MFB14: Edmund Rises to the Occasion

WARNING: Smut ahead!

There was more music and dancing when they returned to the castle with another feast was spread out on the tables. Edmund was not permitted to sit out the dances this time, and was begrudgingly partnered with countless girls; however, he enjoyed himself in spite of it, and caught himself laughing on a number of occasions. Peter also extended his courtesies to the few ladies with whom he had “not yet had the pleasure” — although truth be told, he pleased the ladies more than they could please him. His eyes continued to seek out his brother from time to time, even though it pained him to see Edmund smiling at the pretty girls to whom King Lune had introduced him.

Having spent the greater part of the day outdoors, everyone was ready to turn in early, and as Per and the other servants prepared their nightly bath, Edmund slipped out of the room for a moment. When he returned, he had Mrs. Dumplesugar’s jar of ointment and some fresh bandages.

“I know she changed it for you this morning, before we left,” he said, setting them out on a table, “but she said that it wouldn’t hurt to change it more often. I can do it for you later.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied, already washing himself (as best he could) with his left hand, Per faithfully at his back. Edmund cast off his shirt to join them, wordlessly holding out his hand until Peter gave up the cloth to him, and washed his brother’s chest and stomach, pausing to hand the cloth back when he reached Peter’s sensitive area. With a blush, Peter did what was necessary, and Edmund resumed scrubbing his thighs and legs while Per washed the High King’s hair. When the servants were replacing the hot water, Edmund filled a basin and set it on the floor next to Peter, who was drying his hair before the fire.

“If it doesn’t hurt too badly, you should soak your hand in it,” he directed. “Mrs. Dumplesugar said it would help.”

True to her prediction, Peter’s skin had nearly healed over already, sealing the wound, so it did not sting at all. Peter soaked his hand while Edmund took his bath, chatting with Per about the picnic that they had recently had in Narnia. (Per had missed hearing about it earlier, since he had been chasing Prince Corin in the woods.)

“Narnia must truly be a land of wonders,” Per remarked with longing. “I would dearly love to meet the fantastical creatures who live there! All the friendly ones, that is,” he added hastily.

“You should come visit us with King Lune,” Edmund suggested. “Next time he’ll probably bring you, and we’ll make sure that you get to meet as many of our Talking Beasts and unusual folk as possible! I’ll admit, some of them gave me a turn when I first saw them, but they’re all decent chaps once you get used to them.”

Peter made a mental note to ask King Lune to specifically bring Per with them on the next visit, and kept his eyes on his hand — the skin beginning to wrinkle in the warm water — while Edmund stepped out of the bath and dried off. The tub was carried out again and Per brought them both some chamomile tea before retiring. Edmund (now wearing his nightshirt) sat down next to his brother, bringing the clean bandages and ointment.

“I don’t think she meant for you to soak it that long, Peter!” Edmund exclaimed, examining his brother’s hand.

“Oh… Perhaps not,” Peter agreed. His fingers were as wrinkled as an Elephant’s knees.

Edmund toweled it dry for him, holding it up to the firelight. He could not have known the thrill that flashed like lightning through his brother’s fingers, arm, and spine at the touch of his smaller hands, but he did feel gratified at being entrusted with tending to his brother’s injury. The blood of the scab had dissolved from the combined effects of the salve and water, exposing the tear in the skin which was now loosely knit together. Edmund opened the jar and took a dollop of the ointment on one finger, then began to daub it with tender care upon the mending rift in his brother’s palm.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, almost wincing on Peter’s behalf.

“No. Don’t worry, Ed, I’ve had far worse before,” he assured him.

The older king was, for the moment, more preoccupied with observing his brother’s delicate features, lit on one side by the fire and plunged into shadow on the other. His dark lashes were stark against his pale skin, following the graceful curve of his eyelids as he peered down at the hand which he held in his own, gingerly spreading ointment over the wound. The faint dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks only accentuated the fairness of his complexion and the fine-boned structure of his nose. Peter ached to see such beauty, and could hardly breathe when he felt the feather-light touches of his brother’s finger wafting over his skin, sensitive from being newly formed. Edmund’s lips were parted ever so slightly as he focused on his task, and Peter longed to taste them with his own, knowing (to his torment) how soft and sweet they were.

