Lovers' Wicked Tale
Title: Lovers’ Wicked Tale
Rating: NC17
Characters: Arthur, Uther, Elena, Gwen, Gwaine, other OC
Summary: In the dark do the lovers reveal themselves…amidst the most dangerous of erotic and vital secrets…
Warnings: mild violence, adult coupling {smut}
Word Count: 9,944
Author's Notes: This is AU medieval. There is no Merlin or magic. // Story written for Camelot_love’s drabble tag//Prompt: coming
Lovers’ Wicked Tale
In the dark do the lovers reveal themselves. In the twilight of morn the erotic cries release, their constitutions sinuate, and reach impetus. But it is only in the nebulous obscurity, in the hours of caliginosity when candor exposes itself. By the day is the obloquy, the oh so immaculate fable that each supplicant deludes. In a Camelot of no magic, no sorcerer fighting for justice, but of a tyrant lecherous king, a prince feral to abscond, and a fostered owned lady who thirsts for what is forbidden.
In the core of savage summer solstice…
Does this wicked tale begin…
*
“Oh!” She cries, the wet moist of his mouth descending to where her pocket of pleasure resides.
*
“Yes…” He sighs, clamping to her feral flourish with bloodless knuckles.
*
Wild wonder, she holds them out to him, whispers that he brings his lips down. And as he does, she ignites.
*
Down on her knees she dines like a beggar in need. She is lust’s servant.
*
A canopy of burning skin he creates, lips not leaving one piece untouched of her illustrious palate.
*
Risings of carnal attainment. Stretch to the peak.
*
He has had enough. He wrenches away her mouth, pulls her up. Death of desire too close, he spreads her out, gives what she just dined on.
*
Her hands find no border. They possess the covering. Hold tight as he creates a rapture that seems of no veracity.
*
Finally come her screams. They satisfy. To the back of her eyes lurk tears. She knows it’s what he’s wanted. She realizes in this moment she is weak, and yet no fable this evening. Only raw truth. He pokes. He prods. He wants all of her. He will take…
And she will not resist.
She cannot.
*
He groans. Pain. Pain to give to his lover. Pain of excitement. Only her. Only this. He holds tight to her shakes, to her transuding constitution.
*
The blankets are all fallen. Forgotten. Skin covers. Sheets. Only now that she aches, shivers with where this is going, do the roughness of his fingers soothe. Almost there. Almost finalized.
*
It comes. He comes. She.
*
The summit of lascivious action.
*
Lovers. Liars.
Holding licentious enigmas.
*
The day has barely started and already she can feel it, the swelters of the sun. Irritation burning, she vacates the already too uncomfortable bed. It will be another sum of hours where the solstice will pin her dress to her bothered constitution.
Eyes turn back. For a moment in time. They travel the messy tangles of the bed. So long ago it feels. Too far into the distance, they lay together.
She felt the hardness of him.
*
He dresses in the perfect clothing of trapping. Heavy cloth of this is not meant for summer brutality. How he yearns for the falling of rain’s sweet moisture.
Her…
His dark eyes close. He remembers. Being in her bedroom. Touching the woman…
Making her scream for him.
Moaning her name.
So long ago.
*
She vacates the dark palace. She looks back at its gothic raunchy display. In it lives a king of so much deceit. She loathes him, but has no choice. Since her parents’ demise, and the never-ending shift of one relative to another, he has been her guardian. Her name is Guinevere, Guinevere of the Isles, until she had to leave her beloved home of cool waving oceans, had to come here to this heated land of dry grasses. To its sides and beyond are gnarls of forestry that she knows hide rolls of danger, bandits and animals of no understanding explanation. It is all dismal. But she must stay. Must keep up the fable, for without, her people will suffer.
She remembers dully the conversation of time weeks ago.
“I do not love him.”
“Ask if I care.”
“You do not.”
“So wise Lady Guinevere. Your parents owed me. Now you do.”
“You tricked them. I would not be surprised if you had caused their murders yourself.”
“I did not. It was all their own fault.”
“Bastard. What do you want?”
“For the two of you to marry.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Oh I can. And in return, I will keep your precious isle safe from its enemies. Now, do we have a deal?”
“He feels the same. No emotion toward me. Not that kind.”
“It does not matter. The combination of you both will bring more power to Camelot. That’s all that is important. My son will see that. And so should you. Remember, without this, your people will succumb.”
“You are the vilest man I’ve ever encountered. I abhor you Uther Pendragon.”
“Hah. Another thing that has no matter to me. So, deal?”
