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Sixteen Candles

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They don't talk often about their reign in Narnia. It's not that they don't want to - though it would be hard to find the privacy, these days. It's that when they'd first come home, they hadn't known how. It had been one thing for Peter and Susan, who'd been nearly grown when they'd gone through the wardrobe. It was quite another for Edmund and Lucy, who'd been children, grown up, and suddenly become children again. How do you handle possesing the knowledge and experience of an adult, yet the body of a child? How do you broach subjects that, by all rights, the young ones should be innocent of, not knowing if they retain those memories or if the mind has regressed to protect itself?

And so Peter and Susan had kept their mouths shut, not wanting to confuse Edmund and Lucy. Not wanting to reawaken feelings that were better off lying dormant. Not wanting to shake that Tree and bring down a rain of apples and snakes, when they'd already been cast from the Garden. Now that they're older, it's different - but it's been so long they just don't know how to change.

Sometimes - most of the time - Lucy wishes they'd just gone on and brought it up. She'd kept her silence for much the same reason - she couldn't begin to imagine how to ask some of the questions she'd had, or how the older Pevensies might react if she did - and now she suffers in it. There's no one else she can take it to - the girls at school have only had their birthdays one time apiece, and there's only Abigail Thropp who's so much as snogged a fellow. What would they do if they knew Lucy had enough experience for the lot of them - if they knew how long ago it had happened? There'd be hushed whispers. Accusations. Investigations. They'd never understand, and the only people who might have avoided it for so long she wonders if they've forgotten altogether.

Lucy's never forgotten a thing.


When Tumnus met Lucy, she'd been but a child - and for years afterward, the affection he'd shown her had been that of a father - a brother. He'd never thought of anything else. He might have been, in the eyes of some, a very bad faun, but he wasn't warped. She'd been innocent, pure, a genuine Daughter of Eve, and he'd wanted nothing more than to see that she never had to wipe her eyes as she'd once wiped his.

He'd been her playmate and protector, the guardian who guided her through growing up in a foreign world, and though birthdays weren't so big a deal in Narnia, after she'd told him of the traditions in that far-off, mythical land of Spare Oom, every year, he'd had Missus Beaver bake her a cake.


This is the second time Lucy's turned sixteen. Only three of the guests at her party know that, of course, and none of them mention it. The rest jabber on about how grown-up she is now and what a lovely woman she's becoming, and not a one of them realize that she's done this all before.

"You know what's all the rage in the States?" someone says to her left, and she's glad she has cake in her mouth because she doesn't know, and she doesn't really care, either. "They're having these great lunatic parties with long dresses and crowns - I wish you'd had one, Lucy; I think I'm going to. Every girl should get to be a princess once in her life."

- and the cake in her mouth is suddenly so dry she's afraid she's going to choke on it, and it's all she can do to grab a cup and wash it down so she can excuse herself.


He wasn't sure exactly when she'd become a woman. He'd never given it all that much thought. Maybe that was how, though he'd been there every day, he'd managed to miss it. The creature across the table was very much a woman, though; all flushed cheeks and plush lips closing over a bite of cake, and breasts that rose and came together when she laughed. She laughed when he reached over to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

"Susan would have a fit if she saw me. 'All grown up and still making a mess, Lucy? For shame!'"

"Maybe I ought to feed it to you instead?" he countered before he could think better of it. "I mean, I can see your mouth better than you can."

She didn't say no.


After the guests have gone - and not soon enough, though she doesn't say that aloud - she drags herself up to her room. Mum follows her halfway up - and Susan right to the door - wanting to know what's wrong. This ought to be a happy occasion - is she not feeling well? Was the party not what she'd wanted? Did one of the girls say something?

"It's nothing, Mum. Too much cake."

Susan, she waves off entirely. She doesn't want to discuss it with her sister anymore. The time for that has passed. She gets the feeling that Susan wouldn't understand.

