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rthstewart) wrote2012-09-24 11:07 pm
rthstewart) wrote2012-09-24 11:07 pm
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vialethe, Edmund, Peter, Tebbitt drunk!fic
Tebbitt, Edmund, Peter: One tequila, two tequila, three tequila floor
“Take my advice,” Pevensie, the younger-scarier-than-hell-one, said. “Don’t try to keep up with Peter.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” Tebbitt said.
“It’s not,” Pevensie the younger, said. “It’s a warning.”
Pevensie the elder returned to the table with three pints (filled) and three shot glasses (empty).
Tebbitt liked the way the man bought drinks.
He began to wonder if maybe Pevensie the younger's admonition had not been simple bravura when Pevensie the elder removed a very tall bottle of aged Herradura tequila from his satchel.
“The thing about empty glasses,” Pevensie the elder said, “is that they need filling.”
ooOOoo
“The problem with nymphs is the bark,” the elder said.
“They bark?” Tebbitt asked.
“Better than biting!” Pevensie the younger said. “Trust me on that.”
“And it gets everywhere,” Pevensie the older said.
Pevensie the younger nodded sagely. “’specially the splinters.”
ooOOoo
Forlauren_titmus
Tebbitt and Cross-dressing (because we all know it's happened at least once...) *grin*
Because blue matches his eyes
Susan held up the blue shirt dress and then the red suit. Blue. Red. Blue. Red.
“Can’t you make up your mind?” came the whinge.
“Oh do keep your shirt on.”
“I don’t have a shirt on,” Tebbitt complained. “I don’t have anything on!”
He was being over-dramatic. Tebbitt was wearing shorts. She decided on the blue dress and set it on the chair. “This will go well with your colouring and will give you a nice waistline once it is belted.”
Susan studied Tebbitt's silhouette as he struggled with the accoutrements of a lady's dressing and tapped an impatient, manicured fingertip to her lips. “That brassiere does not fit you well. You need more tissue.”
She handed him the box and he began stuffing it in.
“It itches and how can you breathe?”
Susan chose to not mention that she thought a corset and girdle would be just the thing to turn Tebbitt’s rectangular man-shape into something more feminine. Though, they really needed to pad his hips. She was at her leisure to study them – his hips – and the problem they posed as he was bent over trying to put on silk stockings.
“You do have very nice legs, Tebbitt. But if you rip my stockings, I shall make you replace them, and trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
“Next time, we do the bag drop at a men’s club.”
ooOOoo
For 'E' How fun! I vote for number 9: forced to share a bed, either Peter and Morgan or Edmund and Sir Lezi. Because of the wonderful awkwardness.
We have both!
Peter and Morgan. In a bed and get your minds out of the gutter!
"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Morgan?"
“No, sir. I'm fine. We'll be home tomorrow.”
Peter heard a sniffle.
It had been a simple trip north for Morgan to assess the feasibility of Marsh-wiggle exports (she had thought there might be a market for their liquor and tobacco among those who preferred truly toxic vices). Peter had wanted to see to the northern border and, with Lucy having taken Aidan to visit their island protectorates, Edmund had remained at Cair Paravel. Up and there had been fine. It had all gone to Tash's Hell on the return. The rain had been relentless and they had lost nearly all of their gear when the pack on one of the horses had snapped as they had forded the Shribble. The rain had finally stopped and so they had sheltered for the night in the Owlwood. They were all cold, wet, and hungry, and even Dwarf-made fire didn't warm much.
Against his back, he felt Morgan shiver again.
With his sisters, he would put an arm about her and they could share the single, dry blanket and bedroll together. But this was Morgan who was, as always, keeping her distance from him.
“Fooh? Beehn?” Peter called.
“Yes, High King?” Fooh asked. Peter heard a yawn – that would be Beehn.
"Please join us. It is cold. We will all be warmer with you both here.”
The Cheetahs padded over in the dark, eyes glowing, claws softly catching on the leaf litter of the wooded floor. Fooh settled next to him and Beehn curled up with a contented purr next to Morgan on the other side. Morgan threw her arm over the Cheetah.
