The blinding stage lights and final pyrotechnics still danced in Edmund’s eyes as he navigated the stairs stage left. Fans still screamed his name, Peter’s, Kings of Nothing!, begging for just one more. But two encores would be the height of hubris, wouldn’t it?
He slid the tip of his tongue over one normal-sized incisor. He was hungry for something other than more music, anyways.
It all was the perfect set-up. Nobody questioned a gothic Brit-metal band’s right to sleep in their tour bus all day and party all night. If they took the stage later some nights than others, their thousands of adoring fans always forgave them as soon as the devastatingly handsome lead singer slid his fingers through shaggy golden locks and tossed them back from his forehead and gave them all what they’d come for: the show of their lives. His brother, the pale-skinned, dark-haired keyboardist and bassist who single-handedly kept eyeliner sales high, lived up to just about every bad boy fantasy, and if there were the occasional rumours that they demanded coffins brought to their hotel rooms, and had been spotted in clubs with blood-red lips, even sometimes grinding up on each other...well, they were rockstars. That kind of behaviour came with the territory.
Edmund removed his in-ears, custom-made to block out sound from his hypersensitive ears during maximum-decibel shows, and set them with the other equipment. The roadies would handle it all, unlike the early days of obscurity and spending the rest of their nights loading out. Now, they could enjoy the fruits of their labour.
Exiting the stage door and walking the unlit (part of their contract) back hallway to their greenroom, he could smell Peter in the dark a mile away. He wasn’t caught by surprise when the familiar muscles slammed into him, pressing him into the wall. “Fuck, Ed, what was that?”
Edmund grinned. “A little...show. For your amusement.” Which had involved Edmund losing his shirt, climbing onto Peter’s pedestal just before it rose in time for the guitar solo, and doing all sorts of distracting things. While never skipping a beat of the bassline.
“That wasn’t what I meant.” Peter’s fangs popped as he skimmed the tips of them over Edmund’s neck, eliciting a shiver. One of the remarkable things about being a vampire, he’d found, was that one was not immune to the effects of other vampires. At least when it came to Peter. His brother had never been inclined to share him with others of their kind.
Teasingly, Edmund let his neck arch a bit. It was wholly a tease, for he had no blood to offer, just...other things. “Then what?”
Peter’s breath, deliberate, unneeded except to rile him at the sensitive dip of his collarbone, washed warm over his bare skin. “You missed a note.”
The ensuing scuffle would have proved longer and rougher, if they had not both been hungry, drained from giving it all on stage, and ready for tonight’s snack. Sooner rather than later, they entered their greenroom to see who their manager had found for them tonight. Her involvement was absolutely critical, for she was paid handsomely to do all the legwork and find willing and eager groupies to bring back for the usual things and the unusual things too. Most of them seemed to come from vampire fan clubs, roleplay communities, that sort of thing. They were thoroughly vetted before they ever made an appearance backstage, and they were always there of their own free will. Other than that, the Pevensies didn’t ask too many questions.
Sometimes they shared, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes it really just was a meal, a quick glamour and sending their groupie off smiling. Sometimes they just wanted each other, after. Sometimes, though, their snack turned into more. And, occasionally, it was a hell of a lot more.
Two rumpled vampires in various stages of undress burst through the door, and a young man turned to greet them. He was almost angelically handsome, with features hewn in the most graceful of lines and a body to match, but the devilish curl of his lips hinted that he was up for less than innocent things. As did, quite honestly, the fit of his leather pants. He looked practically plucked from the pages of a romance novel, with shoulder-grazing hair that begged to be touched, and his purple shirt billowing from where it tucked into the narrow waist of that scandalous leather.
He whistled at the sight of the two Pevensies. “It actually worked. Amazing what a few bribes can do.”
Peter stopped short, frowning. “Steph doesn’t take bribes.” Edmund finished shrugging out of his jacket, shirt already foregone, and draped it over a chair, eyes never leaving their guest.