“If only your wife knew of your lewd transgressions.”
“Watch your mouth. I know how to silence it. DEAL?”
“One day I will be free of you. Your son will see just how revolting you are.”
“One day after I’ve received all I want. Or should I just tell the armies to hold back? Should I let Mendred invade your sweet little home? Tell me Guinevere, what will it be?”
“Purgatory will be your judgment. Then you will know the price of your many sins.
Deal.”
“Ha-ha. Shall we shake?”
“I will not touch your filth of skin. Nor will I allow you to touch my flesh.”
“No matter. One month. We’ll celebrate the announcement in two weeks time. Everyone will be invited. Even the slovenly peasants.”
“Who you treat with no justice.”
“They serve me. There should be their gratitude.”
“Perhaps one day they will rise against you.”
“Ah, they wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“GO.”
Only for this reason she stays. Without its burden she would have escaped long ago. Holding her head high she walks through the town’s area, moves to where the laborers work. All are dressed shabbily. The king provides little income for those who serve him. And yet he insures it would be foolish of them to leave. In the feral forests they’d be plundered. Trying for the far off oceans, they’d drown in the treacherous waters. There is no recourse. So they stay. They lose their backbone.
All but…
One.
She walks by now. The stand of the blacksmith. She sees it, him. His tunic wraps low around his waist. Revealed is the burning of his white skinned back. Only a few spots of brown start to form over, a summer’s wretched tan. He is turned away from her as he lifts a muscled arm, hacks at an obscured object with driven intent. Her eyes spy. Watch.
Perhaps he feels their touch.
He turns.
Sees.
Smirks.
Making her grimace tightly.
Wretched man.
*
The people labor hard. A few feet away from where he walks are pillars of torture. One is a stake to burn. Another to whip. He’s watched many punishments given out for not adequately satisfying the king’s demand. He knows the king well since he is his son, Prince Gwaine. The other man is as convoluted as transparent. Sometimes Gwaine cares for him. Other times he loathes the man’s pointed face. Often Gwaine wishes he wasn’t a prince, except for maybe one reason.
A man holding to a cart falls at his feet. He apologizes immediately.
Gwaine lowers to his knees, smiles kindly, albeit a bit rough, his features naturally that of a rustic prince. “It’s alright.” He does not like it when they apologize so fearfully. He is not exactly like his father.
The sun is blazing above. The man has faltered in the heat. It is understandable. He helps him right his cart, watches as the man goes the other way, and sees another.
Peasant. Poor. She seems to strive to keep her golden hair as clean as possible, but it must be hard in this dry land where the workers are rarely provided with the bulks of the well’s water.
He supposes he has a choice for his kingdom, his life. He can abscond or stay. He is set to be king…some day. For that day, he resides. For that and…
The woman lifts her eyes. Lark’s roundness.
She says nothing.
Neither does he.
Before he pushes away.
Obligations of this evening.
*
It doesn’t end. His self satisfied grin. All around her women and men lower their heads. Not he. It’s almost as if he believes somewhere in some ludicrous reality he is royalty himself.
Setting her mouth, she turns first. She can bet he is chuckling under his breath, as he returns to his work, thinking that he won this little contest. Wretched being.
But he should know.
She will have the last word.
He will pay.
This Guinevere vows.
Tonight.
*
Past all the workers, the vast tent stands close to the castle. He ambles beyond the activity, enters.
“Ah, there you are.”
Gwaine formally greets. Father maybe, but the king is a man of little affection to his heir. His mother is better at that, but of late, she has been absent often. At least she will be there this evening.
“So do you approve?” The king asks with a strong smile.
Gwaine studies the largely tented room. It is filled with decoration for the festivities. He smiles back, nodding his head. “It’s perfect.”
*
Guinevere, the trail of her velvet blue dress elegantly sliding over the ground, pulls back at the tent’s opening.
She searches.
“Guinevere.”
She reacts warmly as the prince, wearing his favorite blue tunic, comes to her, whispering softly into her ear. “Hello My Love, my father is just behind.”
“Oh.” She says pleasantly, feeling the rough of his mouth press against her cheek. The prince has a touch of beard. She moves into his embrace, a shine glowing in her face.
He has just a second. Covertly before the king reaches, he breathes, “Last night, when I came to your room, did it-
She holds intimately at his hand. “Yes. And…”
“Same.”
The king walks near. She resists glaring at him, instead holds at her intended’s cheek. “Again this night the same?”
He chuckles, holding at her waist. “I plan on it. You too?”