"Thank you, Beehn." He wondered how Morgan had been able to tell the difference in the dark. In all but temperament, the Cheetah brothers were nearly identical.
"Is that better?" Peter asked.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The Cheetah's purrs softened to a contented rumble and Peter felt Fooh's tail against his legs.
"Morgan?"
"Sir?"
"Could you please call me 'Peter?' Especially after so long? You are my brother's wife, my own family. The sir makes me uncomfortable."
Behind him, he could sense her fingers moving restlessly. Morgan would tease loose thread right out of cloth. Morgan's seams always had to be firmly sewn down.
When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Morgan, you calling me sir..."
"If you want me to answer, you have to stop talking... sir."
Morgan had just interrupted him!? Peter was not accustomed to this. In fact the only person who routinely did so was Morgan. And Susan, occasionally, usually when his sister was berating him for some obstinacy that was not in accord with how she would manage the world. Of course, Edmund as well, come to think on it. Lucy wouldn't interrupt -- she would laugh at him.
"Very well, Morgan. I shall await your answer." And if they waited long enough, he would fall asleep.
"It is a lot things," she finally said in halting words.
Another long pause.
"I'm not comfortable around you at all. I don't know if I ever will be."
Having asked, and knowing Morgan's forthright manner, Peter could not very well complain of hurt because his brother's wife and bondmate had responded truthfully.
"I am sorry, Morgan. Is there anything I might..."
"The only thing that would help would be for you to be other than you are. That won't happen."
Blunt and harsh. "But why, Morgan? Can you tell me?"
There was another, even longer, pause.
"Morgan?"
"Don't interrupt me!"
She had not been speaking, so what was he interrupting?
"It's because of who you are," she replied eventually. "You never say the wrong thing, do you? Never at a loss for words? You've never stood in front of someone with your mouth hanging open and words dancing around at your feet mocking you and you have to go running after them, like a Puppy chasing her own tail?"
"No,"' Peter admitted. With an internal wince, he had to admit her words were flowing without inhibition now.
"When you walk in a room, the torches on the wall burn brighter. Everyone turns to you, every eye turns to you, everyone tries to be with you. You are so ... so.... " She stammered, stumbled, and found her footing. "You are so big. You embrace everything and everyone."
"Morgan, really you make too much of..."
"You love it all." Into his floundering defense, Morgan continued. "And I don't. You wade into the throng and I run."
"Morgan..."
"Every time I see you, sir, it reminds me of my own failings."
He heard her sniff again and sensed her stroke Beehn, whose purr intensified.
She was right, for there was nothing to do about it. They respected one another, he liked Morgan very well, but they would never be close, as Peter was to Aidan. And this was, Peter reflected, perhaps not wholly ill.
"Morgan, whatever of your failings you perceive, which you judge far more harshly than anyone, know that for me, I count as most blessed the day my brother met you. And so you shall always have my deepest thanks."
Peter rolled away and snuggled closer to Fooh who contentedly put a paw over his arm and lay his tail over Peter's waist.
He was nearly asleep when Morgan's voice stirred him awake. "You're welcome. Peter."
ooOOoo
It seemed like a good idea at the time
Edmund slowly, painfully awoke. He was assailed by four things, each more dread than the last. The foul taste of too much Lightning. The still pounding rhythms in his head of the Innkeeper's tin drum band. The feel of rough straw and ticking poking at his bare skin and in too-intimate of places.
And most ominous of all, the utterly unique smell of musky goat assailing his nostrils.
No. No. No.
He opened an eye. Stifled a scream of horror.
By Zardeenah's three tits...
He'd slept with Leszi.
Again
ooOOoo
For Syrena Jalur can't keep warm anymore
Errr, this is probably not what you were expecting, Syrena.
Jalur and the Cub
As they walked deeper into the Wood, Edmund put his hand on Jalur’s shoulder and could feel the bone there, pointy and hard, and his fur was so thin and patchy.
“Are you still cold?” he asked the Tiger. The Physician had said it was because Jalur was so old that his body couldn’t keep him warm anymore.
