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Peter Pevensie was absolutely insufferable sometimes. He knew all too well how to treat others the right way. Ever so careful to mind his manners and to patiently and sound-mindedly solve whatever problems were thrown at him during the day. The throne truly fit him well. When something irked him, he quickly covered it with a well-practiced smile. He didn’t fake that smile most of the time. Oh, no: he was disgustingly authentic with his delight of talking to people. As an introvert, it frustrated and awestruck me simultaneously. I wished it all came as easily for me. I cared, deeply. But I was awful at showing it in a crowd setting. He excelled at it. Politeness and patience were traits he had learned to possess.

But I knew the man beneath the crown. My slight petty jealousy was always eased by the tell-tale signs of his humanity that very few others knew. Like the tell-tale twitch of his jaw before the calculated smile when something little frustrated him. Like the way his boot would silently tap the floor under the table when the council got particularly boring. Like the ways his eyes would traitorously sparkle in amusement if somebody said something that could have a humorous double meaning. Like the way his eyes would go a little greyer in undertone when a particularly dark matter presented itself before him. His heart truly did bleed for the people, and his compassion is part of what drew me to him in the first place and continues to do so.

Yes, Peter Pevensie was beautifully human under all the gold magnificence. He was also beautifully male. Especially in private. Sureness and warmth radiated from his immense hands. He was so acutely aware of my tell-tales too, and he knew just how to drive me mad. Yet, once again, even in moments of hot breaths and wet kisses, Peter minded his manners, in a way of speaking. He held back. He loved strongly, and still sweetly and slowly, as if I were made of thin crystal to be shattered at any moment. As if by habit, his patience lay thick between his mind and his body, only allowing his passion out so much. I saturated in the level of slow intimacy in which he loved, yet I also found myself longing to unleash the unchecked passion behind his eyes. For what would happen if he didn’t shake with self-restraint in his own set pace. For what would happen if he didn’t muffle the sounds that escaped his lips. I wanted to see High King Peter lose control.

So I found myself scheming. And I formulated a plan.

Now, I do not possess any level of patience whatsoever. So, I quickly put my idea into action.

The next morning, I took my seat next to Peter at the breakfast table. Susan and Lucy were sitting across from us, Susan quietly taking bites of eggs and toast, and Lucy talking excitedly about a funny dream she had. I liked breakfasts. The meal was sacred because it was usually the only one that it was just us. Lunch was usually spent in our separate ways with whoever we had business with that day, and supper, although together, was often attended by a number of courtiers and friends. For just a few hours in the morning, we didn’t have to mind our manners to quite the extent that we did for the rest of the day. Thus why we never bothered to wait for Edmund. He came down the stairs twenty minutes later looking like he didn’t bother to do anything to groom himself after he rolled out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, he plopped down into his chair. Lucy gave an enthusiastic “Good morning!” while the rest of us echoed at a lower decibel. He grunted a “Morning,” before focusing on his toast.

Fun fact about Ed: He actually is a morning person. But he usually stays awake so damn late reading that he ends up sleeping in and waking just a bit grumpy.

Fun fact about Peter: He actually is not a morning person. He gets up early, sure. But that is just to be up long enough so he can become coherent. The first hour he’s awake, he’s in a groggy and only half-present. And that unawareness is what made it so easy this morning.

Peter took a sip of orange juice when I decided to discreetly move my hand under the table over to his inner thigh and start drawing slow circles there with my fingers.

He choked on the orange juice.

Susan’s eyes sparkled behind her tilted cup of tea. Ed let out a lazy snicker. Lucy stopped her story. “Are you alright?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Yes.” Another cough. “I just forgot there was pulp in the juice.”

“There’s always pulp,” Susan quipped.

All this while, I never stopped my circles. I waited for him to start his reply to Susan to move my hand over his groin.

“I…” was all he got out. Susan raised her eyebrow in victory, but then went back to her toast.

Meanwhile, I was quite enjoying the evident reaction I was getting from Peter.

Slow strokes. Slight touches.

I took a sip of my coffee, and set it back down and swallowed. “How is the treaty of trade with the Black Dwarfs coming along? Has the council approved yet?”

He made eye contact with me, and the fire I found there was almost enough to deter me from my game. Almost.

