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Every night before Chuck Norris goes to bed, he checks his closet for Edmund Pevensie.
In which my thesis on food crisis (among other things) almost leaked into my Calormen fic. Okay, so there's this exchange between Edmund and the Calormene grand vizier:
I had to restrain myself from extending their conversation into something like this:
The grand vizier says, "Oh no, I know what you're trying to do. You made Terebinthia lower tariffs and then you flooded their markets with cheap imports, and look where they are now."
And Edmund is like, "Hey, it's not Narnia's fault that Terebinthia doesn't have strong commercial agriculture."
And then the grand vizier is like, "Commerce can only do so much. A good macroeconomic policy for Calormen has to also look into more sustainable alternatives, like localized farming--"
"If by sustainable you mean PRODUCING BELOW OPTIMUM CAPACITY. Look, man, what have we said about maximizing profits?"
The grand vizier goes all red in the face and is like, "You realize agricultural specialization only leads to economic dependency and sociopolitical ruin!"
Edmund is secretly like I do because he eats the hearts of World Bank presidents for breakfast everyday and absorbs their essence. He says, "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps diversification of production is the way to go. What do you think, should Narnia subsidize its fisheries?"
And then the grand vizier makes this face: D-:
Then he makes this face: -_-
Edmund makes no faces but he probably goes, "Exxxxcellent," while stroking a cat and leaning back in a leather armchair.
And so Calormen lowers tariffs, their markets get flooded with cheap imports, their domestic production gets FUCKED, and they are forced to go into a conditional bilateral aid agreement with Narnia, which perpetuates a cycle of debt and structural adjustment in accordance with the preferences of Cair Paravel.
And most of the money goes back to Narnia anyway, because most of the professionals commissioned to get the Calormene economy back in shape? ARE NARNIANS. And 'getting the Calormene economy back in shape'? Translates to 'making it easier for Narnia to access Calormen's resources and influence its development policies'.
And this is how Narnia TOOK OVER THE WORLD.
And when there is protest about the system, Narnia is like, "What do you mean you don't like it? Don't you like freedom?"
And Terebinthia is like, "Well, we hate being poor!"
"What's that?" says Narnia. "You hate us?"
"No, we hate how your economic agenda undermines our sovereignty!"
"Oh shit!" screams Narnia. "YOU HATE US! To arms, Narnians, to arms! For Aslaaaaaan."
And they lived happily ever after.
Edmund Pevensie: ruthless neoliberal.
MY FREE TRADE ANGST LET ME SHOW YOU IT
“You were talking about the irrigation infrastructure in the southern reaches,” Edmund reminded him.
“Ah, yes. I fear there will be famine if we are not able to preempt another source of grain.”
“Might I suggest lowering tariffs on crops?”
The conversation went on as such as the two men made their way through the Tisroc’s fertile gardens, politicians politely negotiating the wealth of their nations.
I had to restrain myself from extending their conversation into something like this:
The grand vizier says, "Oh no, I know what you're trying to do. You made Terebinthia lower tariffs and then you flooded their markets with cheap imports, and look where they are now."
And Edmund is like, "Hey, it's not Narnia's fault that Terebinthia doesn't have strong commercial agriculture."
And then the grand vizier is like, "Commerce can only do so much. A good macroeconomic policy for Calormen has to also look into more sustainable alternatives, like localized farming--"
"If by sustainable you mean PRODUCING BELOW OPTIMUM CAPACITY. Look, man, what have we said about maximizing profits?"
The grand vizier goes all red in the face and is like, "You realize agricultural specialization only leads to economic dependency and sociopolitical ruin!"
Edmund is secretly like I do because he eats the hearts of World Bank presidents for breakfast everyday and absorbs their essence. He says, "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps diversification of production is the way to go. What do you think, should Narnia subsidize its fisheries?"
And then the grand vizier makes this face: D-:
Then he makes this face: -_-
Edmund makes no faces but he probably goes, "Exxxxcellent," while stroking a cat and leaning back in a leather armchair.