Lucy hasn't used a nightlight in years - not since going through the wardrobe, in fact. She likes the room dark. It reminds her of -


It doesn't last long - or not as long as she'd like, anyway. Even with the curtains drawn, there's ambient light from the street - just enough for Lucy to make out the difference between shadows cast and the outline of a dresser along the far wall. Now-and-then, a car passes by and its headlights cause the darkness to leap and distort. That, too, brings a memory unbidden, of ghostly shapes dancing in a hearth to the tune of a Narnian lullaby. The imagined flames contort and writhe, engaged in a union that would make a dryad blush. Had they really been so salacious at the time, or is it only her mind that puts the thought in itself? She groans, closing her eyes, and the figures taunt her from the inside of her lids.


The creatures of Narnia had little use for shame. Shame was a product of the Fall - an emotion for Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, not for beings that walked the line between man and beast. Scarves, belts, even a vest or shirt - those were all things having to do with weather and convenience, not a need to be concealed. When badgers or wolves or horses - Talking or not - had the urge to mate, they did so - and so did centaurs, and so did merpeople, and so did fauns.

And so when Tumnus found himself aroused in the presence of Lucy's sudden womanhood, it didn't occur to him to be embarassed - or even concerned; not to reach for a blanket or shift his position, or do anything else to hide himself from her virginal and all-too-curious eyes.


The first time Lucy laid eyes on a naked man, she didn't realize right away what she was looking at. Tumnus, after all, had always gone without pants. Had the ruddy fur that served in their stead really obscured his nethers so well, or had she not seen because she'd never wanted to see?

She wasn't entirely innocent, even then. She knew, as her parents had put it, 'how babies were made'; she'd seen male dogs riding legs and hogs rutting on the farm. Hell, she'd probably even seen goats going at it. It only made sense that fauns, with their caprine lower halves, would be similarly endowed. So why did it come as such a surprise?

They were in his cave, as they always were on her birthdays. It was easier for Mrs Beaver to get the cake there, and who would even dream of denying the Valiant Queen of Narnia the right to spend a day with her oldest and dearest friend? After she'd gotten cake on her face, Tumnus had wiped it off, and then he'd picked the rest up with his fingers and fed it to her from the same. She'd taken the plates to the sink to wash, and when she'd come back, he'd been sprawled in the overstuffed chair in his parlour, his eyes half-closed and something stiff and swollen jutting from his lap.

The way the fire cast its shadows over Tumnus made him look almost sinister, and Lucy was reminded of what he'd said to her the day they'd met - I'm a very bad faun. She'd never been inclined to believe it before. In the close-walled darkness, though, it became all too easy. Abruptly, every lecture she'd ever been given came flooding back - every warning about walking off with strangers, every cautionary tale about young women snatched from the street never to be seen again. Every faery-story, with their lurid descriptions of princesses falling prey to witches and curses and temptation; every myth of satyrs, too-virile gods, and the humans caught within their webs.

Her reverie shattered when Tumnus chuckled. "As if I'd ever do such a thing to you, Lucy."

She hadn't spoken aloud. It must have been the look on her face. Shame reddened her cheeks. How could she have suspected him of such ill intent? She'd known him for years, and he'd had a thousand chances or more to see her ruined. He'd risked his life rather than turn her over to the White Witch, and she'd been nothing to him then. Why would he risk their friendship now just to turn her over his knee?

Lucy stammered an apology, and Tumnus chuckled again before she could finish.

"Come here, Lucy," he said gently, extending his hand, "and I'll show you. If that's what you want." He didn't mention that she certainly seemed to, the way she was staring.

With all the grace befitting a Queen of Narnia, Lucy stepped forward and caught a foot in her skirt. She didn't fall, at least, but the damage was done, and her face flooded again with red. As she fumbled with the layered gowns, working to untangle herself for longer than was really necessary, she could hear Tumnus laughing softly in the background. Oh, for the days when the iced earth might have split beneath her feet and swallowed her up.

A hand closed over hers and squeezed her fingers warmly. Gallantly, his other arm wrapping her waist, Tumnus escorted her to the chair. Reseated, the faun drew her down in turn - settling her between his leg and the side of the chair rather than putting her straightaway in his lap. Cautiously, ready to release her should she resist, he guided her hand to the stiffened member. Only her fingertips brushed it at first, and nearly as soon as they did, she pulled back. Even so, the touch was a tease and he inhaled sharply.

