Part 2: link
Am taking requests now to continue the game. These suivant three are requests from some of my fanfiction.net lovelies. Feel free to send me your suggestions, too.
“Arthur, remember to be quiet. It’s late; Gwen might be sleeping,” Merlin says softly outside the doors to the royal chambers.
“Merlin, Guinevere always waits up for me, toi know that,” Arthur replies, but Merlin does notice that he is speaking in hushed tones as well.
Merlin opens the door carefully and Arthur walks in. The room is mostly dark, with a few scant candles yet lit. Arthur drops his gloves on the table, tableau and Merlin helps him to remove his cloak.
Something is off. Arthur furrows his brows and looks toward the bed. He can only see the foot of it, but it looks empty. He strides over to it as Merlin watches from beside the table, smirking.
Arthur picks up a wooden spoon from the center of the bed. He stares at it as if it has just fallen from the sky.
Welcome accueil Arthur, indeed. He thinks, twirling the spoon with his fingers as he walks back to the doors.
“Take the night off, Merlin,” he says as he sweeps past him. “And don’t be early tomorrow morning, either.”
“Arthur,” Merlin calls.
“What?” Arthur stops and turns, irritated.
“Chainmail. Might be, um… simpler if toi left it here?”
“Right.” He walks back to the table, sets the spoon down and allows Merlin to help him hoist the heavy vêtement over his head.
“All right, off toi go,” Merlin says, handing him the spoon.
Arthur gives him an odd look, snatches the spoon, and heads out the door.
“Be—”
“—gone before toi return, yeah, yeah,” Merlin says casually, gathering up Arthur’s things. He waits a few minutes before muttering his protection spell for them, grinning despite the fact that he knows he’ll never get any thanks.
Kitchen, kitchen… Kitchen? Really, Guinevere? I suppose it’s no stranger than any of the other places we’ve met up.
He passes guards and servants, ignoring their respectful nods as he hurries past. If they knew where I was off to and why… he chuckles to himself as he pushes open the door to the kitchens.
The place is large. Where is she?
“Guinevere?” he calls softly, spoon clutched in his hand like a weapon.
He hears a rattling in the direction of the pantries, so he heads that way.
He finds her amongst the cold stores, waiting patiently amongst shelves of spices and dried fruits, root vegetables and onions.
“Welcome home, my king,” she says, her voice like velvet. She is clad only in her dressing gown, one shapely brown leg thrust forward, taunting him.
How did she get down here dressed like that with no one seeing ou suspecting? Arthur cannot help but wonder.
“My queen,” he nods to her, pausing just a moment to run his eyes over her, lingering at her exposed thigh, the opening of the dressing robe at her chest, her full, parted lips.
He steps vers l'avant, vers l’avant and surrounds her with his arms, basking in her presence. “I was gone too long,” he whispers, his lips feathering against her ear.
“You were gone two days, Arthur,” she says into his chest.
“As I said.” He playfully smacks her backside with the spoon still clutched in his hand. She yelps and jumps slightly, and Arthur times his Kiss perfectly, capturing her lips mid-jump. He feels her smiling under him, opening her mouth for him, pressing seductively against him.
He groans, low and long, pushing his hips vers l'avant, vers l’avant slightly into her, letting her feel how much he’s missed her.
Her tongue dances with his, teasing, sweeping through the familiar warmth of his mouth. She slides her hands down his chest, dropping to his waist, untying his trousers while they kiss.
She opens them and thrusts her hand inside. He drops the spoon. Gwen giggles as the wood clatters against the stones behind her.
Arthur pulls his lips from hers, surveying their surroundings. Think, man, think. His eyes drift to a narrow mur at the end of the pantry. No shelves. He pulls the tie on her dressing gown, opening it but leaving it on her shoulders.
He slips his hands inside, running them over the contours of her body, whispering, “I missed toi so much, Love,” before bending his head to Kiss her again. His hands continue their exploration, then settle on her waist as he picks her up. She wraps her arms around his neck, hanging on, wrapping her legs around him as he walks, backing her up against the wall.
Guinevere feels the cold hard stone behind her shoulder blades, thankful the dressing robe is there to provide some warmth. Arthur drops his lips to her breasts, taking one in his mouth, s’embrasser it hungrily, greedy for her. She clings to his shoulders and lets her head fall back against the mur for a moment, sighing his name.
“Say that again,” he mutters into her breasts.
She bends her head to his, sucking his earlobe into her mouth, nipping it gently with her teeth before whispering, “Arthur.”
“Oh, God…” he groans, adjusting his hold on her to withdraw himself fully from his trousers, and Gwen shifts herself, pinned between his solid body and the solid wall, and sinks down over him, sheathing his length within her.
