifts her head. Tears
of terror start streaming down her face as she takes in Edmund and then Peter.
“She has nothing to do with this.” Peter reasons. “I thought you were on a
mission to make the world a better place? Let her go, come on.”
“Yeah, well,” Ed sighs theatrically. “Sorta lied about that. Biryukov is a good
friend of mine and that bomb in Bogotá went off because I said so, just like
those three Agents are dead because of me. Also you should totally keep an eye
out for some great headlines coming from Germany next month.”
He chuckles to himself while prowling around Salma, steadily letting his knife
run over her skin.
“Funny enough, though. Because you really did believe all that crap, didn't
you? That it was you who fucked all of that up. Probably because you do know
that deep down you really are nothing but a depraved, sadistic asshole.”
He stops moving and looks thoughtful into the air. Salma throws Peter a look of
pure fear, begging him to help her.
“Ed,” Peter tries again. “Please. Do to me whatever you want but Salma- please
don't hurt her. She's just a girl. She's never done anything in her life. You
frighten her. Just take the binding off and let her go home. Pleas- ”
“IT'S NOT LIKE YOU CARE!” He screams and pinches the bridge of his nose a
second later, like he can't believe Peter made him lose his cool like that. He
huffs annoyed and then crouches down to be closer to Salma's face.
“Want me to tell you a little story about our dear Petey, here?” Bigger tears
well up and she muffles something.
“He used to fuck me. Aaaall the time. And mind you, he wasn't gentle about it.
But that's how big brothers are, hmm? They just take what they want.”
When the words register in her brain, she throws Peter a scandalous look. But
his attention is wholly on Edmund now, he has to find a way out of this. Before
Edmund does something Peter can't get him out of any longer.
“And I used to admire him so much, as well. Just wanted my big bro to love me.
But he always pretended not to hear me when I called his name afterwards. Just
left me behind drenched and ashamed with his semen drying all over me. And you
wouldn't believe how easily he always shook me off the few times I tried to
reach out to him. It was always all about him.”
He throws Peter a smile, the utmost amusement dancing in his eyes.
“But I was okay with all that. Because I knew the real Pete. For everyone else
he always pretended to be such a good boy but I knew him. I saw the real
monster, practically had him in me every other day after all,” He laughed. “But
then, one day, what do I hear? He's back on the straight and narrow!” And
Edmund stands back up, stretching his arms out to both sides. “Gonna work for
MI6, they told me. Peter's finally got a hold of himself. Everyone's so proud
and happy!” He grins, then stops. “But I knew it wasn't true. He'd never
change. And I was determined to proof just that to the whole goddamn world if I
had to. And this is where you come into play my lovely Salma.”
She chokes panicked when Edmund comes to stand beside her, knife pressed to her
throat.
Peter extends a hand, willing him not to do this.
“Ed, if you love me at all then- “
That earns him a crazed, incredulous laugh.
“If I love you? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Because you said you don't hate me, I figured... “
Edmund looks at him absolutely stunned.
“Jesus Christ. You really are the most pathetic person I know. You're a good
fuck,” He exclaims. “Other than that I do not give a shit about you. Do you
still don't get that? I told you, I did not deliberately lead you to all these
places. You just kept getting in my way all on your own and I fucked with you
so much because I know from experience the best way to get you to be an
apathetic, self-absorbed brooding mess is to have random sex with you. God.”
 
A small voice in Peter's head nails that as a lie. He would not have seen
Edmund as much in these last years if Edmund himself hadn't wanted him to. The
chance meeting in Tennessee must have been just as rattling to him. That has to
be the truth. Because Peter doesn't think he could deal with the alternative.
 
“How to distract your man 101. Those magazines of Susan do have something to be
said for them. Hmm? What do you think, Salma, dear?” Edmund leans down to speak
directly into her ear. She shudders and again searches Peter's gaze.
“Please,” Peter asks one last time. “Let her go.”
Unperturbed, Edmund just slits her throat instead.
Instantly, Peter lunges for him and they land in a wrestling heap on the floor.
The knife is flung somewhere to the bed and Peter tries everything to restrain
Edmund's limbs but when he gets a hold of one, another hits him in the face or
stomach or anywhere really.
 