“Steph? Oh, yes, the woman who usually arranges these things. I didn’t go through her. More of a challenge that way.” The young man came closer, surveying them both with frank interest. Edmund returned the favour. Peter, on the other hand…
No, Edmund knew, Peter was not happy that his system had been undermined. The carefully screened candidates, the privacy, the layers of security. They had all been breached, and that did not sit well with him. Edmund would rather take it on a case by case basis, but he too knew that for every vampire lover out there, there was probably an equally as passionate hunter looking to nab a famous stake.
Peter’s fangs were still out, and he didn’t bother to hide them as he stepped into the man’s space. Practically daring him to try something. “What’s your name?”
Their visitor didn’t give an inch, his smile cryptic. “Caspian.”
An unusual name. “Look, Caspian,” Peter said, and his King voice had made an appearance now, “I don’t appreciate when someone breaks my rules. Especially when it puts my family in danger.” Even if it was Caspian who seemed in danger now, inches away from the stern blond man-who-was-not-human. Peter was staring him straight in the eyes, no doubt searching for any signs of either glamour, compulsion, or falseness. The intimidation factor of his steely blue stare, twice as powerful as when he’d been human, was just a bonus.
Edmund, meanwhile, was conducting his own appraisal. The room looked untouched from when they’d last left it. If Caspian had hidden weapons somewhere, it was nowhere within reach. Edmund could not smell freshly sharpened wood, the tang of holy water, the cold metal of a gun, or any other method that he knew of that would in fact put them in danger. He thought it far more likely that this man was a thrill-seeker than a desperado. And...selfishly...he was the most attractive man Edmund had seen in decades. Right there, ready for the taking. As his next words made patently clear.
“You should be thanking me for offering myself,” Caspian parried back at Peter, a bite to his voice. “You have a certain reputation.”
Peter snarled, and even a century later still reached for his non-existent sword. His fingers closed on air, and curled into a fist.
Edmund, lightning-fast, grabbed his arm. “What my brother means to say,” he said smoothly, “is that we’d like to know what your intentions are. Sneaking in here when you could have easily gone through the official channels.”
Caspian’s dark brown eyes shifted to him, and Edmund had the unholy urge to flush at the expression in them. Standing right at Peter’s hip, he was now quite close to Caspian as well. The man radiated sex. Fuck. Hunger gnawed at Edmund, bound up in desire. This would be one of those more kind of nights. If Peter didn’t ruin it before it’d even begun.
“I would like,” Caspian said, almost tenderly, “to have you both. And I didn’t care to compete with the rest of your - groupies - for that privilege.”
“There would have been no competition,” Edmund replied, and his fangs worried at his bottom lip. “It would have been you.”
“Ed, you’re so easy,” Peter grumbled, but Edmund could smell and feel the crackle of arousal in him as well, only enhanced by the tang of their wills clashing.
“But not helpless,” Edmund said, pointedly, and then between one blink of Caspian’s eyes and the next, the young man would find himself flat on the ground with one very shirtless rockstar sitting on his chest.
“Touche,” and Peter’s voice, dryly acknowledging, let the cracks show through. Relenting. Good.
Edmund could hear the rapid flicker of the heartbeat beneath him, Caspian’s eyes wide, but also...burning hot. Pupils dilated. Lips parting, just so. It was almost too good to be true.
“A test run,” said Peter, folding his arms. “You will let Edmund drink, and then pleasure him with your mouth.” Unspoken, but implicit, was that Peter would stand watch, literally and figuratively. Any funny business, or unfunny business, and Caspian was a dead man.
The visible swallow of Caspian’s throat drew Edmund’s gaze inexorably. He stared hard at the fine, vulnerable lines of the pale flesh, as Caspian tipped his head back and presented it to him. “Go ahead,” he said thickly, and Edmund wanted everything, every single fucking thing Peter had suggested and more.