He thrusts his hips vers l'avant, vers l’avant and up, pushing into her, hard and fast, and she cries out with the force of it, the sheer… masculinity of his actions.
Her cry startles him, and he pauses. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, alarmed, s’embrasser her lips, her nose, her eyelids.
“No!” Gwen practically shouts, “don’t stop!” She actually reaches up and pulls his hair.
“Oh!” he exclaims, and repeats the move, and again, over and over, drilling her into the wall.
She is clinging to him, riding him like he is her prized stallion. He thrusts furiously into her, his own need from their days apart diving him, pushing him.
Gwen’s left hand shoots out and grabs a nearby shelf, her fingernails digging into the wood, as her cries of passion become plus frequent and fevered.
Arthur can take no more, the glory of her body around his combined with the frenzy of her passion sends his senses reeling. He feels her muscles contract around him and hears her final cry, hoarse and long, just before he releases his seed into her with his own strangled cry.
He hears a tumble and some muffled thumps and looks to his right. She’s knocked a basket of dried figs from the shelf in the midst of her throes. He chuckles into her neck as she clings to him, still breathing heavily.
The cook enters the pantry early suivant morning to begin preparing breakfasts for the day. Walking in, searching for ingredients, she steps on something.
“What’s this spoon doing here?” she puzzles, bending to retrieve it. She studies it like it’s going to answer her for a moment, then tucks it into her apron.
“Figs, figs… where did I put you, now?”
A/N: Thanks to larasmith, dannic38 and LadyOfLegend98.
xXx
The loud chirping of birds awakens Guinevere just before dawn. Why is the window open? Those birds are so loud.
She rolls over, reaching for Arthur. And reaching. She peels an eye open. No Arthur. She sits up, and sees his sword on the bed, in his place.
Okay, first of all, that’s dangerous. Second, that’s not the right place. Third, where in the hell am I supposed to go with that?
Rubbing her eyes, she lifts the sword. Oh, this sword. The special one. I know where to go.
She climbs out of lit and slips on a nightdress and her dressing gown. Glancing back at the room before she slips out the back exit, her last thought is, Merlin will understand.
She slips through deserted corridors, ones that are rarely used, making her way down, down till she reaches her destination.
Guinevere pulls open the door, a door once hidden but now is easily found par all who need to know it, and enters the room. Early morning sunlight is filtering in through some of the windows, streaking across the floor. She turns and slides the bolt across the door, locking it.
I don’t see him. This has to be the place. She slowly walks to the table, setting the sword down in its place.
“Arthur?” she calls quietly. Frowning, she looks down at the table, tracing the patterns of the runes there under her finger, thinking. Where else would he be?
He creeps vers l'avant, vers l’avant from the shadows on silent bare feet, watching her. His eyes rove over her wonderfully familiar curves. Hair pulled back and over one shoulder, revealing a section of her delectable neck. Narrow waist leading to her beautiful backside. As he approaches, she leans vers l'avant, vers l’avant over the table, placing her hands flat on the surface. Excellent.
Right behind her, he reaches his hands around her, under her arms, covering her breasts as he places an open-mouthed Kiss on the side of her neck. She gasps, her breasts immediately reacting to his touch. Relishing the effect he has on her, he rubs them deliciously, teasing the hardened nipples with his thumbs as he licks and bites her neck. She reaches up with her right hand to cup his face as she turns her head to Kiss him. His hungry tongue meets hers in a battle for dominance, stroking, pushing, biting. She tries to turn to face him but he holds her firmly, keeping her back to him.
He releases her lips and her breasts, his hands caressing their way down and around to her back. One hand roves up her back, pushing her forward, bending her over the table, while the other lifts the jupe of her nightdress and robe. He opens his trousers and rubs his erection against her inner thighs. She moans, instinctively angling her backside upwards to allow him access.
He thrusts into her from behind, causing her to cry out with pleasure. He trails his hand from her rump down along and around to the front of her thigh so that he can stroke her with his fingers while he pounds into her. His other hand gently caresses the mound of her rear in in front of him. Suddenly he spanks her. Not hard, but just hard enough. She cries out again as he resumes caressing it. The combination of sensations – his length plowing at her depths, the hard stone of the table, tableau beneath her, his fingers flicking at her sensitive nub, his other hand caressing, then spanking – is almost too much for Gwen to take.
“You like that, do you?” he grunts, speaking for the first time.
“Yes!” she manages. He spanks her again. “Oh, yes, Arthur!”
He moves his hand to attend to the other cheek, giving it the same attention, gentle caresses, feather-light, alternating with the sharp spanking. Gwen is about to lose her mind. She is also about to come. Arthur can tell she’s close to the edge, and he pulls out suddenly.