And so Calormen lowers tariffs, their markets get flooded with cheap imports, their domestic production gets FUCKED, and they are forced to go into a conditional bilateral aid agreement with Narnia, which perpetuates a cycle of debt and structural adjustment in accordance with the preferences of Cair Paravel.
And most of the money goes back to Narnia anyway, because most of the professionals commissioned to get the Calormene economy back in shape? ARE NARNIANS. And 'getting the Calormene economy back in shape'? Translates to 'making it easier for Narnia to access Calormen's resources and influence its development policies'.
And this is how Narnia TOOK OVER THE WORLD.
And when there is protest about the system, Narnia is like, "What do you mean you don't like it? Don't you like freedom?"
And Terebinthia is like, "Well, we hate being poor!"
"What's that?" says Narnia. "You hate us?"
"No, we hate how your economic agenda undermines our sovereignty!"
"Oh shit!" screams Narnia. "YOU HATE US! To arms, Narnians, to arms! For Aslaaaaaan."
And they lived happily ever after.
Edmund Pevensie: ruthless neoliberal.
MY FREE TRADE ANGST LET ME SHOW YOU IT
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he raises his hand to touch edmund's face, his fingers slipping and sliding across his brother's cheek to tangle in his hair.
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in the dialect spoken by one of the desert tribes, the word for 'magic' is the same word for 'wind'. you cannot see the wind. you can only see what it does. you only know it is there when it cools your skin or chills you the bone. you name a wind not for what it truly is, but by the sandstorms it conjures.
it is from them that he has learned this spell.
edmund pulls back, but keeps his hands on peter's chest, steadying him. neither of them can see magic, but edmund can see what it is doing, and peter can most definitely feel it -- edmund recognizes the wanton look in his eyes. peter, feeling touches where no one is touching him, teased when the only teasing thing he can see is his brother's smile.
edmund decides he likes this spell.
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he wants --
he curls one hand into a fist and runs his knuckles up the curve of edmund's throat. his thumb lingers on the corner of edmund's mouth.
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there is a flushed look to his brother, a general air of unraveling with his parted lips and unfocused eyes. edmund holds peter more easily than he had held susan, because susan had known it was coming, had tensed herself for it and knew what to fight and what to let wash over her.
"what's gotten into you, hmm?" edmund asks softly.
he is aware of where every touch is on peter's body, has specifically willed these touches to linger there, strategizing from his own mental map of peter's body and his memories of what elicits his brother's gasps, what elicits his moans.
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peter hears the strangled sound he makes drawn from his own throat like its someone else speaking. he drudges up what remains of his strength, clinging to it the same way he would at the tail-end of a battle, when all is nearly over and yet not quite, not quite. there is still the last enemy to be vanquished.
but he cannot find the strength to break free of his brother's grip, though edmund is not holding peter tightly and he has always known how to get the better of his siblings.
but there are other ways to fight than with hands alone.
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edmund wills the magic to do what he has done a hundred times: trace fingers down peter's spine, linger at the concavity where his hips curve into his legs. he wills kisses along the inside of peter's thighs. he wills warm breaths on the back of peter's neck.
edmund keeps his hands around his brother's wrists, pinned against the wall. he keeps his eyes on peter's, searching his reactions for everything and nothing in particular.
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peter has been sitting cross-legged, but his legs loosen, and he reaches out to dig his heels into the small of edmund's back, willing his brother closer. he keeps his eyes open, forces them to alertness, trying to ply the truth of this from edmund's calm face.
but his body is tight with want and need and he finds himself gasping, words fluttering to his lips, though he will not let them pass. this is nothing more than a distraction, an illusion and a falsity, this is not truth. this is not real.
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"don't kick me," says edmund, but he lets himself be moved forward, leans even further in until his face is only millimeters away from peter's. he can feel the heat from his skin, peter's shallow breathing on his lips.
he wills the kisses along peter's thighs to move up, the lingering touches on peter's chest to move down.
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"'m not," peter says, or tries to say, but the words won't come out, can't come out, and he tries to get his hands free again, needing some way to tell edmund -- to tell edmund --
he arches up, shaking blindly, still trying to grasp at the edges of his control, fleeting away at the corners of his eyes. he turns his head away and then back.