Startled, Lucy hesitated before reaching again for Tumnus' cock. The faun nodded, a gesture short and sharp. More curious than she wanted to admit, she began to explore the rod - the shaft, jutting from and partially covered in that ruddy fur; the sac at its base, gelatinous and all but hidden entirely; the head, spongy and dark with blood. Tumnus' hand came to her thigh, cupping it through the shroud of linen and wool that kept her still from his sight. Gradually, he tugged up the gowns, though even once their hems rose enough to bare her flesh, he did no more than stroke the skin above her knee. She trembled, and he wound his arm once more about her waist and pulled her close.

His mouth found hers, at first but a touch of corner to corner. Encouraged, Lucy nuzzled into the kiss, and when Tumnus' tongue traced the shape of her lips, the rosy curves parted. His free hand came to her chin, tipping up her face. For a time, what lay below his waist was - not forgotten, but not of such immediate importance. The fingers that had caressed her thigh travelled upward; brushing back her hair, gliding along her side, finding their way to the laces that ran down her spine and held shut her gown. He toyed with the bow, and when it loosed, drew the cord through its eyelets with all the reverence given to unwrapping holy relics. Beneath the cloth, her shoulders were pale; untouched by the sun that lent a hint of gold to her face. As the fabric fell, she shivered.

"Should I stop, my Queen?" Tumnus murmured, and wasn't sure if the title was a joke between friends who'd never needed such, or if he meant it.

"No," Lucy replied, shaking her head, and was surprised to find that she did mean that. "No."

The faun responded with neither word nor nod, only resumed the kiss that had been barely broken to begin with. Slowly still, lest she recant her permission in sudden fright, he slid the dress further away. His fingers danced the swell of her breast - a gentle slope, appropriately girlish in comparison to the abundant, even pendulous mounds possessed by nymphs. Her nipples, he guessed, would have been pink had they not been coloured by shadow and firelight, and they grew swiftly taut as both cold air and heated hands swept over them. Beneath the left, her heart pounded heavily enough to be felt with ease. His mouth drifted to the hollow of her throat and found the pulse there as well, a hummingbird flutter trapped below her skin.

She gasped when his lips closed over her nipple and his tongue swirled around it. Tight enough that her skin pulled into tiny bumps at its base, the bud ached with the sudden rush of sensation. Not knowing what to do with her own hands, she laid them to his shoulders and latched fiercely on. The faun grunted as her nails pricked him and shifted in the chair. One arm yet embracing her, the other drifted down, his fingers roaming the span of thigh he hadn't explored before. At the apex of her legs, he found moisture; a ghostly sheen that, where it happened to spread to the thigh on which she was seated, matted down his fur. A shudder, blending want and fear, raced through her, and she lifted her hips a bit.

"Lucy," he breathed, and it was at once a question and a statement and a promise. His cock jabbed her leg, insistant on making its presence known once more. She had no answer either for him or for it and only traced her lips nervously with her tongue.

Tumnus' arm tightened around her, pulling her over his thigh. On her own leg, his other hand pushed outward, so that by the time he had her fully in his lap, she straddled it. A breath caught in her throat, and he murmured something meaningless and reassuring in her ear as he positioned her.

The head of his cock nudged those virgin folds, angry with the delay. Still, he held her in place above him, giving her a last few moments to reconcile with what was to come - to tease her, arouse her further; ease the first thrust that would bring her fully into womanhood. His hands flattened against her back, comfort in the touch of a friend as much as a lover.

At last, his hips rolled up. Flesh parted around his cock and turned in on itself, so that he was forced to take a hand from the embrace and use it instead to spread the petals and guide his way into her. Again, her breath became a tiny gasp. He met resistance and held still for a time as he had before, allowing the as-yet-undiscovered passage to grow accustomed to his presence there. His lips touched her forehead, her cheek, sealed her mouth with his before he resumed the slow push forward.

On Tumnus' lap, Lucy's hips rose and squirmed. Within, the veil of her virginity stretched, panged, and finally broke. She cried out sharply as the shaft was driven fully inside, her back arching and her eyes flinching tightly shut. Against her lips, the faun uttered the same gentle reassurances, his hands roaming her legs and back. Slowly, he began to draw through her; the head of his cock stretching the velvet walls so that where they clamped most tightly around it, their ridges caught at its own.