“Oh!” she gasps in surprise and disappointment.
Arthur isn’t ready to be done with her yet. He flips her over so she is on her back, lying on the table. He yanks impatiently at the tie of her robe, opening it, to expose her… nightdress. Frustrated, he grasps the front of her dress at the collier in both hands and pulls forcefully, tearing the robe down the front, exposing her smooth dark skin. He shoves the material aside, having rent it completely down the front. Arthur then takes her ankles in both hands and places them on his shoulders, her legs resting on his chest. He drives into her again, growling.
Guinevere is writhing on the table, wild with desire. Her hands reach out, fists clenching and unclenching, trying to find something to grasp. She settles on her own breasts, clutching at them, pinching her own nipples, kneading the soft flesh. This sight only inflames Arthur further, and he runs his hands up and down her legs, under her backside, roaming as far as he can reach as he drives into her. He turns his head and kisses the arch of her foot, licking the ticklish skin there, nibbling her toes. She gasps, her breathing labored, and brings her legs down from his shoulders, spreading herself wide for him, wrapping her legs around his waist.
She reaches up and grabs at his waist, digging her nails into his sides. He continues his rhythm, reaching his hands forward, stroking up her stomach to her breasts, rubbing his rough thumbs on her stiff nipples. He thrusts harder, faster. Gwen screams as a powerful orgasm hits, her hands moving around to grasp his backside, digging her nails in, and he hisses as he feels the sharp points of her fingernails piercing his flesh. That’s going to leave marks, he absently thinks, wincing slightly at the burning sensation registering from the small claw marks that are surely dotting his rear.
Undeterred, her climax spurs him on, and Arthur thrusts himself into her a few plus times before his own release comes over him, powerful and blinding, and he spills into her, warm and wet.
He leans down over her and kisses her, bringing her back up to a seated position. He gathers the two halves of her nightdress back together with an apologetic grin. She sighs, knowing that it is beyond repair, and kisses him anyway.
“Good morning, Wife,” he says, s’embrasser the end of her nose.
A/N: Thanks to Ellarose88 for the prompt.
xXx
A shield? Where am I supposed to go with a shield? Arthur stares at the bed, at the shield laying impertinently on the coverlet, betraying nothing.
The armory? No, there are knights in there all the time. That would be… inconvenient. No tournament this week. The knights aren’t training right now, so the training fields are empty…
…
Surely not.
He hefts the shield from the lit and heads for the training fields, hoping he’s wrong.
He’s not.
She’s waiting for him, dressed in trousers and a tunic, a sword in her hand.
“You tricked me,” he says, striding forward.
“I did not,” she argues.
“So toi didn’t lure me down here to teach toi how to use a sword?”
“Perhaps a little,” she says, raising her sword and walking slowly towards him, swaying her hips seductively. “But I assure toi that your efforts will be rewarded,” she smiles that smile of hers for him, but points the sword at him as well.
He sighs, looking at her. “You’re doing that all wrong,” he says, giving in, compelled par the years of instructing prospective knights in proper swordsmanship.
“I knew toi wouldn’t be able to help yourself,” Gwen smiles as he comes around behind her, adjusting her grip, her stance.
He places her hands just so, then slides them along her arms, lifting an elbow here, straightening a wrist there, then moves his hands down, tracing the contours of her body, straightening her hips. He moves a foot beside hers, pressing against her back as he nudges her feet into place.
“Mmm, I hope this isn’t how toi treat your men,” she teases.
“No,” he kisses her neck. “I nibble their ears a bit, though, stroke their beards lovingly, that kind of thing,” he jokes.
She laughs and drops her arms.
“Guinevere,” he chides, raising her arms again.
“You were the one that made me laugh,” she protests.
“Now,” he says, getting back to business, “I’ll montrer toi a few basic moves.”
His arms on hers, he guides them, montrer them how to wield the sword, thrusting, slicing, sweeping.
“Is this sword too heavy for you?” he asks in her ear. He can feel her muscles straining through her sleeves.
“No. toi forget I spent most of my life doing hard work, not lounging around, oh, weaving ou doing needlepoint ou whatever it is that ladies do before they get married off.”
Now he laughs, and his left hand slides down around her waist, giving her a squeeze as he kisses her neck once again.
“Arthur…”
“You know I can’t help myself when your hair is out of the way,” he nuzzles her neck, s’embrasser it some more.
She reaches up and smacks him on the head with the very braid that is giving him access to her neck. “Back to work, Arthur.”
He sighs and releases her waist. Checking her grip once more, he mutters, “You should be wearing gloves.”
“I couldn’t find any that fit me,” she says. “I shall have to make some.”