“Yes,” Jalur said. He talked very softly now but Edmund could still hear him. Mother always said that he had the hearing of a Hound.
“You won’t be cold much longer, will you?” Edmund didn’t want Jalur to be cold anymore.
“No.”
Edmund looked over his shoulder behind him. He could just see Mother, still standing at the entrance to the Wood, like she said she would. She was blowing her nose in a big handkerchief. Rafiqa was leaning into Mother the way that Hounds did when trying to comfort someone.
He turned back around. “I wish she’d come, too.”
“We said farewell, Edmund.” Jalur’s breath came out heavy and raspy, like branches on rocks.
“It’s because of Aslan, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
How Mother felt about Aslan, how angry she was at the Great Lion, wasn’t something Edmund could really understand. He’d talked to everyone about it, Uncle Aidan, and Lord Peridan, and Grandfather, and Aunt Maeve and Uncle Pierce, and his cousins, and old Mr. Hoberry and old Mr. Tumnus and Mrs. Furner, Master Roblang, and Eirene. He’d talked to Eirene the Centauress a lot because she’d really and truly been there the first time that Mother met Aslan in the Meadowlawn. Eirene knew all the songs and stories that were made about that day, about Morgan the Baker of Narnia.
How could anyone be angry at Aslan? How could Mother stay so angry for so long? Didn’t Aslan get angry back? That really worried him. He didn’t want Aslan angry at Mother because he didn’t want Aslan to take her away.
He’d once asked Eirene if Aslan had taken Father away because Mother didn’t love Aslan enough and Eirene had told him no, that wasn’t it at all. He’d been really glad to hear that. Eirene said that Mother loved everything Aslan had made – she loved Narnia and everyone in it so well and so hard, and had done so much for them, of course Aslan loved her.
The path they were walking on got wider and smoother, instead of narrower and darker, the way it usually did.
Edmund knew what that meant and everything in him felt tingly like during the first snow or that plunge into the ocean on a hot day.
Jalur lifted his head up and breathed in through his nose, even though he couldn’t smell much anymore.
And then Aslan was there.
Edmund managed a bow like Lord Peridan had taught him but he was too excited to do it properly and bounced up again. “Aslan!” He ran to the Lion and threw his arms around him. “You’re bigger again!”
“It is because you are bigger, Edmund.”
“How are you? How is Father? You have come for Jalur, haven’t you? He’s…”
Aslan rumbled and it might have been a growl or a purr but Edmund swallowed the rest of his questions, remembered his manners, and stepped away. “Thank you for coming, sir.”
Edmund got a kiss. “This is from me,” Aslan said. He kissed him again, all whiskers and good, sweet breath of the Lion. “And this is from your father.” And a third time. “And this is for your mother.”
He rubbed his forehead. That was a lot of kisses. “Thank you, Aslan. Will you take Jalur now? He’s always cold and he really wants to be with you now.” Edmund sniffed a little. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t blub. He was happy for Jalur. “Jalur wants to be with you even more than with me, and that’s a lot.”
“Jalur?” Aslan said. “Are you ready?”
The Tiger bowed his head. “My lord. If it pleases you.”
“It does, my great-hearted son.” Aslan stepped forward. Jalur was big. He’d been the biggest Cat in Narnia but Aslan was just that much bigger. Aslan breathed on Jalur. “Follow me.”
Edmund tried to keep his eyes open and watch. He saw Aslan turn and walk away and Jalur followed him, not all stiff and tired but springy and his head was up, not down, and his tail was waving again. Edmund didn’t think he blinked but then, suddenly, they were gone.
The air and light were all normal again, good Narnian air and light and so that meant magical, but not the way it was all really, really magical and golden and wonderful smelling when Aslan was near. He waved good-bye to Aslan and Jalur in the direction he thought they had gone, which he supposed was the path to Aslan’s Country.