Slowly, he bent, brushing his nose along the column of Caspian’s throat, letting his senses have their fill: the smell of him, salty and sunny; the sound of long strands of hair whispering around Edmund’s trailing fingers; the feeling of his smooth skin, the parting of the buttons over his chest, and the stubble where his beard began. Last of all was taste. Saving the best for last.
Edmund parted his lips at a soft vulnerable spot right at the base of Caspian’s neck, kissing there, gently at first, and then not gently at all. He was rewarded with a faint groan, and a growl behind them that could have been of approbation, but could just as easily have been a get on with it, Ed!
Peter and patience. Edmund did like to take his time when it was as sweet as this one.
But he was too hungry to toy too much right now. He let his lips latch onto Caspian’s skin, sank his fangs into him, and sighed in delight as blood welled up under his tongue. He drank greedily - this part, he needed no patience for - eyes closing and body arching in pleasure. It had all the reckless dopamine of a sought-after high, and the more natural sensuous pleasure of an orgasm, all in one perfect taste.
He didn’t even realize he’d given a muffled moan until he felt the vibrations of it in Caspian’s flesh, or that he had drunk so much until he felt the touch of Peter’s hands on his back. “Enough, Ed,” and Peter’s voice was rough and thick, like he was holding back more than one impulse right now. “Leave some for later.”
Reluctantly, Edmund dragged himself up and began licking the punctures closed and cleaning up the edges. Caspian’s eyes were heavy-lidded, fixed upon him. Edmund touched his face, then glanced back at Peter, anchored by the firm hands on his back.
Wordlessly, Peter drew his brother to his feet, still at his back. Leanly muscled arms surrounded Edmund from behind, fitted perfectly around him. It was not just a statement of protection for Caspian’s benefit, although Peter surely wouldn’t object if it was taken that way. But Edmund felt the decades of care in the embrace, the love that Peter rarely spoke aloud but showed in so many ways. They were all they had, now. They were a united front, and it would always be that way.
“The rest of it,” said Peter, addressing Caspian with an arch of his brow, which Edmund caught a glimpse of over his shoulder before looking down at the young man. Caspian, staring back over Edmund’s shoulder too, came to his knees before him. “Shirt off.” As if to underscore the point, Peter spanned Edmund’s bare abdominals with his hands. Caspian followed suit. The rest of the buttons slipped free, and then he shrugged the fabric off of his shoulders and arms, revealing refined curvature of muscle and sinew, leanly knitted.
Peter just nodded once. Edmund expected him to tell Caspian to go on, do as he’d been instructed...but instead Peter’s hands began toying at the waist of his jeans. Fingertips kneading at the hem, and then below, just a little. Peter always loved to drive home his points. Edmund honestly couldn’t object.
“Both of us, together. Rather greedy, isn’t it?” Peter remarked, calmly unbuttoning Edmund’s pants. Every glancing touch made his cock throb a little harder. “Isn’t one of us enough? I enjoy just Edmund.” He hooked his thumbs over jeans and underwear and tugged them both down. Edmund could only imagine how debauched a sight he must make to Caspian, gazing up from between his legs at the messy-haired man with dark smudges of liner around his eyes, lips a true blood red and still stained around the edges, chest bare, hard cock popping free. With Peter’s hands skimming the newly freed length, and then the exposed balls beneath, and Caspian watching every second of it, Edmund had a centuries-old impulse to breathe hard.
“I want both of you,” said Caspian, not backing down. “But you are right. I would enjoy all of Edmund, and count myself fortunate.” He caressed with his eyes the places that Peter explored with his hands. The wickedness of Peter just...parading him in front of Caspian was foremost in Edmund’s thoughts, and damn it all if that wasn’t a huge turn-on. Fair turn-about for his own antics during the show, if he were honest.
Peter seemed pleased by this answer. “Good. Please him, and we’ll see about the rest.” The royal we. Edmund grinned, showing his fangs. And Peter let him go, with a soft parting kiss to his neck. “He’s all yours.” For now.