But there was also resolve in those blues. Peter was competitive, and by now he knew I was challenging him.

So when his reply came, although punctuated a bit more staccato than usual, it came with confidence. “They haven’t officially approved, but it’s looking well like they will by the end of the day.”

The conversation moved forward with Edmund going into more detail about the treaty as I continued my strokes. Just when Peter started to raise his hips slightly, I moved my hand away.

If looks could kill. Exasperation, frustration, and desire swirled in the glance he threw my direction.

It was then that Tumnus came in the room, politely announcing the first task that needed attending to in the throne room.

Lucy greeted Tumnus with a warm hug before going off with Susan to the throne room. Edmund rose slowly up to leave, straightening his posture, when he noticed that Peter and I were still sitting.

“Aren’t you coming?”

I rose up first with a smug smile. “Of course.”

“Pete?” Edmund prompted, again.

“Give me a minute, Ed,” came his rasp reply.

Ed may not have known the exact nature of what was occurring, but he was no idiot. He looked to me, back to Peter, rolled his eyes, and then left.

Peter stood and turned to me. Just as he moved to pull me close, one of the kitchen staff came in to clear the table.

She started to mutter an apology, but I informed her not to worry, as we were just leaving. Which I did, and left Peter time to collect himself.

This little game was going even better than I hoped.

Chapter Text

The second time I got to execute my plan was a little after noon.

The duties of the throne room for the morning had been fulfilled, and everyone would be on their way to lunch soon. I knew Peter was meeting with some diplomats from Archenland for the meal, so I caught him when he was about to transition to wherever they were.

He was walking down the left wing corridor with Oreius at his side. When he heard my footsteps behind him, he turned. His eyes softened when they reached me.

“Oreius, could you go on ahead to our visitors? I’d like just a moment.”

“Of course.”

Oreius and I nodded to each other in both greeting and farewell before he left on ahead.

Then Peter turned back to me.

I didn’t think I’d ever tire of the softness that washed across his expression at the sight of me.

In two long strides, he was in front of me, much closer than what would be deemed proper for public. One of his hands found my cheek and the other the small of my back to usher me closer.

His actions were firm yet still tender, but his eyes were his telltale. I’m fairly certain it was this exact look that inspired the term “bedroom eyes.”

The kiss was bruising. Even so, his hands remained chaste.

Sometimes, it just struck me: the fact of who exactly those hands belonged to. I knew the man beneath the crown, but I also knew the king that wore it so well. Those hands were calloused of battle. Those hands formed alliances with a shake. Those hands bore the weight of a country. Those hands bore the sometimes even heavier weight of three siblings that looked to him in one way or another. And still those hands chose to embrace me and show me within his arms the definition of family that I’d never known.

There sometimes are no words for the amount of love in my heart for that man.

And I wanted to relieve the one small weight that I could: the weight of holding back.

So when I kissed back, I did so with fervor. And my hands didn’t stay chaste. Up and back down his chest. Knuckles grazing just below his belt, earning a sharp intake of breath from the character against me. I moved my hands to his shoulders as an anchor when he moved his lips to my left ear and down to my jaw.

Another fun fact about Peter: He has very nice shoulders. That is all.

When he started kissing a hot trail down my neck, I caught a glance of the time on the ornate clock on the wall. Peter needed to go.

“The time, Peter.”

“What of it?” was the breathy reply.

“Orieus and the visitors are waiting.”

A frustrated groan left his lips.

“Don’t think I haven’t caught on to what you’re attempting to accomplish. You’re not going to win,” he said with a tone of voice that proved otherwise.

I laughed. “Are you sure of that? You’re going to be late if you don’t go soon.”

A warning glace was sent my way that said, “This isn’t over.”

How right he was. Just as he started to walk off, I called his name.

Slowly, he turned back around.

I made a few confident steps forward until I was close again and pulled something out of my pocket.

I took his hand, pulled his clenched fist open, and placed a certain delicate undergarment there.

“Would you mind holding these for me? I decided I have no more need of them today.”

I quickly scanned his face to find the slight slack jawed, wide-eyed expression before turning and walking the opposite direction.

“Have a nice meeting!” I called, not bothering to look back.