He was going to run straight back to Mother and give her Aslan’s kisses but two Red Squirrels were arguing – Tiggy was accusing Pester of stealing her hoard and the fur was really flying. So Edmund gave Branwen a Shiny from his pocket and told her to fly over and tell Mother that he would be along just as soon as he figured out who was stealing from whom and what he should do about it.
vialethe, Edmund, Peter, Tebbitt drunk!ficTebbitt, Edmund, Peter: One tequila, two tequila, three tequila floor
“Take my advice,” Pevensie, the younger-scarier-than-hell-one, said. “Don’t try to keep up with Peter.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” Tebbitt said.
“It’s not,” Pevensie the younger, said. “It’s a warning.”
Pevensie the elder returned to the table with three pints (filled) and three shot glasses (empty).
Tebbitt liked the way the man bought drinks.
He began to wonder if maybe Pevensie the younger's admonition had not been simple bravura when Pevensie the elder removed a very tall bottle of aged Herradura tequila from his satchel.
“The thing about empty glasses,” Pevensie the elder said, “is that they need filling.”
ooOOoo
“The problem with nymphs is the bark,” the elder said.
“They bark?” Tebbitt asked.
“Better than biting!” Pevensie the younger said. “Trust me on that.”
“And it gets everywhere,” Pevensie the older said.
Pevensie the younger nodded sagely. “’specially the splinters.”
ooOOoo
For
lauren_titmusTebbitt and Cross-dressing (because we all know it's happened at least once...) *grin*
Because blue matches his eyes
Susan held up the blue shirt dress and then the red suit. Blue. Red. Blue. Red.
“Can’t you make up your mind?” came the whinge.
“Oh do keep your shirt on.”
“I don’t have a shirt on,” Tebbitt complained. “I don’t have anything on!”
He was being over-dramatic. Tebbitt was wearing shorts. She decided on the blue dress and set it on the chair. “This will go well with your colouring and will give you a nice waistline once it is belted.”
Susan studied Tebbitt's silhouette as he struggled with the accoutrements of a lady's dressing and tapped an impatient, manicured fingertip to her lips. “That brassiere does not fit you well. You need more tissue.”
She handed him the box and he began stuffing it in.
“It itches and how can you breathe?”
Susan chose to not mention that she thought a corset and girdle would be just the thing to turn Tebbitt’s rectangular man-shape into something more feminine. Though, they really needed to pad his hips. She was at her leisure to study them – his hips – and the problem they posed as he was bent over trying to put on silk stockings.
“You do have very nice legs, Tebbitt. But if you rip my stockings, I shall make you replace them, and trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
“Next time, we do the bag drop at a men’s club.”
ooOOoo
For 'E' How fun! I vote for number 9: forced to share a bed, either Peter and Morgan or Edmund and Sir Lezi. Because of the wonderful awkwardness.
We have both!
Peter and Morgan. In a bed and get your minds out of the gutter!
"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Morgan?"
“No, sir. I'm fine. We'll be home tomorrow.”
Peter heard a sniffle.
It had been a simple trip north for Morgan to assess the feasibility of Marsh-wiggle exports (she had thought there might be a market for their liquor and tobacco among those who preferred truly toxic vices). Peter had wanted to see to the northern border and, with Lucy having taken Aidan to visit their island protectorates, Edmund had remained at Cair Paravel. Up and there had been fine. It had all gone to Tash's Hell on the return. The rain had been relentless and they had lost nearly all of their gear when the pack on one of the horses had snapped as they had forded the Shribble. The rain had finally stopped and so they had sheltered for the night in the Owlwood. They were all cold, wet, and hungry, and even Dwarf-made fire didn't warm much.
Against his back, he felt Morgan shiver again.
With his sisters, he would put an arm about her and they could share the single, dry blanket and bedroll together. But this was Morgan who was, as always, keeping her distance from him.
“Fooh? Beehn?” Peter called.
“Yes, High King?” Fooh asked. Peter heard a yawn – that would be Beehn.
"Please join us. It is cold. We will all be warmer with you both here.”
The Cheetahs padded over in the dark, eyes glowing, claws softly catching on the leaf litter of the wooded floor. Fooh settled next to him and Beehn curled up with a contented purr next to Morgan on the other side. Morgan threw her arm over the Cheetah.