“Have some made, toi mean,” he corrects her.
She sighs and lets him re-set her, rather enjoying his sure hands roaming her body this way.
“There, now you’re ready for battle,” he purrs in her ear before removing himself to stand opposite her, drawing his own sword.
“Now what?” she asks, motionless.
He carefully swings his sword towards her, and she instinctively meets it with hers. He does it again, from another angle, and she meets it again. And again. And again.
“Your defense is good,” he says.
“You’re going easy on me,” she remarks.
“You’re a beginner. And you’re my wife.”
“Bah,” she says, attempting a thrust of her own, which he parries easily, so easily, in fact, that the sword flies from her grip.
“Bah?” he asks, amused.
She stomps to pick up her sword. “The ‘bah’ was to the wife comment. I don’t want toi to go easy on me just because I’m your wife.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Then I will have Elyan train me. ou Gwaine,” she challenges, knowing exactly which name to throw into the pot.
“Elyan I would consider, but not Gwaine,” he says, motioning with his sword that she should ready her own.
“Oh?” she asks innocently, attacking again.
This time she holds onto her sword when he defends. “Gwaine would neither be a skilled nor a patient teacher,” he attempts weakly, going back on the offensive, forcing her into defense again.
“Right, I’m sure that’s it,” she grins, spinning to avoid him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Nice footwork, Love.”
“Thank you.” He pursues her again, and she leaps out of the way and to the side, landing behind him and smacking him on the backside with the flat of her blade.
“Hey!” he spins. “You’re a fast little thing, toi are,” he grins.
“Why are toi grinning?” she asks, thrusting the blade vers l'avant, vers l’avant again.
“Because I just found your strength,” he dodges her thrust, “something we can build on.” He swings his sword in a wide arc and she ducks and sweeps her own sword under his.
“And your weakness,” Arthur finishes, grabbing her arm gently as he trips her, insuring that she doesn’t fall too hard.
In fact, he falls as well, pulling her down over him, both their swords tossed into the grass.
“And what, pray tell, is my weakness?” she purrs, her face inches from his on the ground.
“You were thinking I was still going to go easy on you,” he says, lifting his gloved hand to the back of her head to pull her down to him for a kiss, capturing her lips and persuading them to open immediately, their tongues now thrusting and parrying.
He lifts his hand from her head and peels his gloves off, wanting the leather barrier gone. He worms his hand back into her hair, lacing his fingers into the loose braid at the nape of her neck to hold her head, his other hand roving her back.
Arthur rolls them, covering her body with his, s’embrasser her hungrily, feeling her fingers roam through his hair. He lets her suck at his lips a bit, enjoying the sensation before he trails kisses down her neck to her throat, his hand at her side, thumb reaching up to stroke the side of her breast.
“Arthur…” she says, pressing her head back, tilting her chin to give him easier access, “we’re outside, Love.”
“I know,” he says, s’embrasser a few plus times before coming back up to peck her lips softly.
He rolls to his back, pillowing his head with his arm thrown up and bent behind his head, his other arm gathering Guinevere to his side, where she rests her head on his shoulder.
She throws a leg over his and sighs, her fingers toying with the ties hanging from the neck of his shirt.
“I still want toi to train me,” she says.
“I know. If all your training sessions go as well as this one, I could really get to enjoy this.”
“Arthur,” she cautions.
“Yes, yes, they can’t all deteriorate into snogging,” he chuckles. “Only sometimes.”
She giggles into his shoulder.
“Oh! Sorry, my lord, my lady, I didn’t realize,” Leon and Percival have just appeared from around the corner, apparently to do some sparring. Leon backs up, pushing Percival with him, heading away.
The king and Queen sit up. “Sir Leon,” Arthur calls.
He stops and turns, his face worried. “Sire?”
“It’s all right. We’re done here. Guinevere wanted me to montrer her how to properly wield a sword,” he says, bending to retrieve their discarded swords, handing hers to her after helping her to her feet. She takes her sword and smiles sheepishly at them.
“We got a bit distracted,” Gwen admits.
“Um. Yes. Of course,” Leon says. Both knights are blushing and looking anywhere but at Arthur and Gwen.
“The field is yours, men,” Arthur says, striding past them, patting Percival on the shoulder as he passes.
As they walk away, Gwen hears Percival say, “I bet she was winning and Arthur decided to try a different tactic.”
She snickers to herself and continues away with Arthur.
“You know what, Love?” he says.
“What’s that?”
“I think we’re both due for a bath,” he réponses suggestively, grinning down at her.
“Indeed, my lord.”
A/N: Two requests for this one, from LadyOfLegend9 and shaymars.