Ah, yes. Today was going to be good.

Chapter Text

In romance books, they often say how a person’s gaze can immediately set the other ablaze.

Fun fact about Peter: There was no such satisfaction for the impatient like me. His gaze torturously slowly incinerated all one’s nerve endings in a wonderfully awful type of combustion that didn’t ever fully break into flame.

Oh no, he was a carefully contained fire.

And yet, the looks he was stealing at me during dinner said told me that flame might just be ready to escape.

His telltales tonight were fists clenched to the point where the knuckles were white and a jaw that tightened in that one spot: the same spot I knew drove him wild when I kissed it.

Dinner really could not have gone any slower. Toward the end, I quietly excused myself. One of the lounges in the wing close to my bedroom quarters had a grand piano in it. My little game had backfired a bit on myself, and I needed something to get my mind off of it until I could get Peter to myself.

I sat down to play one of the few songs I knew well enough to not need sheet music. There were no lyrics to this one, and that was perfect for right now: my mind had enough running through it as it was.

So consumed with the song was I that I almost didn’t hear the door swing open. Peter was never gifted much with being quiet in the way he moved. You really couldn’t miss him even if you were blind.

But I wasn’t blind, so I let my fingers slip off the notes and let my eyes wander over him in that lingering way that you just can’t do in public.

He was stiff in demeanor. He wanted the same thing I did, but he wasn’t going to give in so easily now that he knew I was toying with him a bit.

The piano bench next to me creaked as he occupied the remaining space next to me. Without any outward acknowledgment of me, his hands picked up the tune where I left off.

He really shouldn’t be good at playing, logically. His fingers are much too thick for the keys. And yet, here he was, playing with expertise.

A nice metaphor.

In theory, he shouldn’t be as attentive and talented as he is at striking the chords in me either. His hands were made for battle. Battlefields and bedrooms rarely share members in their halls of fame. Brute strength really shouldn’t be able to display itself so tender.
And yet, it did in the form of Peter Pevensie.

I felt my hands join his on the keys, playing the harmony of the song.

“Last time I checked, it’s not in line with the politeness and chivalry of a king to leave the dinner table early,” I said, breaking the stuffy silence.

“I would beg to differ,” he replied with a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, never stopping the song. “It’s perfectly chivalrous to check on the well-being of a lady who hadn’t returned to the dinner table in quite some time.”

I nodded.

It wasn’t a moment later that I heard Susan calling both of our names.

“Well, I’m going to go retire upstairs,” I said as I stood up. I watched Peters eyes rake over me, but his arms stayed stiff at his side, in check.

“You’re more than welcome to join me,” I leant down to kiss his cheek and whispered the rest in his ear. “But please don’t bring your kingly chivalry with you. I really don’t care for you to be gentle tonight.”

And with that, I spun on my heel and made my way upstairs.

Chapter Text

Before I came to know Peter, there was a man that said he loved me, and he showed me that "love" with his fists. It took me a long time to warm up to people after it. 

Even still: I was never afraid for my safety with Peter, even though I knew what he was capable of. I thought It all through a time ago. I knew what he did was for the protection of his family and country, but knowing the heart behind it sometimes wasn't enough to make him less menacing. It was watching the nature of how he defeated someone that salved my restlessness over time. He knew how to use his strength enough to overpower someone without causing lethal harm. It was always his last resort. And, most often, the lethal swing came at the threat of hurting those he loved. He protected fiercely.

Peter knew what happened to me before. I think this is why he had it so firmly implanted in his head that I could be shattered. That he must treat me with tender care in this aspect of things. 

And I loved that he cared so deeply. I just needed him to understand that consent changes everything. That letting your passion flow in intimate moments is not at all the same as the man who let his anger flow unbridled onto me. 

And that tender and gentle are not necessarily synonymous.

Besides, I liked his slight intimidating edge. I liked feeling small when he stood next to me. I liked the weight of him on top of me. I liked how his fingers would grip onto my arm just a little harder than I knew he would do voluntarily in moments heavy with intensity.

Because I knew he'd never use it against me, I found it actually, for lack of a more eloquent phrasing, turned me on. 

I didn’t have to wait long for Peter to find his way to me. The knock on my door was the specific beat that belonged to Peter.

