FIC + ART: Without Grace 2/3
Title: Without Grace 1/2
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE <3
Prompt: Fall, Innocence, Sex
Word count: 1169
Rating: Fic- PG Art- NSFW (this part)
Summary: Eames is a thief and a conman who gets himself into trouble with a dragon. Arthur is the knight with a vow of chastity who rescues him.
AN: Because I am terrible, the final part of this has been split in two. Please expect the porny bits and wrap-up in a couple of hours, because I at least want to make the sex half-decent instead of completely rushed. FORGIVE ME PLS, OKAY? /o\
After only brief stops throughout the day, Arthur finally deems the edge of dark, spring-fed lake a sufficient place to camp for the night.
“You should go collect wood for a fire,” Arthur says, not even looking up as he fastens the hobbles to his horse’s ankles.
Eames rubs the base of his spine and contemplates politely declining. Hours on horseback clinging to Arthur’s armoured waist has his thighs screaming in protest, but then he thinks about where he could be if not for Arthur’s intervention, and swallows the protest along with the pain.
“Sure.” The burn in Eames’s muscles gives way to a quieter ache as he picks his way along the cool forest trails. He might not have a lot of experience in the saddle, but he’s spent more than enough nights camping alone to know the best kinds of wood for a decent campfire.
The sunlight is just starting to dip into dusk when he dumps the pile of sticks and kindling in the middle of the clearing, brushing his hands off on the thick wool of the borrowed tunic as he glances around. Arthur’s horse is grazing nearby, undisturbed, but Arthur... Eames swallows hard when he sees Arthur, thigh-deep in the still water at the edge of the lake. There are still traces of blood stuck to his skin, but even has Eames watches he wades a little deeper, scrubbing at the marks until they run pale pink and are easily splashed away.
If he were a religious man, part of Eames would probably be worried about being struck blind or something equally undesirable for watching a man sworn to order bathe. But he’s not, so it’s easy to let himself look. Arthur’s smaller without the bulk of armour filling him out, leaner but by no means weaker. Strong muscle flexes beneath his skin as he moves, and Eames bites his lip. There’s no doubt Arthur’s body is honed to its best and used accordingly; the fine lacework of scars up his forearms and the old gash that draws the eye down along his ribs is testament enough to that.
Eames adjusts his breeches as he backs away slowly, and can’t help thinking about how delicious the results might be if Arthur could ever turn that body to pleasure rather than scholarship and war.
*
After collecting a bit more kindling Eames returns to the clearing again. This time Arthur is dressed in a rough linen tunic and a pair of loose trousers, the damp curl to his hair the only real evidence that what Eames saw really happened at all.
He sets the new pile of sticks down by the fire Arthur has already started. “You wouldn’t happen to have some paper and a quill, would you?”
Arthur looks at him from across the fire. “I do. But why?” Eames clears his throat. “I got into a little trouble a few months back, in the city. I need to write a letter if I’m going to get away with going back there without being arrested.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows, but rather than comment on Eames’s apparent criminal habits, he says, “You can write?”
“I can.”
“Show me,” Arthur says, getting up to rummage through one of his saddlebags and extracting a box wrapped carefully in oilskin. He hands the box over and sits down expectantly in front of Eames.
Even Arthur’s keen attention can’t distract Eames from the box. He sets the oilskin aside and hinges it open. There’s not as much light as he’d usually like, but it’ll do, and it’s enough to see the quality in the paper and writing utensils inside. Better than he’s ever had the means for, despite all his efforts. He clears his throat before he can get too distracted thinking about the potential inherent in having access to this kind of fare all the time.
Eames is all too aware of Arthur’s presence as he lifts out the pieces and mixes the ink, instinct tempered by years of practice, and spreads the sheet of paper out on the lid of the box balanced on his knees.
Arthur watches as he writes the first few words. “You really can,” he says, tilting his head. “Your penmanship is impressive, too. I never learned to write so well. Too much sitting still.”
Eames doesn’t bother to mention that his own natural handwriting is nothing like the careful, formal lines he’s using to put words of pardon into an invented noble’s mouth. “Thank you.”
Arthur settles back against the tree he’s chosen to set his blankets up beneath. Eames feels him watching as he finishes the letter and sets it carefully aside to dry, blowing gently on the ink.
“I wouldn’t have expected some petty criminal to have a skill like that,” Arthur says. “I’m impressed.”
It’s a backhanded kind of compliment, but a compliment all the same, and Eames smiles. “I’m glad to be able to surprise.”
They lapse into more silence, but Arthur’s still watching him, like a hawk scanning the tall grass for the first signs of prey.
“I saw you watching me earlier,” Arthur says finally. “When I was in the lake.”
Eames looks up, heart jumping into a rapid gallop. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just finished collecting the wood like you said. My apologies.”
“Oh.” He tilts his head again, a gesture Eames is beginning to think is habitual. “I thought that bulge in your trousers meant you were interested in a whole lot more than just looking.”
For all his experience with dealing with swift chances to situations, with talking his way through and out and around just about anything, Eames can’t find a single word to say for a few seconds that stretch out far longer than they have any right to. “I...”
“I’m saying I’m interested,” Arthur clarifies. “If you wanted to do more than just look, that is.”
Eames stares at him. He’s not wearing the armour anymore, but he’s still a knight, still sworn to chastity and purity and all those things Eames has absolutely no interest in adhering to if Arthur puts himself within touching distance.