“Yes…now, kiss-
His lips cut her off, soft, but with definition.
The king approves.
They pretend they are alone.
They pretend…
Entirely.
*
Night comes quick enough. It is at least a fraction’s relief from the heat as this summer has provided breezeless evenings even. It is after many formal dances and silly adult games the king insists it. The bellow he makes offsets them both.
“Alright, before this evening is out, I’m sure our guests would love to see just how…
In love you both are.”
Guinevere turns dark eyes to the grinning king. Gwaine swallows as he feels someone watching nearby.
Everyone in the kingdom has been satisfied. This evening has excited them all. The prince and Lady Guinevere’s engagement is the most wonderful thing that could happen for Camelot. It has even put the king in such a grand mood.
Guinevere eyes Gwaine. He shrugs, gives her a soft kiss.
“Well if that’s what you call a lover’s caress, I really need to teach you some things, don’t I Gwaine?”
Many laugh. The queen, a small and sometimes insignificant looking woman, window dressing, presses at her husband’s hand. He’s been drinking quite a bit this night. Perhaps too much. “Uther, don’t. You’re embarrassing them.”
The king laughs. “Embarassing Gwaine? Poppycock Ilana. Wasn’t long ago he couldn’t keep his…rendezvous in check.”
It is hard to keep from opening her mouth. Guinevere thinks how the king has some nerve, even though some of what he says is true.
Gwaine feels his resistance vacate. It’s not like he’s some virginal boy. He’s been with women ever since he’s been of age. Moving forward, he holds hard at Guinevere’s cheeks.
She shudders at the suddenness. Hears him breathe against her ear. “Don’t hold back.”
Then his mouth is opened deep against hers. His hand grips at her back. She holds hard to his shoulders to keep from falling. It is not a messy kiss, not one so undignified for public, but it is impressive. All who watch utter it. How in love they most certainly are. How beautiful. How…
Except one.
Who snickers.
And another.
Who gasps.
Guinevere feels Gwaine finally let go. She stares, her face flushed.
Gwaine notices, but says nothing, just presses his lips against her cheek. Then he calls out, his voice an underground snarl. “Satisfied Father?”
“It wasn’t like it was some test Gwaine.” Uther remarks casually from his perch where he relaxes with his wife, drinks more.
Gwaine’s blood is boiling. He looks to the other side. Searches.
Guinevere turns, hears a low laugh. She sees him, smirking.
She moves away from the sort of stage Uther sickeningly set up. Holding at her full deep purple skirts, she steps down, moves to where the poor have watched it all.
Passing by all the admirers, she comes to him. The blacksmith. “Are you laughing?” She asks indignantly.
He shrugs, before smirking wider.
She takes in his unimpressive attire, calls out. “Guards!”
He remains smirking.
“Take this man away. Set him to work immediately. He has insulted me. And now he must be disciplined.”
He stares. Coldly.
She looks away, but then…
Gwaine comes from behind.
The guards pull at the blacksmith’s arms, but before they can take him out, the man in the worn brown tunic tells the prince harshly, “She left.”
Gwaine wrinkles his brow. “Did I speak to you?”
The blacksmith laughs. “You didn’t need to. Obvious.”
Guinevere moves into Gwaine. He holds her tightly, even as his eyes search. She glares at the blacksmith, touches the cheek of her engaged. Then she kisses him.
Coming out of it, she looks for reaction.
But already he is gone.
Soon Gwaine pulls away.
Goes outside.
*
“Impressive.”
Guinevere turns back. The festivities have rounded out. She is looking for escape, but that voice halts her step. She takes in his chiseled chin and steel blue eyes. “What do you want?”
The king snickers with inebriated delight. “Familiar words. We’ve been here before. Everything went perfectly tonight. Really, you did well Guinevere. Only that one interruption was completely out of taste. Maybe I should tell the guards to ready the post, sharpen the cracks of the whip.”
Her eyes, the color of the most nebulous midnight, round. “No. I’ve already taken care of it. Leave him be.”
The king is not so drunken that he doesn’t hear the slight quiver. He steps forward, his dark red, almost blackened cloak, slithers along the floor with his steps, like a lecherous snake. He grasps her wrist harshly before she can pull back. “I don’t care what kind of harlot you may be in your bed, but don’t you dare disgrace me, my throne, or my son.”