Caspian didn’t need any more prompting than that. He immediately nuzzled his nose against Edmund’s length, a hand on his thigh. “You can hold my head,” he told Edmund, who appreciated the permission to immediately slide his hands into the silky hair and cup the back of Caspian’s head. He didn’t urge him on, though, letting Caspian take his time kissing, licking, a sort of mirror image of Edmund’s feeding minutes earlier. The torture of it was just as sweet, and the aching hunger far more tolerable.
When at last Caspian’s lips parted and took him in, Edmund felt the same kind of relief as the first taste of his blood. And when Caspian swallowed him whole and sucked, Edmund’s head tipped back. Back, and against something solid. Peter’s chest. Well then.
He was grateful for the solid presence of Peter’s body, and aware of the press of hard flesh against his tailbone, as insistent on his consciousness as the flicker of Caspian’s tongue and the warm wet press of Caspian’s mouth. It was a hedonist’s heaven. Edmund curled his fingers into Caspian’s hair and gave himself over to it.
He didn’t want it to end, but oh, there was that delicious cliff of pleasure, right there. He tilted back, head tilting for Peter’s lips. “Fuck, that’s it.”
“Mm,” was Peter’s eloquent comment, as he dug his fingers into Edmund’s hips.
Caspian hummed in response, and Edmund felt it all the way up his cock. He hitched, and spilled straight into Caspian’s mouth. His hands clenched and then unclenched around fistfuls of his giving lover’s hair, and his moans were swallowed by his brother’s mouth. As close to heaven as he was ever going to get.
Peter’s embrace was equal parts satisfying and smug. Edmund slowly came back to himself, and slid his fingers in a caress across the back of Caspian’s head. “Thank you.” Who said rockstars couldn’t have manners?
Caspian licked his lips, cleaning himself up, just as delicately mannered. “My pleasure.” And his gaze shifted beyond Edmund, clearly meeting Peter’s. Challenging. Was that proof enough?
How could Peter say no to such a face? Fortunately, his brother agreed with him on this point. Caspian had earned his place here.
Peter offered a hand. Slowly, Caspian took it and let himself be drawn to his feet. He faced the two vampires without a drop of fear. Brave, or foolhardy? Edmund wondered on that point, given that he could feel the tautness in Peter’s body at the faint smell of blood on Caspian’s skin from where Edmund had drunk, where Peter had not yet.
Caspian’s chin lifted. “Aren’t you hungry, too?”
Of course he was. As perfect as Peter’s self-control over the decades had become, he was not immune to temptation. Edmund loved him more for it.
For all the right reasons, Peter let go of him and came to Caspian. He touched the man’s face, examining it carefully. “You think you want it all,” Peter said, “but do you really know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Caspian didn’t flinch. He was proud, which was good, but stubborn, which might be good, might not.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” With a few swift gestures, Peter pushed him onto one of the couches that littered their room. His mouth was on the man’s neck, kissing, not biting. His hands covered Caspian’s bare chest. Hungry, but not just for blood.
Frankly appreciative of such patience, Edmund sank onto the couch facing theirs, simply watching. Peter wouldn’t mind. He never did.
Caspian ran his hands over sculpted planes of muscles, over all the places Edmund was sure plenty would pay for such a privilege. It had never come to that, for there was no shortage of either willing donors or intriguing lovers. There was just something strange and wild and different about this one.
Peter, in turn, began systematically stripping Caspian of his leather pants, no easy feat, even for a vampire, but Peter’s skill was equal to the task. The result - a naked Caspian, stretched out on a greenroom couch, long limbs draped with impossible grace - was frankly breathtaking. Well worth the effort.
“Look, Caspian…” The golden-haired vampire could have been taken straight from a painting, bent over the reclining young man, his face almost angelic, fangs gently intersecting plush lips. He hovered over Caspian’s hips before settling between his thighs. “I want to bite you here.” Lovingly, Peter’s mouth right below the crease of a hip. Right over a femoral artery. “Do you still think this is such a good idea?”