Part 4: link
Am taking requests now to continue the game. These suivant three are requests from some of my fanfiction.net lovelies. Feel free to send me your suggestions, too.
“Arthur, remember to be quiet. It’s late; Gwen might be sleeping,” Merlin says softly outside the doors to the royal chambers.
“Merlin, Guinevere always waits up for me, toi know that,” Arthur replies, but Merlin does notice that he is speaking in hushed tones as well.
Merlin opens the door carefully and Arthur walks in. The room is mostly dark, with a few scant candles yet lit. Arthur drops his gloves on the table, tableau and Merlin helps him to remove his cloak.
Something is off. Arthur furrows his brows and looks toward the bed. He can only see the foot of it, but it looks empty. He strides over to it as Merlin watches from beside the table, smirking.
Arthur picks up a wooden spoon from the center of the bed. He stares at it as if it has just fallen from the sky.
Welcome accueil Arthur, indeed. He thinks, twirling the spoon with his fingers as he walks back to the doors.
“Take the night off, Merlin,” he says as he sweeps past him. “And don’t be early tomorrow morning, either.”
“Arthur,” Merlin calls.
“What?” Arthur stops and turns, irritated.
“Chainmail. Might be, um… simpler if toi left it here?”
“Right.” He walks back to the table, sets the spoon down and allows Merlin to help him hoist the heavy vêtement over his head.
“All right, off toi go,” Merlin says, handing him the spoon.
Arthur gives him an odd look, snatches the spoon, and heads out the door.
“Be—”
“—gone before toi return, yeah, yeah,” Merlin says casually, gathering up Arthur’s things. He waits a few minutes before muttering his protection spell for them, grinning despite the fact that he knows he’ll never get any thanks.
Kitchen, kitchen… Kitchen? Really, Guinevere? I suppose it’s no stranger than any of the other places we’ve met up.
He passes guards and servants, ignoring their respectful nods as he hurries past. If they knew where I was off to and why… he chuckles to himself as he pushes open the door to the kitchens.
The place is large. Where is she?
“Guinevere?” he calls softly, spoon clutched in his hand like a weapon.
He hears a rattling in the direction of the pantries, so he heads that way.
He finds her amongst the cold stores, waiting patiently amongst shelves of spices and dried fruits, root vegetables and onions.
“Welcome home, my king,” she says, her voice like velvet. She is clad only in her dressing gown, one shapely brown leg thrust forward, taunting him.
How did she get down here dressed like that with no one seeing ou suspecting? Arthur cannot help but wonder.
“My queen,” he nods to her, pausing just a moment to run his eyes over her, lingering at her exposed thigh, the opening of the dressing robe at her chest, her full, parted lips.
He steps vers l'avant, vers l’avant and surrounds her with his arms, basking in her presence. “I was gone too long,” he whispers, his lips feathering against her ear.
“You were gone two days, Arthur,” she says into his chest.
“As I said.” He playfully smacks her backside with the spoon still clutched in his hand. She yelps and jumps slightly, and Arthur times his Kiss perfectly, capturing her lips mid-jump. He feels her smiling under him, opening her mouth for him, pressing seductively against him.
He groans, low and long, pushing his hips vers l'avant, vers l’avant slightly into her, letting her feel how much he’s missed her.
Her tongue dances with his, teasing, sweeping through the familiar warmth of his mouth. She slides her hands down his chest, dropping to his waist, untying his trousers while they kiss.
She opens them and thrusts her hand inside. He drops the spoon. Gwen giggles as the wood clatters against the stones behind her.
Arthur pulls his lips from hers, surveying their surroundings. Think, man, think. His eyes drift to a narrow mur at the end of the pantry. No shelves. He pulls the tie on her dressing gown, opening it but leaving it on her shoulders.
He slips his hands inside, running them over the contours of her body, whispering, “I missed toi so much, Love,” before bending his head to Kiss her again. His hands continue their exploration, then settle on her waist as he picks her up. She wraps her arms around his neck, hanging on, wrapping her legs around him as he walks, backing her up against the wall.
Guinevere feels the cold hard stone behind her shoulder blades, thankful the dressing robe is there to provide some warmth. Arthur drops his lips to her breasts, taking one in his mouth, s’embrasser it hungrily, greedy for her. She clings to his shoulders and lets her head fall back against the mur for a moment, sighing his name.
“Say that again,” he mutters into her breasts.
She bends her head to his, sucking his earlobe into her mouth, nipping it gently with her teeth before whispering, “Arthur.”
“Oh, God…” he groans, adjusting his hold on her to withdraw himself fully from his trousers, and Gwen shifts herself, pinned between his solid body and the solid wall, and sinks down over him, sheathing his length within her.
