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.