I didn’t waste any time turning around letting my eyes flutter up to his, which were unfocused and seemed to be calculating something. I waited for one heartbeat, two, sighed, and then I turned back around and started walking toward the balcony.

Then, without introduction, a warm hand swallowed my shoulder, suddenly spinning me back around. His other hand found the bottom of my spine, drifting lower, and his lips claimed mine with a fluidity that simultaneously sent my mind into a slow, syrupy state and ignited my nerves to pulse at a blinding speed.

My back struck against the wall. His body struck against mine. The metaphorical match stuck against the box. Ah, yes, the fire had finally started to forsake its restrictions.

I eagerly threaded my hands in his hair as his fingers traced a simmering trail down my the small of my back, teasing just at the bottom before hastily pulling on the laces there.

Realizing quickly that one couldn’t untie them without looking, he spun me around to face the wall, his lips falling to my neck, kissing and lightly sucking on the skin there.

As my dress fell to the floor, I spun back around. His eyes first took a long, lingering look at me, and then snapped up to my eyes. Adoration. That’s what saturated in his eyes.

One of his hands, that had fallen to his side, came to caress the side of my cheek. The other gripped my inner thigh, ushering me closer until I was pressed fully against him.

There’s something very intimate about being fully naked when one’s partner is fully clothed. There’s a level of trust that demands to be present, and a level of something like power that zaps in the air.

Even so, I wanted him with much less on. I started to tug up on his shirt, but he quickly took it to pull it off the rest of the way himself. Mid-motion of him pulling it off, I ran my hands just below his belt, over the growing indention in his breaches.

A low groan left his lips as one of his arms rammed into the wall behind me to steady himself, effectively pinning me between the wall and himself.

He kissed me again, hard. I arched my chest to meet his, craving the feel of his warm skin on mine.

I rubbed my legs together in attempt to gain some much-needed friction, and the action was not lost to Peter’s eyes. Two calloused fingers slid across my inner thigh. Then a little higher, and then back down. I rolled my hips to meet his fingers, desperately seeking his touch, but he pulled back slightly. I groaned in frustration.

I looked up to see laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Peter!” I cried, exasperated.

He smirked, and then whispered in my ear, “You’re not the only one who can play games, you know.”

The low roughness of his voice did very little to help my predicament. I have to regain some ground, I thought to myself. Instead, I heard a plea come from my mouth.

“Peter, please.”

“Please what?” he responded, still hovering over me, a hand coming up to cup my cheek. “All you ever have to do is ask, you know.”

I knew he was referring as much to the situation overall as he was to this particular moment.

“Touch me,” I replied.

He smiled a victorious grin, obviously shortened.

Then I watched as my king knelt before me, hands spreading my legs before coming to hold my ankles still.

Expecting him to tease again, I grabbed the wall behind me for stability when he instead licked long through my folds.

I cried out, and I could feel the immediate upturn of Peter’s lips against me. I threaded my hands through his blonde hair.

Another thing to know about Peter: he never does things halfway when he decides upon them. Which is exactly why he was impossibly good at this.
A creative, wet pattern was what he seemed to follow in slow, deliberate strokes, and god it was good. My hips squirmed in attempt to gain more friction, but his left hand came up to one hip, pinning it softly but firmly in place. This right hand also left my ankle, but he brought that one to join his mouth, first swiping his thumb over my clit, which caused him to have to hold my hip down again. Then he pushed a finger into me, stilling me much more effectively than the hand currently dwarfing my hip. The feel of his hands there was always overwhelming.
"Peter," I breathed, whispering my desperation. He was bringing me so close. 
With another swirl of his tongue, I lost control. My grip in his hair tightened, and my thighs trembled a little, causing me to lose my balance. 
Peter caught me as he gripped the back of my thighs, picking me up a pinning me against the wall, raining wet kisses on me again. Some I knew would leave marks. Once I caught my breath, I kissed back, tasting myself on his tongue. I ground my hips against him. 
His grip faltered a little, and I took the opportunity to loose my legs from his grip so I could stand again.
I let my eyes take him in for a second. Mussed hair. Telltale blue eyes that sparked with his wants.
My hands took on the task of loosening his belt, making not-so-accidental strokes lower.
I looked up to his eyes. “What does his majesty desire?”
His reply didn’t skip a beat. “You.”
“I’m flattered, but specificity is a beautiful thing, Peter,” I sassed back, freeing him from his trousers.
“That was specific,” came his reply between fast inhales for air.
“Not specific, enough I’m afraid,” I said through a smirk as I stroked him.
He gripped my wrist to stop.
I watched him force composure before he said, “The king desires you on your knees, then. And that you find another occupation for that cheeky mouth than tormenting me so.”
I momentarily was knocked off my game. His command shot straight to my core.
Outside of the bedroom, his bossiness drove my rebel heart absolutely insane. But apparently, when naked, things change.
So without hesitation, I slid to my knees. Kissing him at the base first, I kept my eye contact with him. When I licked up and took the tip in, sliding my lips over, his eyelids fluttered closed, and he hissed out my name.