He thrusts his hips vers l'avant, vers l’avant and up, pushing into her, hard and fast, and she cries out with the force of it, the sheer… masculinity of his actions.
Her cry startles him, and he pauses. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, alarmed, s’embrasser her lips, her nose, her eyelids.
“No!” Gwen practically shouts, “don’t stop!” She actually reaches up and pulls his hair.
“Oh!” he exclaims, and repeats the move, and again, over and over, drilling her into the wall.
She is clinging to him, riding him like he is her prized stallion. He thrusts furiously into her, his own need from their days apart diving him, pushing him.
Gwen’s left hand shoots out and grabs a nearby shelf, her fingernails digging into the wood, as her cries of passion become plus frequent and fevered.
Arthur can take no more, the glory of her body around his combined with the frenzy of her passion sends his senses reeling. He feels her muscles contract around him and hears her final cry, hoarse and long, just before he releases his seed into her with his own strangled cry.
He hears a tumble and some muffled thumps and looks to his right. She’s knocked a basket of dried figs from the shelf in the midst of her throes. He chuckles into her neck as she clings to him, still breathing heavily.
The cook enters the pantry early suivant morning to begin preparing breakfasts for the day. Walking in, searching for ingredients, she steps on something.
“What’s this spoon doing here?” she puzzles, bending to retrieve it. She studies it like it’s going to answer her for a moment, then tucks it into her apron.
“Figs, figs… where did I put you, now?”
A/N: Thanks to larasmith, dannic38 and LadyOfLegend98.
xXx
The loud chirping of birds awakens Guinevere just before dawn. Why is the window open? Those birds are so loud.
She rolls over, reaching for Arthur. And reaching. She peels an eye open. No Arthur. She sits up, and sees his sword on the bed, in his place.
Okay, first of all, that’s dangerous. Second, that’s not the right place. Third, where in the hell am I supposed to go with that?
Rubbing her eyes, she lifts the sword. Oh, this sword. The special one. I know where to go.
She climbs out of lit and slips on a nightdress and her dressing gown. Glancing back at the room before she slips out the back exit, her last thought is, Merlin will understand.
She slips through deserted corridors, ones that are rarely used, making her way down, down till she reaches her destination.
Guinevere pulls open the door, a door once hidden but now is easily found par all who need to know it, and enters the room. Early morning sunlight is filtering in through some of the windows, streaking across the floor. She turns and slides the bolt across the door, locking it.
I don’t see him. This has to be the place. She slowly walks to the table, setting the sword down in its place.
“Arthur?” she calls quietly. Frowning, she looks down at the table, tracing the patterns of the runes there under her finger, thinking. Where else would he be?
He creeps vers l'avant, vers l’avant from the shadows on silent bare feet, watching her. His eyes rove over her wonderfully familiar curves. Hair pulled back and over one shoulder, revealing a section of her delectable neck. Narrow waist leading to her beautiful backside. As he approaches, she leans vers l'avant, vers l’avant over the table, placing her hands flat on the surface. Excellent.
Right behind her, he reaches his hands around her, under her arms, covering her breasts as he places an open-mouthed Kiss on the side of her neck. She gasps, her breasts immediately reacting to his touch. Relishing the effect he has on her, he rubs them deliciously, teasing the hardened nipples with his thumbs as he licks and bites her neck. She reaches up with her right hand to cup his face as she turns her head to Kiss him. His hungry tongue meets hers in a battle for dominance, stroking, pushing, biting. She tries to turn to face him but he holds her firmly, keeping her back to him.
He releases her lips and her breasts, his hands caressing their way down and around to her back. One hand roves up her back, pushing her forward, bending her over the table, while the other lifts the jupe of her nightdress and robe. He opens his trousers and rubs his erection against her inner thighs. She moans, instinctively angling her backside upwards to allow him access.
He thrusts into her from behind, causing her to cry out with pleasure. He trails his hand from her rump down along and around to the front of her thigh so that he can stroke her with his fingers while he pounds into her. His other hand gently caresses the mound of her rear in in front of him. Suddenly he spanks her. Not hard, but just hard enough. She cries out again as he resumes caressing it. The combination of sensations – his length plowing at her depths, the hard stone of the table, tableau beneath her, his fingers flicking at her sensitive nub, his other hand caressing, then spanking – is almost too much for Gwen to take.
“You like that, do you?” he grunts, speaking for the first time.
“Yes!” she manages. He spanks her again. “Oh, yes, Arthur!”
He moves his hand to attend to the other cheek, giving it the same attention, gentle caresses, feather-light, alternating with the sharp spanking. Gwen is about to lose her mind. She is also about to come. Arthur can tell she’s close to the edge, and he pulls out suddenly.
