A/N: People, this used to be a (planned) collection of Pedmund one-shots, but in the end I've chosen to just post them all individually, so this shall remain as "Sublime", which is the first story and the only one posted for now. Thanks for the patience!
"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world." –Lucrezia Borgia, (The Borgias)
Sublime
Her eyes were closed, her back to the door, and yet, it did not matter.
She would have recognized him anywhere, in any way, for he was like part of her soul, her Sun, around which she could not help but orbit, forever locked in their eternal dance–not that she would have it any other way.
It had been hard, not being by his side, keeping him safe–or as safe as anyone could ever be while fighting a war–, but she had known, as much as it had pained her, that she could not go with him against the Telmarines. After all, they had another to protect, and as much as she wished otherwise, fighting in her condition had to be left as the very last back-up of plans.
Even so, during the four months he had been away, she had been restless, broken, every day a torture of not knowing if her Sun had set, if she had lost him, if everything that remained of Narnia's High King was within her. So she had paced, and paced, and paced, until even Susan, the Gentle Queen, had lost her patience with her.
She understood, she did, but her heart would not settle, and her soul would not rest. Not until then. Not without him.
Once he entered the room, her world became bright again, colours rushing through her eyes, for her Sun was back, and everything would be alright.
The High King approached then to his sister, who lied by her ornate balcony, the setting sun's red light painting her fair skin golden, hair dark as midnight seeming brighter, somehow, as if the night's light was barely held within her dark waves, a Madonna in a dark blue dress, the one he had had made for her before leaving, the necklace he had gifted her with so very long ago falling tantalizingly between her breasts, which seemed fuller, peeking out from her dress like the most alluring fruit.
He wanted to devour her, right then and there, mark her fair skin with his lips and his teeth and his hands, sink himself into her until they became one, merged for all of eternity. For yes, the High King had missed her, his High Queen, his flesh, his blood, his soul, if in another body. Three years had separated them, and for his life he could not remember how that him had lived, without her. Empty, surely. Hollow, incomplete. She was his Moon, the Shadow to his Light, the Silver to his Gold. What was him, without her? Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Four months they had been parted, four miserable months, and he had not felt whole, right, until he had her on sight.
He had yearned for her, desired her, needed her. So much, so much, so very much. His reality seemed to unravel whenever she wasn't by his side, everything unfocused, wild, lost. She was his home, his safe heaven–his everything, really. Having her now, so close, and yet so far in so many ways, was like the most exhilarating torture he had ever suffered.
As he got closer, pulling her back against his chest, her eyes still closed even as she let herself fall into him, her head against his shoulder as her neck was left bare for him to ravish. And ravish her neck he did, her skin soft under his lips, her heartbeat under his tongue, even as his left hand rose to grab it, as his right caressed her breasts through her dress, fingers dancing just at her cleavage, dry blood still tainting his nails.
"Peter," his name was a delighted gasp on her lips, those lips he had been dreaming with for what seemed like an eternity, the lips he had imagined curled in a seductive smirk as he cut their enemies in pieces, Rhindon held like an extension of his arm.
"Edmée," he said, like a prayer, before she twirled in his grasp, just enough so her lips would meet his without unnecessary contortions, and he felt his whole being tingle, as her tongue touched his again. Kissing her was helping to tame the pain, the hollowness that had threatened to drive him mad as he destroyed those who would threaten their kingdom. But tasting her, if only her mouth–the lingering taste of the pomegranates she had grown so fond of mixing with her own–both subdued and intensified his need.
His hand found her growing belly, the absolute proof of their union, and the last ties of his control snapped. He barely managed to guide her into their bed, where he laid her over the covers, her blue dress contrasting with the deep purple of their bedsheets. The dress, though, didn't last long, for his control was gone and her eyes–those chocolate eyes that seemed to contain galaxies within their depths–were open wide, his need reflected in them, as fierce as the hottest fire, and just as consuming.
The dress was torn right in the middle, most of the cleverly hidden laces ruptured, his hands quickly unlacing what little remained of them. She was bare under them, blue silk and leather framing her fair figure, the rising mounts that were her breasts, pink nipples attracting his mouth like a flame would a moth, and he devoured her then, ravished her, leaving newly-made red marks at his passing, as if to make up for the ones he had left so long ago, before going to war without her for the very first time, as desperate to lose himself in her as he was now, going down her delectable body, leaving feather-light kisses on her belly, where their child had stubbornly remained, even as she went half way past her ninth month, as if waiting for the father that had left them four months ago. But the High King did not linger there, for his destination was clear.
