Work Text:
It is during the midst of his and Catherine's agreed upon mealtime that Peter comes to the decision that love is the sfrangest of afflictions. It is an affliction he has never needed to remedy before, though if he was anyone else he is sure that the stinging on his face due to a well placed slap from his wife would be enough to make one reconsider the depths of their affections.
He is Peter though, and therefore all it accomplishes is him needing to readjust his breeches lest Catherine notice a particular part of his body perking up at the sudden burst of pain. He would not put it above her to aim a well placed knee to his groin should she notice. It excites him perhaps more than it should.
Strange, that.
Pain, in the carnal manner, has never much interested him.
Actually, this is untrue. Causing pain does indeed get the heart pounding, the blood rushing, but being on the receiving end of the pain is what he’s never considered to pique his interest. Until now, that is. Is this another symptom of love?
“Do you think,” Peter says, touching his hot cheek gingerly, “that Archie loves God so much that he wants God to hurt him as I want you to hurt me?”
“What?” Catherine wrinkles her nose, and Peter finds himself wishing to kiss the little thing. It makes her look so fucking adorable and Peter loves her so fucking much.
“Think about it. He is always going on and on about how deep his love for God is. If my love for you is only a fraction of his love for God, I bet my life that he wants God to flay his back open. I dare say it would make his seed burst forth from his cock at an alarming speed.”
Catherine has a bewildered expression on her face, and when she blinks at him with those pretty eyes, he is momentarily distracted and almost misses her asking, “You like when I hurt you?”
“You preoccupy yourself with the wrong thing, wife,” he tells her.
And, because even if Catherine does not understand every single thread in his mind, she still understands him, she pauses for a moment, and then says, “If you enjoy me inflicting pain upon you perhaps you should have let me stab you that day, in my rooms. I am sure it would have brought you unimaginable ecstasy.”
“I am sure it would have,” Peter agrees. “But this is not about me. This is about Archie, that stupid cunt.”
“I am unsure as to whether your theory holds any merit, but if it pleases you I shall add it to the calendar. Yes, right beneath ‘Should we execute Peter to strengthen my reign?’ I will write down ‘Is Archie’s exponential sexual lust a result of him wishing for God to hurt him?’ Does that work for you?”
Peter perks up at that. “Yes, it does. Thank you for your kindness. I will eagerly await the answer.”
“If the topic discussed prior does not end in your favor, I daresay you may never get an answer to your question.”
“You are incapable of killing me,” Peter waves off her threat. “Is this visit not another one of your failed assassination attempts?”
Peter had seen the glint of a paper knife in her sleeve when she’d come into the room. He’d seen the internal conflict raging within her, her desires to both kill him and to not doing battle on her face. And, even when she assumed him too preoccupied with eating his foie gras to notice, he’d seen when she let the thing fall to the floor and kicked it away, claiming the sudden movement to be due to her stepping on her own skirts.
He is sure that a part of Catherine must wish that she’d buried the paper knife in his neck when his mouth couldn’t seem to keep quiet and he’d managed to cause her mood to become so foul she’d gotten up from her chair, made her way around the table, and slapped him right across the face.
No matter though. The paper knife is lost somewhere beneath the table and the slap had only managed to make Peter’s cock hard.
Though Catherine looks affronted, and perhaps even a little embarrassed to be caught. “I… was having a trying day. Let it get the better of me.”
“Hmm,” Peter hums, and then claps his hands together. “Oh, I have a brilliant idea. A way you can apologize for the aborted assassination attempt.”
The corner of Catherine’s mouth twitches, as though she wants to ask him what he means, but then the twitch ceases and her mouth does not open. Peter is undeterred.
“You should let me eat your pussy.”
“What?” Catherine’s voice is shrill, and Peter is reminded of a baby bird.
Peter does not eat baby birds. Not enough meat on them. He does, however, eat eggs. Boiled eggs in particular, on just the right side of undercooked so that when he bites into it, the yolk bursts into his mouth. He would like to lap at her cunt like he laps at the runny yolk at the center of an egg. His mouth waters at the thought.
“Come now, you would enjoy it. Apologies are not generally meant to be enjoyed by both parties, as you know. In fact, I rather think they aren’t meant to be enjoyed by either party, but in any case, you let me eat your pussy and I will forgive you for the thing with the paper knife. You will have a glorious orgasm and realize how in love with me you are, culminating in you abdicating the throne back to me, and I will rule Russia by day and bury my cock in your cunt by night until we both perish of old age. Enjoyable for all.”
“I hate you,” Catherine says through gritted teeth.
“That is of little consequence. You will gush against my mouth all the same.”
“What is it with you and eating pussy?”
Peter shrugs. “I am an emperor. I am not going to deny myself one of the world’s greatest pleasures. And your cunt, dear wife, is the sweetest I have ever tasted. Let me taste it again and I will forget this silly assassination business ever happened, yes?”
It is dangerous, but Peter risks reaching out to his wife, gently touching her arm. It is an inconsequential touch, a skimming of fingertips over her arm, but he sees the way she shivers from such a little touch. There’s a sort of primal pleasure that blooms in him, ecstatic at the effect he can have on her.
“When is the last time you’ve had a good fuck, by the by?” Peter asks, genuinely curious.
Her cheeks turn deliciously pink, and she looks away without a word. Her lack of an answer is telling, and Peter easily reads between those lines.
“Really? That long?” Peter asks.
