MFB08: Peter Finally Sleeps

WARNING: Smut ahead!

Edmund awoke gradually, feeling warmer and more comfortable than he had in a long while. It took him a moment to figure out why he was tucked in so tightly, and when he realised that he was still wrapped in Peter’s arms, he snuggled even closer against his brother’s chest. Peter stirred but did not awaken, and Edmund lay motionless, listening to his brother’s slow breathing and feeling his heartbeat against his back. He noticed that his own neck felt damp — no doubt from Peter’s breath, which continued to stir the fine hairs on his skin with a welcome warmth. Peter’s right hand was draped over him, cradling him, and he played with it languidly, worming his slender fingers in through his brother’s stouter ones. It would be a long time before his own hands would grow to be as big, he thought.

The door to their room opened and a maidservant crept in to make up the fire. Edmund was glad that she was so stealthy, for he didn’t want Peter to wake up just yet. She left just as quietly to do the same for the other guests’ rooms, never noticing that one bed was empty while the other was crowded, much to Edmund’s relief — he didn’t want her to think that he had crawled in with his brother because he was frightened of sleeping alone, like a little child, even if he did feel more secure with Peter’s larger frame wrapped protectively round him.

He was warm and perfectly comfortable now, but one part of his anatomy was clamoring for him to leave his cocoon-like environment to attend to his toilet. He resolutely stayed put, knowing that patience would win out in the end, although there was a price to pay. However, holding Peter’s hand against his stomach, he could not help remembering how his brother had taught him how to fulfill his male needs, and the memory of that first encounter with pleasure made his rebellious member strain even harder against his undergarment.

Edmund bit his lip in frustration. If only he could ask Peter to pleasure him again… but of course, since he already knew how (and had become quite adept at it over the past two years) there was no reason to have his brother repeat his instructions. Even if Edmund could have screwed up the courage to ask, which was doubtful, he knew that Peter would probably only lecture him on handling his responsibility as a man. He had been over this ground many times before in his mind, although there was a part of that mind which argued that he could still benefit from further guidance from his older, more experienced brother.

Edmund squirmed with increasing discomfort until he became miserable, wanting release desperately but also wanting to stay in Peter’s arms for as long as he could. He held out for several minutes by concentrating on the sound of Peter’s breathing, but somehow that did not alleviate his distress and, in fact, only seemed to make it worse. Finally giving in to his carnal desires, he reached down to grab his offending member through his nightshirt — hoping against hope that his movement would not disturb Peter. As he fondled himself, he recalled again how his brother’s hands had once felt against his sensitive skin and panted with even greater need. Then he suddenly realised that one of those very hands which he had so often dreamt about (in much the same situation) was mere inches away from where he so ardently wanted it to be.

He tried to stop and consider the preposterousness of the idea, but his mind was befuddled with desire. “Supposing Peter wakes up?” a voice inside of him cautioned, but his hands had already reached up to find his brother’s, then were pulling it down towards his impatient manhood. Peter continued to sleep, unknowing, as Edmund gently curled his brother’s hand around his hardness. Even through his nightshirt and undergarment, he could feel the warmth of the large palm, the innate strength of the larger digits. He clasped it to himself and drew a deep breath. The feeling of being completely encompassed was as satisfying as he had remembered.

Slowly, with his heart in his throat, Edmund pressed against his brother’s palm, his hips seeming to move on their own to rub his most sensitive organ upon that blessed warmth. Peter’s breathing did not waver even while Edmund’s grew harsh and erratic. For a few minutes, all was heat and want and confusion and passion. Then with a rush of inexpressible joy, Edmund gasped as his seed spewed forth, moistening his brother’s hand even through his clothes. And still Peter slumbered, unaware of the bliss which his brother had attained by him.

Edmund collapsed, hot, sated, and relieved that it was over. He wiped Peter’s hand on a clean section of his nightshirt, then held it close to his chest while he pondered what he had done. He did not regret it in the least, despite knowing full well that had his brother awakened and discovered him in such a shameful act, he would have regretted it more than anything else in his life, save perhaps one. But he had just proven that Peter could give him a degree of pleasure beyond what he had ever achieved by himself — a fact that he had suspected ever since his first lesson in manhood. For, try as he might, his release was never as intense or as thoroughly gratifying as that first time when Peter had accomplished it for him.