Sliding slowly down, I took in as much as I could before hollowing my cheeks as I withdrew. His hands came forward to my head, gathering my hair out of my face, the gentlemanly gesture juxtaposed against the pornographic act between us.

Continuing in a slow, syrupy pace for a minute, I felt his body tense when I flicked my tongue on him, over and over again. The stifled sounds he let out added substantially to the heat I felt between my legs: his reaction was always one of the hottest things to me.

Instantly after I decided to push myself to take him in deeper, he pushed a little on my neck to stop me.

He took my hand in his, guiding me up to my feet. I had barely stood up before he took both my wrists in one hand, holding them above my head.

My chest left exposed, he took sucked gently at one breast, giving careful yet desperate attention before repeating on the other.
It was almost too much at that point, I needed him. Badly.

“Peter.” I sighed, eyes asking him to please proceed.

He knew what I was asking, but he still raised an eyebrow in question. He wanted me to say it.
“I need you,” was all I got out.

“I’m flattered, but specificity is a beautiful thing,” he quipped, but I could tell he was truly struggling to keep his own cool.

I looked him dead in the eye. “I want you inside of me. Please.”

Without delay, he picked me up a little, still against the wall. I took
him in my hand, guiding him as he lowered me, just a little.

I whimpered, my forehead coming down to rest against his as my hands once again tangled in his hair, the sensation to being stretched washing over me in pleasure-filled waves.

Then, all at once, he lowered me the rest of the way. We both didn’t bother stifle the sounds wrought out of us.

Fast, strong thrusts marked our tempo, and his mouth was absolutely everywhere on my top half. My lips, my neck, my forehead, my breasts.
An eternity or minutes later, Peter picked me up fully, causing me to moan at the loss of contact. In a few heartbeats, though, the room was flipped, as I was on the bed. In another few heartbeats, Peter was over me, lifting one leg of mine to rest on his shoulder, and then pushed into me again.
The new angle hit that spot inside me, and I held firmly to Peter as an anchor.

This was Peter unchecked. Strong thrusts that shook me to my core. Lips that refused to pick a place to keep their passionate kisses. Eyes that revealed the sheer need for me there. Groans eluding his restraint, numbing my mind. Hands that clutched me to him in a bruising desperation I’d waited so long for him to unleash.

My own wetness creating a slippery grind between us, his thumb came to rub my clit again. He knew this was my telltale.
“Peter!” I sobbed. My vision blurred for several seconds as he pushed me over the edge, causing me to clench down around him.
After a few especially powerful thrusts, he followed me, pulling out to my entrance, and poured himself against me, my name descending from his lips.

He fell to lie next to me, pulling me close into his arms.

When we regained ourselves, he was the first to speak.

“I love you,” he whispered to me, pulling strands of sweaty hair off of my face. There's something about that way he smells. It's not really anything distinct except "Peter," and it feels like home. I always melted into it. 

“I love you too,” I whispered back, hands coming to rest on his chest.

My thighs slick with his marking, neck spotted with the footprint of rough kisses, hair in knots that would take some time to comb out, and a pleasurable soreness between my legs that was sure to making moving in the morning interesting, I didn’t think it was possible to be happier.
Those were just the telltales that I was loved immensely by Peter Pevensie, both the High King and the man beneath the crown.