Disclaimer: They aren't mine.

Author's Note: I was in a very Pedmund mood. This style of writing from one perspective to another was inspired by another story I saw on here, but I can't remember what is was. It was a Caspeter, I believe.


You know, Aslan probably doesn't approve.

If he didn't approve, he'd have stopped us by now.

Maybe he's giving us a chance to stop voluntarily?

What's your point, Peter? You're normally so up-front.

I don't know. His indifference bothers me.

Maybe he's leaving our lives up to us. He knows how we feel.

Yes, but it really is our responsibility.

What is our responsibility?

Didn't our mother always tell us that the reason God didn't stop Hitler was because it was humanity's responsibility to make all those important decisions, because of our free will?

So you're saying we are abusing the free will that Aslan gave us as Kings.

I'm saying that might be how he sees it.

Do you think what we're doing is wrong?

I do feel a bit guilty.

I see.

I love you, I want you, I want to be with you, in that way, but that is why I feel guilty.

Does it feel wrong to you, then?

It feels wrong because it feels right.

You're not making any sense.

We're brothers, Ed.

I know. And?

Well it's not normal.

Neither is anything else that we've experienced. We've gone from one world to the next and back again, twice. We've been in wars, fought witches, become royalty, ridden alongside centaurs, befriended dwarves and talking squirrels and beavers and badgers.

Talking animals and falling in love with your brother are two completely different things.

They're both very weird, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them.

I worry. I feel like a pervert sometimes. I feel like I'm destroying your innocence.

Dear Lord. Peter, I am not a five-year-old. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I decided that I wanted to be yours. What I feel for you is beyond brotherly. It feels right, when we're making love, on a level that social prejudice can't reach.

Yes. I feel that way too. But, Ed ...


I can't get over it. I can't just ignore it.

So what are you trying to say? You want to go back to how it was? You want to break it off?

No! No, Ed, I don't. Never. But just bear with me, when I talk like this.

I can't help it. I get scared when you talk like this, that you'll change your mind.

About you? Us? No way. Not a snowflake's chance in hell.

Show me. Kiss me.





Okay, okay. But if we get caught, it's all your fault.

Those broad hands, spreading like wings as gasps come fast and anxious from between pink lips. Smooth hair smoothed aside, fingers tangling in it. Like hands holding, ice cubes pressed one against the other until they are fixed as one partially melted, bones reforming in a different shape, or two lakes merging to form one, two pairs of lips mould together and mix until one is indistinguishable from the next. Crazed imaginations run wild. Heart beats accelerate to dangerous levels, eyes spring open, breaths become moans, sweat and heat and claustrophobia, a tight muscular invasion, welcome, wet, painful yet pleasurable, panting and gripping and rough, hurried thrusts, a thrust and parry, hands at the back of a neck, kisses on the lips and a rush of ecstasy down below, bliss, a beautiful physical abomination, two brothers becoming one. White liquid spurts, a new red mark on a convulsing neck. Legs parted, a welcome sign. They are in bed now.

Oh God ... you are so obscene.

Don't you enjoy it?

When you suck on my nipples? Grab my cock? Toss me on my front and prepare me with your tongue instead of your fingers? Yes.

I feel like doing some of those things now.

Still feeling guilty?

A little, but only because I left a bruise on your thigh.

I can feel it. Oh ... you ... oh, yes, I can feel it.

You like it here best, though.


Or here?

Little experimentations, constantly testing the boundaries they have already broken, measuring them and shattering them, with each cry and grind and violent bucking motion, each curse and beg and plea and foot as it kicks out, hand as it tears at flesh and bedsheets and clothes and each clumsily aimed jerk of the hips.

Ask me for it.

Please just do it, I'm so close.

You have to ask for it.

That's so cruel.

And hours later, two forms like one, like a dead spider with limbs splayed in all directions. One functioning body styled from two.

Do you think Aslan approves?

I don't care. Go to sleep.