It did not occur to Edmund that the thrill of doing something illicit might have accentuated the pleasure for him this time, or that perhaps, in his memory, that very first experience had become aggrandised beyond what was true or even possible. Nor did it occur to him how unusual and inordinate his infatuation with his brother’s hands was (cut off as he had been from our world and its mores and norms), nor that his attachment to his brother might have had something to do with the extreme level of satisfaction which he had derived. He simply believed — now that he had doubly proven the near-magical effectiveness of Peter’s hands — that his older brother, by virtue of his larger size, was endowed with the ability to provide a more wondrous height of pleasure.

The closeness of the covers was uncomfortable for a while, but once his lust-induced fever had cooled, Edmund sidled back against Peter, still holding his brother’s hand like a precious talisman against his breast. When he wriggled to get his hindquarters closer, however, he found that Peter was in the same straits as he had just been. The contact with Edmund’s warm body made Peter stir in his sleep and (though still unconscious) he embraced his younger brother more tightly to himself, mumbling something before settling down again. Edmund kept stock still for fear of waking him and noticed how powerful and strong Peter’s member felt against his thighs.

Having just observed him coming out of a bath, Edmund knew how much larger Peter was in all aspects and wondered if he himself would truly grow to match his brother in a few years’ time. He hoped that he would, of course, because he regarded Peter as the epitome of all things admirable and manly — and kingly and noble as well — and wished to emulate him as much as possible. He was glad to be Peter’s brother, for it gave him at least a fighting chance to grow up to be like him, despite their obvious physical differences. Surely, blood had to account for something!

Peter grunted in his sleep and pressed himself against the soft flesh on the back of Edmund’s legs, making the younger boy catch his breath in surprise. Was it possible, Edmund wondered, that Peter’s manhood had grown even larger? It certainly felt so. With a heave and a sigh, Peter crooked one leg over Edmund’s, wrapping him in a virtual stranglehold from which he could not escape (even had he wanted to). Now Edmund was certain that his brother’s girth and length had increased, and as the heat of it seemed to brand him like a poker, he struggled to settle it into a more manageable position and parted his thighs. The randy organ slid between them, demanding passage as though it were the High King’s due. Edmund held his breath in awe at the intimate proximity their two bodies were now in, and slowly, hesitantly, he entrapped Peter where he had wedged between his thighs, albeit with the gentlest care.

Peter moaned, but in such a way that Edmund knew that their close quarters were not unwelcome to his brother. While his skin felt as though it were burning where Peter’s manhood protruded, even through both of their garments, the heat reminded him of the release which he had so recently enjoyed himself, and he tenderly rubbed his brother between his legs in the hopes of reciprocating Peter’s unconscious favour. It did not take long before Peter mumbled again, then moaned and trembled against Edmund’s backside. The warm dampness that flooded his loins was surest proof that he had, indeed, returned the debt that he had owed his older brother, whether Peter was aware of it or not.

As Peter sank even deeper into oblivion, Edmund lay in silent contentment for a long while, simply enjoying the rare sensation of being enfolded in his brother’s embrace. Then he heard the clip-clopping of cloven hoofs in the hallway and a light tapping on their door. Since both kings of Narnia were notorious for being hard to arouse from their slumber, Mr. Tumnus entered before Edmund had the chance to call out, and the Faun was understandably surprised to find the younger king not only awake but also in his brother’s bed, in his brother’s very arms.

“Your Majesty,” he began, slightly flustered, “if you would join our hosts at breakfast, you must get up now.”

“All right. But… I think we should let Peter sleep in,” Edmund whispered back, glad that Mr. Tumnus had not spoken loudly. “He hasn’t been sleeping well, you know, and he seems to be now.”

The Faun peered just behind King Edmund to note that the High King was still fast asleep despite their conversation, then nodded in agreement.

“Yes, of course. But you must make an excuse for him to King Lune,” he warned.

“I will. I’ll be out in a moment,” Edmund promised, and Mr. Tumnus left as quietly as he could.