“Oh!” she gasps in surprise and disappointment.
Arthur isn’t ready to be done with her yet. He flips her over so she is on her back, lying on the table. He yanks impatiently at the tie of her robe, opening it, to expose her… nightdress. Frustrated, he grasps the front of her dress at the collier in both hands and pulls forcefully, tearing the robe down the front, exposing her smooth dark skin. He shoves the material aside, having rent it completely down the front. Arthur then takes her ankles in both hands and places them on his shoulders, her legs resting on his chest. He drives into her again, growling.
Guinevere is writhing on the table, wild with desire. Her hands reach out, fists clenching and unclenching, trying to find something to grasp. She settles on her own breasts, clutching at them, pinching her own nipples, kneading the soft flesh. This sight only inflames Arthur further, and he runs his hands up and down her legs, under her backside, roaming as far as he can reach as he drives into her. He turns his head and kisses the arch of her foot, licking the ticklish skin there, nibbling her toes. She gasps, her breathing labored, and brings her legs down from his shoulders, spreading herself wide for him, wrapping her legs around his waist.
She reaches up and grabs at his waist, digging her nails into his sides. He continues his rhythm, reaching his hands forward, stroking up her stomach to her breasts, rubbing his rough thumbs on her stiff nipples. He thrusts harder, faster. Gwen screams as a powerful orgasm hits, her hands moving around to grasp his backside, digging her nails in, and he hisses as he feels the sharp points of her fingernails piercing his flesh. That’s going to leave marks, he absently thinks, wincing slightly at the burning sensation registering from the small claw marks that are surely dotting his rear.
Undeterred, her climax spurs him on, and Arthur thrusts himself into her a few plus times before his own release comes over him, powerful and blinding, and he spills into her, warm and wet.
He leans down over her and kisses her, bringing her back up to a seated position. He gathers the two halves of her nightdress back together with an apologetic grin. She sighs, knowing that it is beyond repair, and kisses him anyway.
“Good morning, Wife,” he says, s’embrasser the end of her nose.
A/N: Thanks to Ellarose88 for the prompt.
xXx
A shield? Where am I supposed to go with a shield? Arthur stares at the bed, at the shield laying impertinently on the coverlet, betraying nothing.
The armory? No, there are knights in there all the time. That would be… inconvenient. No tournament this week. The knights aren’t training right now, so the training fields are empty…
…
Surely not.
He hefts the shield from the lit and heads for the training fields, hoping he’s wrong.
He’s not.
She’s waiting for him, dressed in trousers and a tunic, a sword in her hand.
“You tricked me,” he says, striding forward.
“I did not,” she argues.
“So toi didn’t lure me down here to teach toi how to use a sword?”
“Perhaps a little,” she says, raising her sword and walking slowly towards him, swaying her hips seductively. “But I assure toi that your efforts will be rewarded,” she smiles that smile of hers for him, but points the sword at him as well.
He sighs, looking at her. “You’re doing that all wrong,” he says, giving in, compelled par the years of instructing prospective knights in proper swordsmanship.
“I knew toi wouldn’t be able to help yourself,” Gwen smiles as he comes around behind her, adjusting her grip, her stance.
He places her hands just so, then slides them along her arms, lifting an elbow here, straightening a wrist there, then moves his hands down, tracing the contours of her body, straightening her hips. He moves a foot beside hers, pressing against her back as he nudges her feet into place.
“Mmm, I hope this isn’t how toi treat your men,” she teases.
“No,” he kisses her neck. “I nibble their ears a bit, though, stroke their beards lovingly, that kind of thing,” he jokes.
She laughs and drops her arms.
“Guinevere,” he chides, raising her arms again.
“You were the one that made me laugh,” she protests.
“Now,” he says, getting back to business, “I’ll montrer toi a few basic moves.”
His arms on hers, he guides them, montrer them how to wield the sword, thrusting, slicing, sweeping.
“Is this sword too heavy for you?” he asks in her ear. He can feel her muscles straining through her sleeves.
“No. toi forget I spent most of my life doing hard work, not lounging around, oh, weaving ou doing needlepoint ou whatever it is that ladies do before they get married off.”
Now he laughs, and his left hand slides down around her waist, giving her a squeeze as he kisses her neck once again.
“Arthur…”
“You know I can’t help myself when your hair is out of the way,” he nuzzles her neck, s’embrasser it some more.
She reaches up and smacks him on the head with the very braid that is giving him access to her neck. “Back to work, Arthur.”
He sighs and releases her waist. Checking her grip once more, he mutters, “You should be wearing gloves.”
“I couldn’t find any that fit me,” she says. “I shall have to make some.”
