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“Peter,” Caspian gasps desperately when their lips finally part, casting unfocused eyes through the trees with a hasty prayer that no one is around to see him like this. Braced forcefully against the gnarled trunk of an old oak; breathing harshly erratic; mouth swollen from abuse; tunic rumpled and partially unbuttoned, revealing a long trail of suspiciously healing bruises, dark against honey-kissed skin: there is no doubt in his mind that he has never looked less like a king and more like some poor, befuddled and half-ravished maiden. Peter agrees, if that damnable smirk is any indication. Swallowing thickly, Caspian presses his hands against Peter’s chest and tries to regain some semblance of control – a difficult task, to be sure, with those hungry blue eyes tempting him to new levels of depravity, but he has to put his foot down somewhere. Honestly, this was insanity! “I really don’t think this is such a good idea.”
Naturally, Peter is undeterred – in fact, his smirk deepens into a predatory grin as he leans dangerously forward, thwarting Caspian’s fumbling attempts to push him away with practiced ease. Peter captures his wrists in a punishing grasp and pins both hands above Caspian’s head with a jerk, ignoring the small cry he emits when the bark digs into sensitive flesh, drawing blood. Tauntingly, Peter swipes his tongue up the long column of Caspian’s exposed neck until his breath is a heady sigh against his captive's oversensitive ear. “Oh, Caspian,” he chuckles lowly, “where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Public sex,” Caspian bites out, “is hardly an adventure – it’s stupidity.” He wants to say more, to put an end to this nonsense before everything goes spinning out of control, but now Peter is nibbling playfully at the lobes of his ears just so and his lover’s thigh is rubbing maddeningly against his groin – and suddenly he’s finding it very difficult to piece together coherent sentences.
“Stupidity?” Peter repeats absently, pulling back to briefly consider his options with a thoughtful frown, attention traveling down to his purpling collarbone and the gaping material baring his chest.
Heart pounding wildly, Caspian hurries to make use of this respite: “We’re going to get–” Caspian’s eyes widen with shock when Peter’s mouth finds one unsuspecting nipple through that dratted opening in the fabric and sucks – the pleasure-pain charging his nerves like lightening and shooting electric waves of sensation sparking straight to his arousal. “–caught.”
It’s at this point that Caspian realizes that his hands are free and buried in tangled golden curls, but when Peter pulls back with a tender lick at the reddening mark to peer worshipfully up at him from on bended knee, he knows he’s already lost this argument. “There’s no one around,” Peter says softly, “and the trees won’t talk. Let me have you?”
Slowly, stiltedly Caspian nods.
Peter really lets lose, then, and soon Caspian finds himself with his trousers around his ankles and he’s still convinced that they’ll be caught and he’s going to be pulling splinters out of some awkward places for weeks to come and this is a very very bad idea, but he doesn’t even care anymore. All he can do is moan and cry and drive bleeding fingernails into the tree he’s hugging as Peter opens him up, first with spit-wet fingers and a skillful tongue, and then, finally – oh, Aslan! – with a hardened prick, thick and filling. His lover has learned his body well and shows no mercy and, no, he’s not sobbing for release (king’s don’t sob!).
“You,” Peter growls possessively, “are so god-damned beautiful like this.”
And then Peter’s teeth are sinking into the soft tissue along the base of his neck and he’s coming in long white spurts against the tree, contracting uncontrollably around Peter until he can feel his lover choking back a pleased howl of his own, coating his insides with one last pulsating thrust. With a satisfied sigh, Peter withdraws with a messy pop – a loss Caspian feels with some regret. Then his lover’s hands are on him again, helping him turn to face him, running gentle fingers across injured skin, caressing his cheeks as he leans in once more – and this time that sinful mouth is everything pure and sweet.