
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2953.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Chronicles_of_Narnia
  Relationship:
      Bacchus/Edmund
  Character:
      Edmund_Pevensie, Bacchus
  Additional Tags:
      Smut
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-01-31 Words: 872
****** Romp ******
by Lys_ap_Adin_(lysapadin)
Summary
     In which Edmund finds out that Bacchus really is the sort of chap who
     might do anything.
Notes
     Bookverse rather than movieverse. Highly stylized smut. 740 words.
     The crowd and the dance round Aslan (for it had become a dance once
     more) grew so thick and rapid that Lucy was confused. She never saw
     where certain other people came from who were soon capering among the
     trees. One was a youth, dressed only in a fawn-skin, with vine-leaves
     wreathed in his curly hair. His face would have been almost too
     pretty for a boy's, if it had not looked so extremely wild. You felt,
     as Edmund said when he saw him a few days later, "There's a chap who
     might do anything—absolutely anything." He seemed to have a great
     many names—Bromios, Bassareus, and the Ram, were three of them. There
     were a lot of girls with him, as wild as he. (Prince Caspian, p. 152)
===============================================================================
Romp
Edmund never quite sorted it, after, how it came about. There had been the
bonfire, blazing up cheerfully, sparks reaching to the heavens, and the goblets
of wine passed from hand to hand with laughter and cheer. There were drums and
pipes, he remembered that, and dancers who wove in and out of the firelight and
reached out to tug anyone nearby into the dance. He thought that might have
been how it happened; he remembered talking with a rather earnest pair of
Badgers one moment, and then being whirled through a complicated set of dance
steps the next.
They weren't the friendly, familiar steps of the Fauns and Satyrs he recalled
from his time before, either. He had let Lucy and Tumnus coax him out to dance
on those long summer nights, and though he'd never been more than passable,
he'd known the steps well. These were different somehow, wild and careless as
the Maenads who danced them. Edmund passed from one set of slim hands to the
next, bewildered but willing to be agreeable, and when the cup came around to
him, drank deep, for dancing was thirsty work. And the dance went on, and on,
spilling out into the dimness beyond the ring of firelight, and Edmund went
with it.
Yes, that must have been how it started, being whirled around and around and
not noticing that the firelight was falling away, until a laughing girl crowned
with ivy spun him around, and the next pair of hands to take his belonged to
Bacchus.
He remembered that he stumbled, out of surprise, perhaps, and that Bacchus
steadied him and laughed, dim light gleaming on features fine as any girl's.
The god's laugh was wild as the dance, and he twirled Edmund along and did not
release his hands. Edmund went with him, dizzy with the wine and the dancing
and the day's triumph, although he could not explain to himself later why he
did, save that something in the wildness of Bacchus' face called to him.
He didn't remember the Maenads falling away, or the firelight, until Bacchus
whirled him round once more and Edmund found himself in a little dell, hidden
from the firelight by the rise of the earth. Bacchus stopped then, and Edmund
with him. There they stood, lit by the moon and the stars, hands still clasped
together, until Bacchus smiled that strange wild way of his and drew Edmund to
him, and kissed him.
Edmund never told anyone what passed between him and Bacchus, and was spared
having to fumble for the words to describe it. Even when he tried to sift
through his impressions on his own, for his own peace of mind, they were
jumbled. The taste of fresh grapes and the tang of wine tangled with summer
sweetness and autumn woodsmoke in Bacchus' kiss, and when Bacchus lifted his
lips away, Edmund swayed.
"So, Son of Adam?" Bacchus breathed.
It had been his choice; Edmund remembered that much clearly. And he chose to
nod, and murmur, "Yes," although he hardly knew what he was consenting to.
The other thing he recalled clearly was the gleam of Bacchus' smile, fey and
pleased, as strong hands tumbled him to the grass. And then his recollections
grew uncertain again, comprising mostly snatches of sensation: hands that
stroked the clothes from his body and kisses that seared his skin, the crisp
texture of curls under his fingers as he stroked them through the god's hair
and the coolness of grass tickling his bare skin, snatches of music on the
breeze and the sounds coming from his own throat, the scent of grass and grapes
in his nostrils and the taste of starshine and autumn leaves in his mouth when
Bacchus kissed him, and above all the lean hard body pressed against his,
moving slow and insistent as the turning of the stars, until everything
contracted into a moment of heat and brightness that left no room to register
anything else.
When his mind cleared again, he was alone, and the breeze still carried music
and laughter with it. He dressed himself, languor slowing his movements, and
drifted back to the bonfire. The leaping dancers let him pass unmolested, and
when Lucy asked him where he had been, he shrugged and said, "Dancing."
And though the music went on for hours after and she cajoled him, he did not
dance any more that night.
end
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