“There… That should do it,” Edmund declared, expelling the breath which he had been unconsciously holding. He had taken twice as long to apply the salve as Mrs. Dumplesugar, though with a more careful touch. Peter was relieved that the ordeal was over but also wished that he might have frozen that moment in time forever — just so that he might be able to gaze upon his brother’s face as it was bent near his. But the titillation of feeling Edmund’s finger brush against his palm had already stirred his more vulgar longings, which he feared his nightshirt could not hide for long.

“Thanks, Ed,” was all he said as Edmund wrapped the new bandages around his hand, securing them with a neat knot.

“You’re welcome,” the younger boy replied, looking up at Peter with a happy, contented smile. Finding his brother’s eyes already fixed upon himself, Edmund felt the bumblebees buzzing in his stomach again and his face flush inexplicably. He sought to distract himself by saying, “I suppose we should have our tea before it gets cold.”

“Oh… right,” Peter mumbled, having forgotten about it. The brothers sipped it at first, testing its warmth, but finding it cooled Peter quaffed it outright, wanting to hide himself (and his incorrigible male organ) in bed before Edmund could notice the tell-tale tent. However, his haste had only served to call attention to himself, and he heard his brother gasp.

“Peter! Why didn’t you say something?”

Thinking that his face must soon burst into flames, for it felt that hot, Peter stood up and headed to his bed.

“It’s nothing. Goodnight, Ed.”

“Wait! It’s not nothing, it’s… well, it’s painful, and you won’t be able to sleep until you take care of it.” Edmund rose and followed his brother over. “I can do it! You don’t have to think twice about asking, you know — I’m happy to help!”

“Edmund, it’s… it’s just not something I’m comfortable asking you to do, all right?” Peter managed to get out as he slipped under the covers. “I know you don’t mind helping, and I appreciate it — really, I do — but this is just… too private. Too personal.”

He glanced up and thought his heart might stop, for his brother stood before him looking dejected and downcast.

“I… I thought I did all right, this morning…” Edmund’s voice trailed off, and Peter was alarmed at the note of sadness in it.

“You did great! Honest, it was just… wonderful,” Peter confessed, blushing all the more upon the recollection. “But I… I simply can’t ask you to do that again. You’ve already repaid me, remember?”

Edmund bit his lower lip as he nodded, but then burst out, “You’re not saying that because… because you’re embarrassed, are you?”

Peter had always been honest, and he could not have dissembled — especially to Edmund — even if his life had depended on it.

“Well… yes. It is embarrassing, Ed. It’s not something you would normally let someone else see you do, let alone do for you,” he emphasized, the sight of his younger brother relieving himself that morning still fresh in his mind.

“But, Peter… you said it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of! That it was a normal part of growing up. You told me so yourself, the first time it happened to me!”

Peter gaped at his younger brother, feeling the increasingly familiar sensation of defeat.

“Well, yes. Yes, I did. And it is. But—”

“And I’m not just ‘someone else,’ I’m your brother!” Edmund protested indignantly. “Let me do this for you, Pete. Please. I can’t bear to think of you suffering like this, when I’m more than happy to take care of it!”

Peter struggled, and it did seem as though he were torn in two with a battle raging within his chest. One half told him that it was unnatural to take delight in having his brother — who was so much younger — pleasure him in such an intimate, sensual way; while the other half argued that it was a natural and inevitable function of the male body, and since Edmund knew exactly what it involved and was his closest male relative — not to mention was eager, even anxious to help — that he was the logical person to ask for such assistance.

“Come on, Peter,” Edmund wheedled, gripping his brother’s knee. “It’ll help you sleep better; I know it will! And you’ll feel better tomorrow, too. Why is it so hard to let me do this?”

Peter swallowed, unexpectedly realising that it was difficult precisely because he took so much pleasure — perverse pleasure — in having his brother make such intimate contact. If he were not so infatuated with Edmund, perhaps it would not be a difficult request to pose at all! And with that muddled and hasty logic, he wondered if maybe the best way to hide his unnatural obsession with his brother might be to act as though it were not a momentous decision.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked, the last shreds of his moral conscience clinging to the ramparts of his virtue.

“Of course I don’t mind!” Edmund answered, immediately pulling back the covers and Peter’s garments to expose his saluting sword. As his brother’s fingers dexterously unsheathed it, the final rags of Peter’s conscience were torn from their tenuous toeholds, and he allowed himself to be led (as though his manhood were now the needle in his moral compass) to sit on the edge of the bed as he had this morning. Edmund brought out the chamber pot and set it where it needed to be, and this time he remained kneeling on the floor with his face near his brother’s upraised sword.