“It’s difficult to find a lover. I’m pregnant, and the empress. There are not many that I can comfortably approach without feeling as though my station will force their hand.”
“Or in this case, their cock.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, now I must fuck you then! It’s preposterous that you haven’t had a good fucking in some time. Bend over the table and pull up your skirts.”
Catherine gapes at him, mouth falling open (he tries not to think about face fucking her at the sight of it, but unfortunately fails). “What happened to the pussy eating?”
“I can do both,” Peter tells her. “Which would you prefer first? Actually, I should probably eat your pussy first. Get it nice and wet. That way I can just slide right into your cunt after you are still spent and make you come just on my cock.”
“Peter! I have not agreed to either, if you recall.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I can’t have sex with you. You are my prisoner. It would feel… wrong.”
“Just the cunnilingus then?” Peter asks, tugging up the sleeves of his shirt. Catherine looks as if she’s ready to turn down that offer as well, so Peter doesn’t even let her get a word in edgewise and continues with, “You seem to be stressed. Running a country will do that to you, I would know. Please let me help you relax. You desperately need it.”
How this turned into Catherine apologizing for not actually attempting to kill him into Peter begging to lick her cunt, he hasn’t the slightest clue.
Actually, he does. He finds he doesn’t actually care all that much about her considering killing him. In fact he almost respects her for it. He’d respect her more if she actually attempted it, but the point is rather moot now. Because while he does not care much about that, he cares very much about fucking her with his tongue, and that takes precedent above all else.
And Catherine, lovely Catherine with eyes that remind Peter of springtime and hair the color of spun sunlight, seems to shift in place, that usually impenetrable wall of hers crumbling before Peter’s very eyes. She wants it, and she wants him.
She holds up a single dainty finger. “Just once.”
“Of course,” Peter says.
They are both liars.
He shoves the platters of food to the other side of the table, making room for her to sit down at the edge of the table while she dismisses the two guards that stand at the door. Peter turns to shove his seat away so he can kneel in the space it used to occupy, and in the second it took him to do so, Catherine has already perched on the table and hiked up her pretty green skirts.
Peter touches her stocking, running his finger along the embroidered flower at the ankle. “These are new,” he says.
“Yes,” Catherine confirms, even though Peter did not pose a question. “How did you—”
Peter doesn’t let her finish her question, because he pushes past the layers of petticoat, braces his hands against the outside of her thighs, and licks her at her core.
Catherine lets out no noise, but her hips give a little twitch. He feels the subtle movement beneath his palms, feels the way she trembles slightly as he starts rutting his tongue against her in that particular way his aunt had instructed him to.
He presses his tongue against her harder, as though even this level of intimacy is not enough. He wants to be closer. He needs to be closer.
A moan escapes his throat without his permission, causing his mouth to vibrate with his pleasure. Catherine feels it. He knows she feels it because she stiffens and then does something different. Not that he knows if it’s usual or not. All Peter knows is that the first time he’d licked her, she kept her hands to herself. Yet now, Peter is acutely aware of her hand burying itself in his short locks, fingernails harshly digging into the flesh at the base of his neck.
“Oh, fuck,” Catherine moans. “Peter.”
The way she says his name… he could almost come right in his breeches at the sound of it.
Peter enthusiastically moans against her cunt once more in response, laving his tongue against her clit and then, without much preamble, reaching between her legs and sliding his finger into her entrance. Suddenly, her thighs clench around his head, and he almost worries she’s decided to get back to that assassination plan and suffocate him on her cunt. This would undeniably be a better death than getting a blade to the throat.
She pushes down, sliding her hips lower until his finger slides in deeper. Oh, so she likes it then. Peter obliges, adding a second finger and then fucking her with both of them.
Before Peter knows it, his hand is cramping from finger fucking her, the wetness of her getting on his knuckles and palm. Still, he doesn’t stop. His jaw hurts from hanging open as he presses open mouth kisses against her, licking her up. Still, he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t even stop when her legs lock up around his head and her nails dig into his scalp and she moans wantonly, obviously coming on just his tongue. He licks and fingers her through the waves of pleasure, almost feeling as though he was as lost in her pleasure as she.
Eventually the tremors in her body fade away and she slumps against the table, breathing heavily. Peter stays where he is for a second, completely unbothered by the heat of the petticoats and the ache in his jaw.
Pressing one last kiss to her thigh, Peter emerges from the petticoats with a delirious grin.
His face is still wet with Catherine’s slickness as he goes to undo his breeches, fully intending on collapsing on top of her and burying himself deep inside her. He hardly gets himself out of the confines of his clothes before Catherine is moving.
Peter blinks at the steak knife suddenly pressed against his throat.
Catherine’s hand is trembling, but her gaze is steady. “I can still kill you, you know.”
She can’t. Not now. But Peter knows one day she might be able to, and so he slowly brings his hand up to her wrist, encircling the tiny thing in his grip, and pulling it up to his mouth to press a soft kiss against her pulse. Catherine drops the knife, and Peter feels her pulse jump beneath his lips.
He loves her so much. Too much, in fact. Because when she finally comes for him, when he’s finally pushed her to her very limit and she gathers that strength to kill him, Peter doesn’t know if he’ll fight it. He loves her and he might just let her kill him.
Still, these are not feelings that he wants his wife to be made aware of, so Peter dons his cockiest smile and asks, “So I presume sex is still off the table, then?”