"Thank you, Beehn." He wondered how Morgan had been able to tell the difference in the dark. In all but temperament, the Cheetah brothers were nearly identical.
"Is that better?" Peter asked.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The Cheetah's purrs softened to a contented rumble and Peter felt Fooh's tail against his legs.
"Morgan?"
"Sir?"
"Could you please call me 'Peter?' Especially after so long? You are my brother's wife, my own family. The sir makes me uncomfortable."
Behind him, he could sense her fingers moving restlessly. Morgan would tease loose thread right out of cloth. Morgan's seams always had to be firmly sewn down.
When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Morgan, you calling me sir..."
"If you want me to answer, you have to stop talking... sir."
Morgan had just interrupted him!? Peter was not accustomed to this. In fact the only person who routinely did so was Morgan. And Susan, occasionally, usually when his sister was berating him for some obstinacy that was not in accord with how she would manage the world. Of course, Edmund as well, come to think on it. Lucy wouldn't interrupt -- she would laugh at him.
"Very well, Morgan. I shall await your answer." And if they waited long enough, he would fall asleep.
"It is a lot things," she finally said in halting words.
Another long pause.
"I'm not comfortable around you at all. I don't know if I ever will be."
Having asked, and knowing Morgan's forthright manner, Peter could not very well complain of hurt because his brother's wife and bondmate had responded truthfully.
"I am sorry, Morgan. Is there anything I might..."
"The only thing that would help would be for you to be other than you are. That won't happen."
Blunt and harsh. "But why, Morgan? Can you tell me?"
There was another, even longer, pause.
"Morgan?"
"Don't interrupt me!"
She had not been speaking, so what was he interrupting?
"It's because of who you are," she replied eventually. "You never say the wrong thing, do you? Never at a loss for words? You've never stood in front of someone with your mouth hanging open and words dancing around at your feet mocking you and you have to go running after them, like a Puppy chasing her own tail?"
"No,"' Peter admitted. With an internal wince, he had to admit her words were flowing without inhibition now.
"When you walk in a room, the torches on the wall burn brighter. Everyone turns to you, every eye turns to you, everyone tries to be with you. You are so ... so.... " She stammered, stumbled, and found her footing. "You are so big. You embrace everything and everyone."
"Morgan, really you make too much of..."
"You love it all." Into his floundering defense, Morgan continued. "And I don't. You wade into the throng and I run."
"Morgan..."
"Every time I see you, sir, it reminds me of my own failings."
He heard her sniff again and sensed her stroke Beehn, whose purr intensified.
She was right, for there was nothing to do about it. They respected one another, he liked Morgan very well, but they would never be close, as Peter was to Aidan. And this was, Peter reflected, perhaps not wholly ill.
"Morgan, whatever of your failings you perceive, which you judge far more harshly than anyone, know that for me, I count as most blessed the day my brother met you. And so you shall always have my deepest thanks."
Peter rolled away and snuggled closer to Fooh who contentedly put a paw over his arm and lay his tail over Peter's waist.
He was nearly asleep when Morgan's voice stirred him awake. "You're welcome. Peter."
ooOOoo
It seemed like a good idea at the time
Edmund slowly, painfully awoke. He was assailed by four things, each more dread than the last. The foul taste of too much Lightning. The still pounding rhythms in his head of the Innkeeper's tin drum band. The feel of rough straw and ticking poking at his bare skin and in too-intimate of places.
And most ominous of all, the utterly unique smell of musky goat assailing his nostrils.
No. No. No.
He opened an eye. Stifled a scream of horror.
By Zardeenah's three tits...
He'd slept with Leszi.
Again
ooOOoo
For Syrena Jalur can't keep warm anymore
Errr, this is probably not what you were expecting, Syrena.
Jalur and the Cub
As they walked deeper into the Wood, Edmund put his hand on Jalur’s shoulder and could feel the bone there, pointy and hard, and his fur was so thin and patchy.
“Are you still cold?” he asked the Tiger. The Physician had said it was because Jalur was so old that his body couldn’t keep him warm anymore.