Before he knows it Ed tugs him close and their mouths smash together. Hands on
collars and buttons, until Ed's creamy chest comes into view and Peter's pants
are halfway down his legs again. His mouth latches onto Edmund's nipple, he
gets a leg in between his thighs for that. But it needs to be more and he
forces the shirt completely off Edmund's body and changes their position so
that he has him on his back. Next he opens the fly and pulls the pants down,
too. Edmund watches him do it with hungry eyes. Provocatively, he spreads his
legs as soon as he's naked.
Peter can't help but take a pause. He sits back, means to plant his hands
behind him for steadying and comes into contact with a warm liquid. With a
start he pulls the hand back and sees the blood clinging to it. Both him and
Edmund watch it drip down his fingers.
Quietly, Ed cackles and Peter's temper snaps. He grabs him by his still spread
legs and hauls him forward, fully intending for the rug burn contorting
Edmund's smile. Without preamble he forces him on his stomach and is surprised
by how easily his little brother lets it happen. But then again his haughty
grin seems to be permanently plastered to his face. As if he somehow tricked
Peter and there isn't really anything he can do to be the one in control. That
it is solely reserved for Edmund.
 
So be it! He scoops his palm through the puddle of blood and begins to open
Edmund up with hurried fingers. Edmund purrs, rocking his hips back greedily.
When Peter finds his prostate and tortures it deliberately Edmund begins to
lose his composure. He moans loudly, scratches the floor and twists his hips
impatiently.
“Just fuck me already!” He yells then.
This time it is Peter who laughs. He rearranges Edmund until he can fit his
dick perfectly against his hole. He has no interest in seeing his cock lathered
with blood so he pushes in mostly dry. Immediately, Edmund's pleased groan
turns into a pained grunt but Peter relishes in it. He sees Edmund's hand still
clawed into the carpet and without much thought interlaces their fingers. His
bloody hand print staining Edmund's pristine skin everywhere.
“Fuck, I missed this. Having you under me like this,” Peter rambles. “You're so
beautiful, so fucking hot.”
“Shut up and actually do it then, would you!”
“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Peter grunts and drives in deep. Making sure to aim for
Edmund's sweet spot every time. Relentlessly, he picks up his pace, ramming
into the heat without any gentleness.
Sure enough climax nears and he bites down hard on Edmund's shoulder, making
him come first. The clenching muscle wrenches his orgasm from him and he spurts
everything he has into him.
 
Later, after they cleaned each other in the bathtub and disposed Salma in it,
they lay down on the bed. They're both still naked and not thinking about what
anything of this means for the future.
 
Momentarily, Edmund hangs off the bed and emerges back up with the knife in
hand. The blood on it already dried but he still tries to wipe it off. Peter
watches him. They haven't said a word, yet.
Then Edmund scoots closer and makes to sit astride on Peter, rubbing his ass
rhythmically on his dick. He's not sure if he can get it up a third time
tonight, although, Edmund can be rather persuasive.
Calmly, the tip of his knife lands directly over his heart. Edmund doesn't put
much strength behind it, just enough for Peter to feel it.
“You want to carve my heart out?”
“It's mine and I should be able to do with it as I please.”
Peter hisses as the blade nicks his skin. In the next moment Edmund leans down
and kisses the wound.
“Let's fuck again.”
“Yeah, okay.”
 
Edmund goes down on him and Peter hates that he has become so incredibly good
at it without him being there.
Once he is achingly hard again, Ed moves back upwards. Sitting down on his
stomach, Peter almost takes it as a cue to start blowing him, as well, but Ed
only leans over to the bedside table and gets out lube.
“There's a reason these hotels charge hourly, you know.”
Peter smiles fondly at his clever little brother. Quickly, he snatches the lube
from him, slicks himself and Ed's hole up. Then Edmund hovers over his dick,
looking expectantly down at him. Peter does the only sane thing and presses
Edmund down by the hips.
They moan in unison as they connect once more. Ed starts a slow and very sweet
rhythm. They both keep their eyes locked on each other. It's only when Peter
bucks up into him, does Edmund have to close his.
Together they coax another orgasm from each others bodies. Their hands
interlock just as Edmund spills over Peter's chest and Peter shoots another
load into him.
Then Edmund's energy leaves him and Peter manhandles him down beside him, one
arm still cradled around him.
They regulate their breathing slowly and Peter almost drifts off when a
tentative hand lands on his chest, right above his heart.
 
“It is mine, isn't it?”
And Peter can't believe that after everything they've done to each other he
still has to ask that.
“It's always been yours.” Is all he answers and isn't crazy enough to ask for
Edmund's in return.
 
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