Edmund could tell Caspian was unprepared for this turn of events, the fingers of one hand digging into the couch cushions. But by equal measure, he was stubborn and, visibly, turned on. “Yes,” he said. The beautiful fool.
“Good.” Because backup plans - emergency vials of blood stashed in their tour bus - just couldn’t compete with the sheer pleasure that must come as Peter sank his fangs into the sweet flesh of Caspian’s thigh. The soft, almost inaudible sound he made at that first taste was almost as delicious as the actual taste itself lingering on Edmund’s tongue.
Caspian, crying out, arched. Peter’s hands kept him pinned to the couch, supernaturally strong. Watching as he was, Edmund could see no sign of struggle, only the intersection of pleasure and danger sought by so many of their lovers. However intense the sensation, Caspian was riding it out like a man who wanted that adventure.
Peter knew what he was doing. He drank, and worked his hands over Caspian, teasing his own appetite and Caspian’s alike. Little wonder that Caspian writhed, begging for more. Edmund had been on the receiving end of those skillful lips and hands enough times to know that those alone could unravel a man, or a vampire. Add to that the high of a vampire’s kiss, and Edmund could be forgiven for the prickle of envy that nudged at him.
As if on cue, Peter came up for air, and turned his head and looked at his brother, licking blood-tinged lips, and there was a grin in his eyes if not quite reaching the corners of his mouth. A satisfied kind of look that seemed to read him through and through, and to hint at all sorts of wickedness to come. Edmund sat back, appeased.
“Please,” said Caspian, so prettily that they both glanced at him, and then at each other.
Thoughtfully, Edmund said, “We’re not mind-readers, convenient as that would be.”
“Please, fuck me.” That spark of defiant eagerness really had to be heard to be appreciated.
“Since you ask so nicely…” Peter wove to his feet and dug around in their packs. He found what he was looking for. Edmund approved. They would need plenty of oil, whatever else they did.
But instead of using it on Caspian, Peter began stripping himself. It was a good thing too, for he was the only one in the room still fully dressed. High time he joined them. Edmund was biased, but he wasn’t the only one.
Caspian’s gaze burned over the two of them as Edmund joined his brother’s side. “So...that’s a yes?”
Not every man could handle two vampires in answer, but Caspian was far from every man.
Snug. Very snug. If they hadn’t just thoroughly wrung themselves out with Caspian, the tight quarters would certainly have led to an encore. Instead, Edmund simply slid his arms around Peter from behind and laid his head against the top of his brother’s shoulders, lazily helping wash the front of him. Blessedly hot water sluiced over them both, but Peter got most of it this way.
He handed Edmund the soap to wash his back. “Let’s keep that bloke’s number, hm?”
“It was just an address,” admitted Edmund, who’d gotten the slip of paper Caspian had scribbled on and handed over before leaving. Thoughtfully, he began lathering the breadth of Peter’s deltoids and rubbing slowly in circles downwards. “I guess if we get adventurous again…”
Peter splayed a hand on the shower wall. “Would that be like us going to a restaurant, or to a personal chef? Actually going to someone’s house for a meal?”
“A dinner party,” Edmund decided. He reached Peter’s lower back, and stopped. Touched him there, fingers sliding over the remnants of his own last release where Peter had gotten him to come, spilling right over Peter’s tailbone and above the dimpled muscles of his glutes. “I’m tempted not to wash this off.”
Peter grunted, reached back, felt where Edmund’s hand was touching him. “I have a better idea.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Edmund, sliding a palm behind his brother’s head. “Wash it off now, for sleep, and you’ll have a reason to put it there again before our next show.”
The idea of Peter walking out on stage with his come dotting his skin, beneath clothing or not, renewed Edmund’s spent hunger, in all the tangible ways. He pressed popped fangs and a hard cock against Peter’s body. “How can I say no to such a magnificent plan?”
“Save it up, then.” And Peter turned him around, into the stream of the shower. “Tomorrow night.”