Meme responses
For 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
For lauren_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.
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
For lauren_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.