“Yes,” Jalur said. He talked very softly now but Edmund could still hear him. Mother always said that he had the hearing of a Hound.
“You won’t be cold much longer, will you?” Edmund didn’t want Jalur to be cold anymore.
“No.”
Edmund looked over his shoulder behind him. He could just see Mother, still standing at the entrance to the Wood, like she said she would. She was blowing her nose in a big handkerchief. Rafiqa was leaning into Mother the way that Hounds did when trying to comfort someone.
He turned back around. “I wish she’d come, too.”
“We said farewell, Edmund.” Jalur’s breath came out heavy and raspy, like branches on rocks.
“It’s because of Aslan, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
How Mother felt about Aslan, how angry she was at the Great Lion, wasn’t something Edmund could really understand. He’d talked to everyone about it, Uncle Aidan, and Lord Peridan, and Grandfather, and Aunt Maeve and Uncle Pierce, and his cousins, and old Mr. Hoberry and old Mr. Tumnus and Mrs. Furner, Master Roblang, and Eirene. He’d talked to Eirene the Centauress a lot because she’d really and truly been there the first time that Mother met Aslan in the Meadowlawn. Eirene knew all the songs and stories that were made about that day, about Morgan the Baker of Narnia.
How could anyone be angry at Aslan? How could Mother stay so angry for so long? Didn’t Aslan get angry back? That really worried him. He didn’t want Aslan angry at Mother because he didn’t want Aslan to take her away.
He’d once asked Eirene if Aslan had taken Father away because Mother didn’t love Aslan enough and Eirene had told him no, that wasn’t it at all. He’d been really glad to hear that. Eirene said that Mother loved everything Aslan had made – she loved Narnia and everyone in it so well and so hard, and had done so much for them, of course Aslan loved her.
The path they were walking on got wider and smoother, instead of narrower and darker, the way it usually did.
Edmund knew what that meant and everything in him felt tingly like during the first snow or that plunge into the ocean on a hot day.
Jalur lifted his head up and breathed in through his nose, even though he couldn’t smell much anymore.
And then Aslan was there.
Edmund managed a bow like Lord Peridan had taught him but he was too excited to do it properly and bounced up again. “Aslan!” He ran to the Lion and threw his arms around him. “You’re bigger again!”
“It is because you are bigger, Edmund.”
“How are you? How is Father? You have come for Jalur, haven’t you? He’s…”
Aslan rumbled and it might have been a growl or a purr but Edmund swallowed the rest of his questions, remembered his manners, and stepped away. “Thank you for coming, sir.”
Edmund got a kiss. “This is from me,” Aslan said. He kissed him again, all whiskers and good, sweet breath of the Lion. “And this is from your father.” And a third time. “And this is for your mother.”
He rubbed his forehead. That was a lot of kisses. “Thank you, Aslan. Will you take Jalur now? He’s always cold and he really wants to be with you now.” Edmund sniffed a little. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t blub. He was happy for Jalur. “Jalur wants to be with you even more than with me, and that’s a lot.”
“Jalur?” Aslan said. “Are you ready?”
The Tiger bowed his head. “My lord. If it pleases you.”
“It does, my great-hearted son.” Aslan stepped forward. Jalur was big. He’d been the biggest Cat in Narnia but Aslan was just that much bigger. Aslan breathed on Jalur. “Follow me.”
Edmund tried to keep his eyes open and watch. He saw Aslan turn and walk away and Jalur followed him, not all stiff and tired but springy and his head was up, not down, and his tail was waving again. Edmund didn’t think he blinked but then, suddenly, they were gone.
The air and light were all normal again, good Narnian air and light and so that meant magical, but not the way it was all really, really magical and golden and wonderful smelling when Aslan was near. He waved good-bye to Aslan and Jalur in the direction he thought they had gone, which he supposed was the path to Aslan’s Country.