She groaned, fingers clenching again on his shoulders. Not yet accustomed to moving in time with a partner, not educated enough to know really what to do to find her own pleasure, her hips shifted with a rhythm of their own, unsteady and uncertain. Her teeth gritted only to release as her tongue crawled out to stroke her lip. Met by Tumnus', the two wound in a sinuous dance. That, at least, was fairly easy to figure out.

As Tumnus' breathing grew shallower, raspier, the pace of his thrusts increased. Intoxicated by the musk of rutting, it was all he could do to keep the more bestial side of his nature at bay. Faun and satyr may have been different types of creature, but the same basic makeup lay at their cores. His hands clamped down over Lucy's hips, holding them in place above his lap. Rendered slick both by the girl's arousal and the blood that flowed from her broken hymen, his cock slid through the tunnel with a speed he would later curse - and still she was tight around him, her body struggling to push him out even as lust fought to keep him in. He would never have sought to hurt her, but the cries and husky moans that spilled from her lips urged him on in a way that suggested he was losing the battle. The gentle roll became a frenzied buck, bouncing her on the end of his cock. With the kiss broken, he leaned back, watching through slitted eyes the rise and fall of those rosy-tipped breasts.

A third fluid flooded her nethers, something thick and hot. Each time a gout erupted from Tumnus' cock, the shaft twitched and throbbed within her. He held her down, using her own weight to keep the head wedged into the utter limits of her sex. Only when his seed was spent, filling her entirely and trickling slowly down to smear her thighs and his alike, did he release her; exhaling heavily and pulling her in to rest against him. His lips lay against her temple, and his fingers rose to peel sweat-plastered hair from her cheek.


Afterwards, when Lucy, flushed and exhausted, had fallen asleep, Tumnus laid a long while with her in his arms. While one hand toyed with her hair, the other drifted to her abdomen, and his thoughts strayed to what it might be like to have it be rounded beneath his palm instead of flat - to see the joyous swell of belly and breasts that marked the coming of a child, the completion of a family. Could his kind even breed successfully with hers? Fauns produced offspring often enough with nymphs, but there hadn't been a human in Narnia in so long that even the myths didn't know.

Later on, he was just as glad that nothing had ever come of it. The scandal would have been horrendous - a queen of Narnia coupling with a common faun? He'd been careful, after that - taught her to catch his seed in her mouth or withdrawn from her before it erupted - but even so, he had to wonder, in the end, if their secret hadn't been so secret after all. If someone, anyone, might have known - or worse yet, if Aslan might have known, and that was why he'd sent her home.


Time passes differently in Narnia. No one knows that better than Lucy. She lies in bed, a woman of sixteen for the second time, and wonders how many years have gone by there - a decade, a century, an eon? They say time heals all wounds - and Lucy, Lucy is still hurting, but could enough have spanned beyond the wardrobe to ease Tumnus' ache? Does he think of her still, or has she faded from his mind as he seems to have faded from all but hers?

She doesn't think she can bear the thought.


Tumnus climbs the ladder and opens the door. Inside the glass box is a burnt-out candle, a sad lump of wax that's done its duty and far more - as if it had hung on as long as it could, knowing its replacement would be coming soon and not wanting to leave the post dark before it got there. He pulls it out and tucks it in a coat-pocket, and from the same, draws the fresh taper that will take its place. The wax is white, as pure as virgin snow, and when he strikes its wick with flint and steel, the flame that leaps forth is eager and bright.

It's been sixteen years since the Kings and Queens of Narnia vanished into the night, and when each passes to the next, he comes to the lamppost to see that it remains alight, just in case. He marks their passage not by the turn of a calendar-page or the anniversary of the day the Sons and Daughters had disappeared, but by the date on which they'd always celebrated Lucy's birthday. There's no cake, anymore, but the candle - the candle is always there.

It's been sixteen years. He's not sure about humans, but fauns live a long time, and Tumnus has it in him yet. He hefts the ladder in his arm and heads back to his cave, and tries not to notice that the light in the lamp is already growing dim.

Author's Notes: Inspired by Zoi no Miko's prompt of Chronicles of Narnia, Lucy/Tumnus, Sixteenth Birthday in Porn Battle Round Ten @ IJ. Not entered in the battle due to length.