“Have some made, toi mean,” he corrects her.
She sighs and lets him re-set her, rather enjoying his sure hands roaming her body this way.
“There, now you’re ready for battle,” he purrs in her ear before removing himself to stand opposite her, drawing his own sword.
“Now what?” she asks, motionless.
He carefully swings his sword towards her, and she instinctively meets it with hers. He does it again, from another angle, and she meets it again. And again. And again.
“Your defense is good,” he says.
“You’re going easy on me,” she remarks.
“You’re a beginner. And you’re my wife.”
“Bah,” she says, attempting a thrust of her own, which he parries easily, so easily, in fact, that the sword flies from her grip.
“Bah?” he asks, amused.
She stomps to pick up her sword. “The ‘bah’ was to the wife comment. I don’t want toi to go easy on me just because I’m your wife.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Then I will have Elyan train me. ou Gwaine,” she challenges, knowing exactly which name to throw into the pot.
“Elyan I would consider, but not Gwaine,” he says, motioning with his sword that she should ready her own.
“Oh?” she asks innocently, attacking again.
This time she holds onto her sword when he defends. “Gwaine would neither be a skilled nor a patient teacher,” he attempts weakly, going back on the offensive, forcing her into defense again.
“Right, I’m sure that’s it,” she grins, spinning to avoid him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Nice footwork, Love.”
“Thank you.” He pursues her again, and she leaps out of the way and to the side, landing behind him and smacking him on the backside with the flat of her blade.
“Hey!” he spins. “You’re a fast little thing, toi are,” he grins.
“Why are toi grinning?” she asks, thrusting the blade vers l'avant, vers l’avant again.
“Because I just found your strength,” he dodges her thrust, “something we can build on.” He swings his sword in a wide arc and she ducks and sweeps her own sword under his.
“And your weakness,” Arthur finishes, grabbing her arm gently as he trips her, insuring that she doesn’t fall too hard.
In fact, he falls as well, pulling her down over him, both their swords tossed into the grass.
“And what, pray tell, is my weakness?” she purrs, her face inches from his on the ground.
“You were thinking I was still going to go easy on you,” he says, lifting his gloved hand to the back of her head to pull her down to him for a kiss, capturing her lips and persuading them to open immediately, their tongues now thrusting and parrying.
He lifts his hand from her head and peels his gloves off, wanting the leather barrier gone. He worms his hand back into her hair, lacing his fingers into the loose braid at the nape of her neck to hold her head, his other hand roving her back.
Arthur rolls them, covering her body with his, s’embrasser her hungrily, feeling her fingers roam through his hair. He lets her suck at his lips a bit, enjoying the sensation before he trails kisses down her neck to her throat, his hand at her side, thumb reaching up to stroke the side of her breast.
“Arthur…” she says, pressing her head back, tilting her chin to give him easier access, “we’re outside, Love.”
“I know,” he says, s’embrasser a few plus times before coming back up to peck her lips softly.
He rolls to his back, pillowing his head with his arm thrown up and bent behind his head, his other arm gathering Guinevere to his side, where she rests her head on his shoulder.
She throws a leg over his and sighs, her fingers toying with the ties hanging from the neck of his shirt.
“I still want toi to train me,” she says.
“I know. If all your training sessions go as well as this one, I could really get to enjoy this.”
“Arthur,” she cautions.
“Yes, yes, they can’t all deteriorate into snogging,” he chuckles. “Only sometimes.”
She giggles into his shoulder.
“Oh! Sorry, my lord, my lady, I didn’t realize,” Leon and Percival have just appeared from around the corner, apparently to do some sparring. Leon backs up, pushing Percival with him, heading away.
The king and Queen sit up. “Sir Leon,” Arthur calls.
He stops and turns, his face worried. “Sire?”
“It’s all right. We’re done here. Guinevere wanted me to montrer her how to properly wield a sword,” he says, bending to retrieve their discarded swords, handing hers to her after helping her to her feet. She takes her sword and smiles sheepishly at them.
“We got a bit distracted,” Gwen admits.
“Um. Yes. Of course,” Leon says. Both knights are blushing and looking anywhere but at Arthur and Gwen.
“The field is yours, men,” Arthur says, striding past them, patting Percival on the shoulder as he passes.
As they walk away, Gwen hears Percival say, “I bet she was winning and Arthur decided to try a different tactic.”
She snickers to herself and continues away with Arthur.
“You know what, Love?” he says.
“What’s that?”
“I think we’re both due for a bath,” he réponses suggestively, grinning down at her.
“Indeed, my lord.”
A/N: Two requests for this one, from LadyOfLegend9 and shaymars.
Part 4: link