“Does this feel good?” he asked, grasping the blade in both hands, desirous only of giving his older brother the most satisfying experience he could manage.

“Y—Yes,” Peter gasped, as Edmund’s thumbs worked their way up the sensitive ridge on the underside.

“You’re so big, Peter,” Edmund said with frank admiration. “I wonder if I’ll ever grow to be this big?”

“P—Probably,” was Peter’s only reply, even though he knew (somewhere in the back of his mind) that he had been much larger than Edmund at his age. There was no sense in discouraging his little brother just yet, and at the moment his thoughts could not concentrate on anything other than the marvelous sensations assaulting his nether regions.

For a while Edmund concentrated on rubbing and stroking his brother’s powerful weapon. It seemed strange to be facing it as he was, but in some ways it was easier to manage, since he could see it well and place it in the center of his hands. Peter’s moans and guttural sighs guided him to touch the places that most afforded him pleasure, and soon he was expertly wrapping his fingers around both blade and cross-guard at once, kneading the latter while pulling upon the former, making the point drip with anticipation.

“Eh… Eh… Edmund,” Peter panted, sensing the end draw near.

“Are you almost there?” Edmund asked, stroking long and hard.

“Y—Yes! Oh, Edmund! Yesss!”

A few more persistent pulls on his trembling sword and Peter cried out in triumph. His seed shot out and hit Edmund in the face, but his brother did not cease his ministrations until, with a quivering jolt, the last drop had been ejected.

“Oh… Oh, Ed!” Peter gasped, then opened his eyes and saw the proof of his wantonness. “Oh, Edmund! I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be,” the younger boy curtly replied — not because he was upset with his brother, but because the sticky fluid was dripping down his forehead and cheeks. Peter jumped up to grab a cloth (the one that Edmund had used to dry his hand) and came back to wipe the mess off of his beautiful brother’s face.

“I’m so sorry! Oh, Ed… I should’ve never let you… Oh, Aslan — what have I done?” he moaned.

“Stop… Stop beating yourself up… over nothing,” Edmund demanded, while Peter sponged away his issue. Edmund finally grabbed the cloth to stay his brother’s hand. “I’m all right; I’ll just wash up in the basin,” he said, slightly breathless from being pawed over, however well-intentioned Peter might have been. “Look here, it’s my own fault for not realising how far it was going to go, and not getting out of the way in time, all right? You have nothing to apologise about. I just hope it felt as good as before?”

“Uh… yes. Yes, it did. Even better, actually,” Peter replied, pulling himself together with some effort.

“Good. That’s what matters,” his brother stated, then got up to wash his face. It was then that Peter realised that his brother was now in the state which he had just been.

“Ed?” he began, hesitantly.


“I… I know I’ve only got one hand I can use right now…” Peter said, wondering at his own daring even as he spoke, “but is there some way… I mean, can I help you… you know, like you just helped me…?”

Edmund’s heart leapt into his throat for a moment, but he grinned impishly at Peter.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked, echoing his brother’s words from before.

Peter nodded, his mouth having gone dry, and rasped out, “Of course I’m sure!”

Edmund walked back to where his brother sat. He was much taller than that first time, two years ago, and Peter moved back to make room for him at the edge of the bed. As he sat between his older brother’s legs and exposed himself, Edmund moaned with pleasure at the mere touch of Peter’s bandaged hand upon his stomach, holding up his nightshirt, and leaned back against his wide chest when his brother’s left hand fondled his smaller sword.

“Peter, I—I love how your hand feels,” he confessed in a whisper. “It’s so big, and warm…”

“Is it enough?” Peter asked, worried that he needed two to do the job properly.

“Oh! Yeah,” Edmund assured him, resting his head upon Peter’s shoulder. “It’s… wonderful…”

Peter continued to slowly caress his brother’s organ, gently but insistently, enjoying how the smooth, warm skin moved under his touch. As Edmund panted with desire, begging for more, Peter increased the speed of his movements, and it was not long before his young brother’s whole body went rigid, straining against the violence of his release. When it was over, Edmund was like a limp rag doll in his arms.

“Would… Would you care to sleep with me again, tonight?” Peter asked, still somehow afraid that he would be refused.

“That sounds… perfect,” Edmund sleepily replied, so Peter pulled him back into the bed, holding him like a priceless treasure.

“Goodnight, Ed,” he breathed, his lips almost grazing the nape of his neck. When Edmund didn’t respond, he kissed the soft skin there, over and over, before falling into a deep and languid sleep.

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