He remained just between her legs for a while, forehead still touching her belly, lips over her sex, just enjoying her warmth, the feeling of her thighs drawing his face closer, and her scent, her wetness on his lips. And then, then, when she moaned his name again, like a plea to him, her thighs tensing against his cheeks, just then, he tasted her. Peter drank her, like a man who has been lost in a desert finding his very own oasis, his blood rushing at every sound from her lips, at her heartbeat on his ears, under his mouth, her thighs and sex his whole world, his hands pulling her closer, fingers grabbing the firm flesh of her buttocks, as she arched from the bed towards him, her body shivering with ecstasy as her fingers clutched his hair, her nails scratching lines on his scalp, driving him farther into their well-known frenzy.
It wasn't enough, and so she pulled him back up, settling his weight between her legs even as he kept it from falling into her, hands flat against their bed as she hastily unclothed him, her mouth latching onto his skin, marking him as he had marked her, and he was sure that by the time the sun rose again, she would have marked him again from head to toe, as he would her. But not now. Their need was too urgent, too frenzied, and as much as Edmée wanted to lick each one of his new scars, rememorize each inch of his skin, she needed him inside far too much.
His breeches weren't even past his thighs when she pulled him closer, her legs bringing him nearer to where she most desperately needed him (where he just as desperately needed to be). Her hands touched his cock without any hint of bashfulness, both having known each other's bodies for far too long to succumb to awkwardness of any kind, and he happily let himself be led–she could lead him to the very end of the world and he would follow–, until he finally sunk into her, her sex welcoming him with the tight, warm grasp nothing else (and especially not his hand) could equal.
Their eyes met again, blue on brown, their pleasure and joy shining reflected in both, their moans a harmony, a well-known song, the one them both had longed for, for far too long.
Peter curved his body over her belly, keeping it free of pressure, even as his lips kissed her neck, his tongue caressing her earlobe, which he pulled teasingly with his teeth, delighted smile unmoving from his lips.
"Wife, I've missed your cunt..."
"Husband," she answered, voice as husky as his, "I've missed your cock..."
Then her legs were trapping him again, their mouths meeting as he started the dance they had become almost addicted to, time and space vanishing as their movements became more and more frenetic, moans and grunts and cries joining the familiar sound of flesh meeting flesh, again and again, and there were no more words between them.
The morning after, Susan the Gentle and Lucy the Valiant took their morning tea alone, smiling faintly at each other as Cair Paravel shone at the sun's first rays, knowing well enough that their siblings wouldn't be seen for many hours yet.
"Their bath has been set in their adjacent room, but I truly do wonder if they'll wake up before midday..."
"I wouldn't bet on that, Su. I doubt they slept at all, last night. I've heard many handmaidens giggle and blush this morning, so I'm guessing they were as loud as they could be."
The elder sister sighed, a fond smile curving her lips even as she rolled her eyes (there was the reason Lucy and her had moved to the farthest wing from their siblings). "Well, they did have four months to make up for. I swear, dearest sister, Edmée was driving me up the walls..."
And the two Queens shared a found laugh at their siblings' antics, contrasting their own experiences with them during the four months it had taken for Narnia's army to subdue the Telmarines, who had thought their country would be an easy conquest.
They couldn't have chosen a worse moment to do so if prompted. Eight years since they had been granted their titles by Aslan himself, the Just and the Magnificent had been (still were) waiting for their first child.
Heavy with child for already five months, Edmée had been barely convinced to stay at Cair Paravel, Lucy going in her stead, with strict orders to use her cordial to bring Peter back, even if she had to tie him up and force the drop down through his throat to get him treated, the High Queen knowing well enough her husband's tendency to keep going on, disregarding whatever injuries he may have gotten.
For his part, Peter had fought mercilessly, lacking his Just Queen to rein him in, and getting more and more set on ending the war as firmly and quickly as possible, while marking a precedent for whoever chose to follow the Telmarines in their mad intentions. The Magnificent would not tolerate anything keeping him from his wife, and whoever dared to threaten her (or his family as a whole) would met a most painful end, as many enemies had tested in their own flesh. He had moved as the most horrifying Terror Gold, as many had baptized him after seeing him in action, cutting his enemies in pieces with swift, graceful, almost predatory movements, blue eyes darkening further and further as the days passed, until his stare was like a bottomless dark void ready to devour the world, wilder by the moment, as if he could feel his wife's restlessness all the way from Cair Paravel, her need echoing his and thus deepening the longer they were kept apart.
But the Magnificent came back to the Just, crowned with victory, the blood of their enemies still under his nails. And all would be well, all would be well.
The twins, a boy and a girl, were born not three days after.
A/N: Okay, so, this is within the same verse as "Lux Aeterna" (more or less). Still not sure if it will be "canon" for LA–I'm still developing their relationship nice and slow in there–, but I just... I needed to write some smut for these two. And that marvellous quote–which comes from one of my favourite shows of all time, btw, "The Borgias", inspired me, so I had to write something. I may or may not make this a series of (loosely connected) one-shots. Also, not at all subtle mention of Lirenel's Terror Gold. It's amazing. Go read it (you won't regret it).