He was going to run straight back to Mother and give her Aslan’s kisses but two Red Squirrels were arguing – Tiggy was accusing Pester of stealing her hoard and the fur was really flying. So Edmund gave Branwen a Shiny from his pocket and told her to fly over and tell Mother that he would be along just as soon as he figured out who was stealing from whom and what he should do about it.
no subject
I'd like to know more about what he senses in Edmund to make him so scary - I'd expect that one spy would recognize another, but Edmund having some inherent sense of danger about him is very intriguing.
no subject
And now I owe both you and Rth apologies, because you were asking her and not me, and it's her story and her headcanon after all. But consider me an interested participant in this particular question?
no subject
This particular piece with Tebbitt, Susan, Peter and Edmund is really old and as I said, I've completely jossed it plotwise and character wise. Further, again this story was a reaction to very, very tiresome tropes that deny Susan (and Lucy) agency. The boys are going beat up any suitors, they are going to keep the girls safe and virginal in the Ivory Tower of Cair Paravel and behind London lace curtains, they are going to squash the girls down (and they are always girls) to maintain sexist ideas of sacred femininity and virtue while the boys go off and be brave, chauvinistic knights and kings and the girls get ... nothing.
Oh, I seem to have fallen into a rant.
Regardless, let's call it revisionist history and say that Edmund knows perfectly well that if he comes down too hard Tebbitt, Susan will string him up. It's an act. He and Peter both are ribbing the man a bit to make sure he's not complete milquetoast namby pamby idiot who can't stand up for himself, which Susan does not discourage. I really should just post the whole thing as people are interested, but here:
ooOOoo
“So, you are going out tonight with this Tebbitt chap?”
“I am,” Susan replied. “Have you and Edmund decided how to threaten him yet?”
Peter snorted lightly and shifted against the doorframe of his sisters’ bedroom. “As much as we might wish to do so for the fun of it, I suspect you would take ill to it.”
“Oh, if it would make you feel better, you may do so. Not too much though, or he might actually be concerned for my virtue which would not do at all.”
Come to think of it. She was applying a light powder to her cheeks but even Peter, who knew nothing of such things, noticed the absence of Susan’s usual paint. Her frock also seemed rather ordinary and… he craned his neck for a better look. The only time he paid it any mind at all was when contemplating how they were always in his way and might be removed. Susan was not wearing stockings.
“Susan, I have to say that you do seem rather simply dressed for a night on the town.”
Smiling, his sister reached for a pair of baubles for her ears, and then returned them to her vanity. “That is because I do not intend to have a night on the town, Peter. Surely you can see that.”
Oh.
A thousand different things rushed through Peter’s head – that he would like to pummel Tebbitt and that Susan would stab him with a knife if he did so; that he was insanely envious of his sister; that he was fascinated, curious, and wildly hopeful that it would as fabulous here as it was in Narnia – which was then inconveniently crowded out by a persistent, highly erotic fantasy that prominently featured a tall blonde with long hair and longer legs wrapped around his hips.
As if reading his mind (Susan could do that), she swiveled on her vanity stool and glared. “If you say so much as a word of criticism, you are the biggest hypocrite who has ever lived.”
Peter held open his hands in mute supplication. “Am I saying anything? Your lovers were always your own business, Susan.”
Even if her judgment about them was sometimes suspect.
She gave a nod of satisfaction and began brushing her hair.
“I assume though that you have given some thought to the fact that this is not Narnia and people can be a bit odd about this sort of thing here?”
“Then England would do well to have a Narnian approach to lovemaking, don’t you think, my brother?”
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This is one thing that I love about your stories, if I can be frank. (And I suspect you know this already, but it's worth saying.) You allow the Pevensies to be adults - that is, fully sexual beings who are aware of their own desires and feel no shame in acting on them, which is such a rare thing. I love the Narnia side of your 'verse for that as well - as you write it, one cannot conceive of Narnia as a place where there would be any shame associated with sexual activity. This was true in the earlier bit you posted as well - Susan's blunt discussion of the rhythm method and condoms with her brothers and the boys' blunt admissions about masturbation were incredibly funny, but also completely natural.
I've wandered off the points about Edmund a bit, but I truly wanted to say how much I appreciate and admire this part of your 'verse, particularly because it is something that is so frequently handled badly in Narnia fic.