Now the problem was how to extricate himself from Peter, with whom he had become so entangled. Edmund carefully separated their lower limbs and slid out from under his brother’s embrace, shivering as he became exposed to the colder air of the room. But as he removed his nightshirt, his cheeks flushed at the realisation that both it and his undergarment were soiled on two accounts, and he folded them in an attempt to hide the stains from Mrs. Dumplesugar’s view for as long as possible.

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

When he had just started having problems with his issue, he had used to wash his garments in the basin meant for washing his hands and face, then hung the damp things in obscure corners of his room to dry; however, the wise Raccoon had quickly found him out and scolded him for not coming to her at once.

“Eh! As if I didn’t have five litters of my own, and more than my fair share of boys!” she remonstrated. “Now, I know it must be different for Sons of Adam, but there’s no cause to be ashamed of it, and certainly none for ruining the furniture! You just put those things in the clothes hamper where they belong, your silly Highness, and let us Raccoons do what we do best — and before the stains set for good!”

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

A smile formed on Edmund’s lips even now as he recalled her words. The old Raccoon had asked to work at the castle after her husband had died in a sudden flood, and she had become something of a Nurse to the younger Pevensies, as well as a confidante to Susan. He knew that she would not bat a black-masked eye at the new mess presented to her, and he only hoped that she would not ask him (in her very direct way) what he had been playing at.

Having dressed and finished his toilet in a hurry, Edmund took one last look at Peter before he left the room. His brother was sleeping more soundly than he had in many long months, thanks in large part to the relief afforded him by Edmund. Even if the younger boy had not assisted him in achieving more than one release, the mere fact that he had been allowed to clasp his love (as he had so often longed to do) was enough to soothe his soul into restful peace. Coming hard on the heels of some extremely restless nights, Peter was now dead to the world, drifting in happy dreams.

Edmund gazed at the small mole just below his brother’s right ear — one of the many that dotted Peter’s skin like the brightest of the stars in the sky — and reached out a finger to touch it, brushing against it as lightly as a butterfly’s wings. Even sleeping, with his hair rumpled and his face pressed to the pillow, Edmund was certain that his brother was the most handsome and winsome young man to ever grace the world — either Narnia or the other.

After allowing his eyes to linger for a moment more, he had turned to leave the room when he heard his brother’s voice say, “Ed.”

Edmund froze, thinking that he had disturbed Peter by touching him, and came back to his bedside with a guilty countenance; however, he found his brother’s eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even.

“He must have called me in his sleep,” he concluded, relieved. And then another thought occurred to him. “He must be dreaming about me!

A funny feeling formed in Edmund’s stomach, as though he had swallowed an entire hive of bumblebees and they were all buzzing to get out. He could not have explained why this trivial intimation should have affected him so, but there was a new lightness to his steps as he joined his sisters in the hall and went from thence to the castle’s dining room.

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

“Ah, good morrow, my dear friends!” King Lune greeted them with a broad smile. “But what is this? Where is our good King Peter?”

“I must crave your indulgence on behalf of my brother, your Majesty” Edmund replied, having practised his little speech on Mr. Tumnus during their short walk out. “And of Queen Primela’s as well. But the clear mountain air must have refreshed my brother so well, that he has fallen into a deep sleep such as he has not enjoyed in a very great while, and I — knowing what benefit he could reap from such a rare respite — was loath to awake him. Forgive me the discourtesy, but I could not do otherwise and still claim to be a knight in the service of the High King.”

So then of course King Lune wanted to know what was troubling Peter and how long it had been going on, and Edmund very tactfully claimed that it was the responsibility of being High King taking its toll (for his sisters had also agreed that it would be unkind to expose Peter’s heartache without his consent, even to their closest friends). When he explained that he had made Peter drink some chamomile tea, Queen Primela admitted that she frequently drank it as well to calm her mind at night. They sat down to breakfast and soon their conversation drifted elsewhere.

Afterwards, Prince Corin was eager to play with his new wooden sword, so Edmund gladly joined him in the courtyard, scampering about to match the much younger boy with no less enthusiasm. He could not stop smiling, for even though the bees still seemed to be buzzing in his stomach, the sensation was not unpleasant.

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