There’s really only one logical way to reply.
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE <3
Prompt: Fall, Innocence, Sex
Word count: 1169
Rating: Fic- PG Art- NSFW (this part)
Summary: Eames is a thief and a conman who gets himself into trouble with a dragon. Arthur is the knight with a vow of chastity who rescues him.
AN: Because I am terrible, the final part of this has been split in two. Please expect the porny bits and wrap-up in a couple of hours, because I at least want to make the sex half-decent instead of completely rushed. FORGIVE ME PLS, OKAY? /o\
After only brief stops throughout the day, Arthur finally deems the edge of dark, spring-fed lake a sufficient place to camp for the night.
“You should go collect wood for a fire,” Arthur says, not even looking up as he fastens the hobbles to his horse’s ankles.
Eames rubs the base of his spine and contemplates politely declining. Hours on horseback clinging to Arthur’s armoured waist has his thighs screaming in protest, but then he thinks about where he could be if not for Arthur’s intervention, and swallows the protest along with the pain.
“Sure.” The burn in Eames’s muscles gives way to a quieter ache as he picks his way along the cool forest trails. He might not have a lot of experience in the saddle, but he’s spent more than enough nights camping alone to know the best kinds of wood for a decent campfire.
The sunlight is just starting to dip into dusk when he dumps the pile of sticks and kindling in the middle of the clearing, brushing his hands off on the thick wool of the borrowed tunic as he glances around. Arthur’s horse is grazing nearby, undisturbed, but Arthur... Eames swallows hard when he sees Arthur, thigh-deep in the still water at the edge of the lake. There are still traces of blood stuck to his skin, but even has Eames watches he wades a little deeper, scrubbing at the marks until they run pale pink and are easily splashed away.
If he were a religious man, part of Eames would probably be worried about being struck blind or something equally undesirable for watching a man sworn to order bathe. But he’s not, so it’s easy to let himself look. Arthur’s smaller without the bulk of armour filling him out, leaner but by no means weaker. Strong muscle flexes beneath his skin as he moves, and Eames bites his lip. There’s no doubt Arthur’s body is honed to its best and used accordingly; the fine lacework of scars up his forearms and the old gash that draws the eye down along his ribs is testament enough to that.
Eames adjusts his breeches as he backs away slowly, and can’t help thinking about how delicious the results might be if Arthur could ever turn that body to pleasure rather than scholarship and war.
*
After collecting a bit more kindling Eames returns to the clearing again. This time Arthur is dressed in a rough linen tunic and a pair of loose trousers, the damp curl to his hair the only real evidence that what Eames saw really happened at all.
He sets the new pile of sticks down by the fire Arthur has already started. “You wouldn’t happen to have some paper and a quill, would you?”
Arthur looks at him from across the fire. “I do. But why?” Eames clears his throat. “I got into a little trouble a few months back, in the city. I need to write a letter if I’m going to get away with going back there without being arrested.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows, but rather than comment on Eames’s apparent criminal habits, he says, “You can write?”
“I can.”
“Show me,” Arthur says, getting up to rummage through one of his saddlebags and extracting a box wrapped carefully in oilskin. He hands the box over and sits down expectantly in front of Eames.
Even Arthur’s keen attention can’t distract Eames from the box. He sets the oilskin aside and hinges it open. There’s not as much light as he’d usually like, but it’ll do, and it’s enough to see the quality in the paper and writing utensils inside. Better than he’s ever had the means for, despite all his efforts. He clears his throat before he can get too distracted thinking about the potential inherent in having access to this kind of fare all the time.
Eames is all too aware of Arthur’s presence as he lifts out the pieces and mixes the ink, instinct tempered by years of practice, and spreads the sheet of paper out on the lid of the box balanced on his knees.
Arthur watches as he writes the first few words. “You really can,” he says, tilting his head. “Your penmanship is impressive, too. I never learned to write so well. Too much sitting still.”
Eames doesn’t bother to mention that his own natural handwriting is nothing like the careful, formal lines he’s using to put words of pardon into an invented noble’s mouth. “Thank you.”
Arthur settles back against the tree he’s chosen to set his blankets up beneath. Eames feels him watching as he finishes the letter and sets it carefully aside to dry, blowing gently on the ink.
“I wouldn’t have expected some petty criminal to have a skill like that,” Arthur says. “I’m impressed.”
It’s a backhanded kind of compliment, but a compliment all the same, and Eames smiles. “I’m glad to be able to surprise.”
They lapse into more silence, but Arthur’s still watching him, like a hawk scanning the tall grass for the first signs of prey.
“I saw you watching me earlier,” Arthur says finally. “When I was in the lake.”
Eames looks up, heart jumping into a rapid gallop. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just finished collecting the wood like you said. My apologies.”
“Oh.” He tilts his head again, a gesture Eames is beginning to think is habitual. “I thought that bulge in your trousers meant you were interested in a whole lot more than just looking.”
For all his experience with dealing with swift chances to situations, with talking his way through and out and around just about anything, Eames can’t find a single word to say for a few seconds that stretch out far longer than they have any right to. “I...”
“I’m saying I’m interested,” Arthur clarifies. “If you wanted to do more than just look, that is.”
Eames stares at him. He’s not wearing the armour anymore, but he’s still a knight, still sworn to chastity and purity and all those things Eames has absolutely no interest in adhering to if Arthur puts himself within touching distance.
There’s really only one logical way to reply.