Now, as far as Edmund is concerned. Of course he is developing as your story arc goes along, and maturing as a person. It makes sense that his character would change over time, as he is molded by new experiences - and I have no difficulty seeing the younger, more flippant Edmund developing into the more compassionate Edmund of H&M (although sadly I haven't read AW yet, so I can't comment that far.) I am fascinated by the different sides of Edmund the Just, really - it's one of the things about his character that has always fascinated me, in the best way. I do see him as an incredibly upright and moral person, a compassionate judge of others, a loving and funloving brother - but also capable of planning and strategizing, spying where necessary, and being a fairly ruthless fighter where necessary, as well. He is many things, and I have a feeling that only his siblings (and perhaps Morgan, in your 'verse) really have a handle on how much he is capable of.
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I suppose I still some frustration at being so condemned in parts of the fandom. The drumbeat is as loud as ever. My critics will never get passed the fact that it is pre-marital and that's that. To paraphrase Tolkien, and I do not necessarily enjoy the works they evidently prefer either so it is for the best.
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Second, I love the Edmund as a son. I love the fact that Edmund simply whole-heartedly loves Aslan regardless of his mother (and it makes sense that she would be angry) feels. And the last part about him wanting to see what he can do in a child-like manner: simply brilliant. And the kisses were so sweet. And a little bit heartbreaking.
Lastly, I know that you said that the reaction is disheartening. I'm sorry about that. When I read there stories, I simply have to read them for themselves. Your purpose in writing is completely different than what Lewis' purpose was. (Like the difference between Tolkien and Lewis). Lewis wasn't writing to create a dynamic, political world. And when I read his books, I, personally, read them and love them for the reasons that he chose to write them. In that vein, I read yours to read the characters I love in a completely new sense. Don't be disheartened by what people do. I think I said this before, but for so many people, Lewis is their childhood; the idyllic, innocent part of their childhood. In religious communities (such as my own), we were raised on Lewis. So, while not justifying what people say, they simply are unable to separate Lewis from you. And I wish they would. Because this stuff is pure genius. I love it!!!! (And fyi, not trying to be personal, I've still remained in my childhood faith; although it's my adult faith, not childhood anymore...so not all religious people are homophobic, angry people...at least I hope I'm not...and I'm sure you already know what I said just before the last comment). Blahhh.... This is a really long rant full of stuff that many other people have said before and much better than I am able to communicate. I just get so annoyed when I hear that people have said those things. So annoying. Keep writing, Puh-lease!
I need to keep checking your site on a more regular basis.....
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Thank you so much for your kind words on a day when they were most welcome.
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I also totally adore your portrayal of Edmund, even more than I enjoy your versions of his siblings. I don't read H&M, so I'm always a bit disappointed to not see more of him in the real-world TSG-verse stories, but what there is is fantastic - the way you portray him as very self-contained fits well with both the ever-popular spymaster concept and the more gentle, compassionate young man he's turned into. To me, it makes sense that the two would go together really, as knowing everyone's secrets and being able to get information out of people without them knowing what you're doing are both things that would benefit from a natural sense of compassion.
This snippet is quite amusing, and a bit thought provoking as well. The bit where Peter was jealous of Susan caught my attention, as it's still so easy to forget that of course their experiences in England would be so different from Narnia, and that they'd all have to go without things they'd been used to. And of course Peter would get a bit tangled in the moral aspects of it (more in terms of not wanting to hurt any potential partners in any way than actually thinking it was 'wrong', of course), and what's expected in this world, while Susan would just go her own way and heaven help anyone who judged her for it!
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This is beautifully articulated, and I completely agree. I think Edmund's compassion is what makes him so excellent at both of the roles he's taken on - that of compassionate judge and counselor, and that of spymaster.
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I think you're very correct about the different aspects of Edmund, and of Justice, and that probably is part of what makes him so 'scary' - a very calculated sort of retribution, rather than the hotblooded idea of vengeance or revenge. If you made Peter very angry, he's the sort who'd just punch you in the face and get it over with, I think, whereas Edmund would plot some horrible thing you'd never see coming.
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