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in edmund's mind he can see it very clearly, because he's done it countless times before. his hands remember what it feels like, peter's cock hardening into smoothness under his ministrations. and edmund's mouth, the first lick up its shaft, how warm it is. it's key for the spell to know these details.
edmund is aware of his own arousal, the growing hardness between his legs. but everything in its own time. he wets his lips. he swallows, tries not to sigh when peter arches into him, pressing their bodies together.
everything in its own time.
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he focuses on edmund's mouth because he has to focus on something, and this is close enough to -- close enough to -- to tell him this isn't real.
but he's a fighter to his bones, and that means trusting his body. can't always trust his eyes. but his body and his eyes are telling him two different things, and -- and -- and he doesn't know what's real.
he bites down on his lip to keep from making any more noise, tastes blood. the pain should help to clear his head of the fog around it.
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blood wells up on peter's bottom lip and peter doesn't seem to care, but edmund's eyes are drawn to it.
he asks, "do you realize you're bleeding?"
he asks, "is it helping?"
he didn't expect answers to either questions.
he says, "let me get that for you."
keeping his hands on peter's against the wall, he maneuvers himself so he is straddling peter's hips. peter's erection is obvious, and the sounds he makes heats edmund swallow dryly. he leans forward and, very slowly, very deliberately, very lightly, licks the blood off peter's lip.
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edmund's mouth on his, just the faintest brush of his tongue over peter's lips, and peter makes a strangled sound he can't contain and tries to lean forward, tries to get edmund's skin against his own.
because he's going mad. that's the only reasonable explanation. he's going mad, and he doesn't like it, doesn't like this feeling of being completely out of control.
he's vaguely aware of edmund's thighs braced on his hips. there is only a faint spark of pain lingering on his lips now, and he wanted to clear his head of the fog, not add to it.
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edmund says, "if you're going to continue hurting yourself, we're going to have to stop."
but he wills the magic to go faster. he wills more heat. he wills more pressure. peter continues to writhe, but there is less and less struggle in it.
"i would hate to stop," says edmund, "when we haven't even begun."
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peter laughs. isn't sure how he manages it, is relatively certain he shouldn't be able to manage it, but he laughs. "we?" is the only thing he can manage to say, that single syllable, and then he hisses out sharply between clenched teeth, grinding down until he can feel the strain in his jaw.
he concentrates on that, on the finite things, the concrete ones, because that's his.
peter loves his brother, but not like this.
(uh. my peter has control issues, apparently.)
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edmund smiles. "we, you and me. the way it's always been. aren't we brothers, you and i?" he presses a kiss to peter's brow like a benediction. "are we not kings together?"
in his head he thinks, faster.
when peter writhes again him, gasping, edmund bites back on his moan.
he thinks, harder.
(also, what do you mean 'not like this'?? and fun fact: one second before clicking 'post comment' i noticed that i had typed 'arthur' where the last 'peter' should be.)
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every fighter knows that in some battles, there comes a point when fighting for the sake of surviving becomes fighting for the sake of fighting, because winning is no longer an option. the options become death or surrender, and the fight is for pride alone.
on the battlefield he knows when he is beaten, knows when to withdraw and when to continue, and though he has never surrendered, he will not hold his generals to account for it.
peter stops fighting. with the weight of his brother's kiss on his brow, he puts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, parts his lips, lets all the tension go out of him.
he's always trusted his brother.
(uh, peter having control issues and magic issues?)
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"you may want to change," edmund says. "alternatively, we can take this to my bed." because although edmund's closet is spacious and far from being the most uncomfortable nook in the castle (that honor is reserved for the broom closet in the scullery, as he found out from that one time with the dryad serving girl), a royal bed is just that much more preferable.
he brushes peter's hair off his damp forehead. "yes?"
peter nods weakly, and edmund smiles.
THE END OMFG i need a cigarette
sorry i took liberties there and made peter nod, but UM. OMG. i just seized it BECAUSE THIS IS POSSIBLY THE FIRST COLLABORATIVE COMMENTFIC WE'VE DONE THAT HAS A COMPLETE BEGINMIDDLEEND. a first commentfic that is coherent and finished! and of course it is porn form.
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