She fiercely meets his eyes from where they leer at her above. He once propositioned her, as sick as it sounds. She turned him down. Now he’s making her pay. But she will one day have the last word. “You’re one to talk. With your vulgar philandering ways. You’re disgusting-
The word does not leave her mouth entirely before his hand collides with her cheek. She cannot prevent it, but other than a tiny flinch, she does not falter.
He grins. They are in a dark cove of the tent. “You know my offer of before still stands. The one that preceded our deal.”
“And my answer filled with disgust remains. I wouldn’t get into a bath of the finest salts with you.”
He laughs, but soon enough is sober again. “Get ready. Two weeks. You better make it look good or the fires that descend upon your little isle will result in its pyre.”
He lets go her wrist, with a whoosh of his cape, departs. She lets out a breath, his own having smelled so full of sick thick alcohol. Some of what he’s just said bothers her, not the last, but the former. A harlot?
He can’t know.
Can he?
*
Where is she? He wonders. Gwaine moves to the bridge at the castle’s front. He sees there,
“Mother?”
Not who he has been looking for.
The woman, small and porcelain faced, gives a tiny smile. “I wanted to speak to you.”
Gwaine scratches at the deep blue cape that surrounds his shoulders. It irritates his neck.
His mother laughs softly. “You’ve never liked much wearing royal attire.”
Gwaine grimaces.
“You didn’t like much either what your father did tonight.” She touches at his cheek. “Gwaine, there is something, isn’t there? You’re keeping it from me.”
He says nothing, but his eyes are tangled with disturbance.
“You think I can’t take it? Like you think I can’t accept your father’s adultery?”
He stares now.
She smiles, tangled happiness and defeat. “I probably shouldn’t. But being queen is not just a state of marital relation. It is obligation. I’ve known for a while now.”
He places his hand over hers. “Aren’t you upset by it?”
She shrugs. “Of course. That is I’ve been. Now…I think I’m numb.”
“You let him get away with it.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. He must live with his own guilt. Too, It is I he married, not any of them.”
“Mother-
She cradles his cheeks. “Go. Wherever it is the two of you…go. I know how itching you are to leave here sometimes. Believe it or not you got that from me. Sometimes I too see the trappings of the castle to be stifling. Go be with her.”
He wonders darkly.
“It’s not-
She gently cuts him off. “I know that. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word of it to your father. He wants to have his secrets. Then you and I are entitled to our own.”
“Thank you Mother.” With wonder Gwaine kisses the elder woman’s cheek. She is not as weak or gullible as some think.
*
Each step reveals more. Trails of staining dirt. Muck of brown mud. Oh, she hates spots of filth. “What is the meaning of this?” The woman in the hallway, one of her tending servants, shakes her head. “I’m sorry Lady Guinevere. The hallway was found like this.”
“And the culprit?”
“Nowhere to be found. The guards searched everywhere. The perpetrator has disappeared.”
The lady’s eyes scan the floor’s dirtied surface. “Make sure this mess is cleaned up. And heed, no one is allowed to disturb me once I enter my quarters, is that clear?”
“Yes my Lady.”
“Very well.” Guinevere smiles just a fraction. She is not so gentle with servants, with anyone really, but she also refrains strongly from harsh brutality. She is not as dictated by class as others might be.
The female servant proffers timorously,
“Sleep well Lady Guinevere.”
*
Underside of the bridge, through a smattering of trees, he finally finds her. “You left.”
Golden curls of splendid allure junction her neck, but her dress is pauper dull auburn twill, surrounded by a less than golden cloak. “I was sure you would not notice.”
Gwaine lets out a wretched sigh. “You know what he expects.”
“There was a time though, wasn’t there, that didn’t matter to you as much? You were quite dissentient, my Lord.”
“Let’s abscond with the formality, alright? I’ve said it. He can’t know. I must play the part.”
It scythes past her spectral lips as she bitterly applauds. “Bravo then my Lord, it was such a winning performance.”
He takes a step forward, but she retreats with anxious dispatch.
He stops. Halts. “I’ve told you before. You know the reality.”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
Her voice severs.
He instantly regrets letting her back away. She runs to the horse in waiting, hidden in the shadows of the trees.
He is an excellent horseman, but so is she, a woman who rides like her birth was attached to it.
“Wait!”
The horse is a ghost of sliver and pallid. Its hooves though have earthquake force as it leads her away. Leaves him with a wrinkled brow…
And dirt upon his cheeks.
*
The door shuts past her train of purple swirling satin. A slow burn ascends her face. The filth is here too. She walks further into her quarters, noticing it does not stop at the door. It rounds even her amaranthine bed. The room is capacious, and yet the heat of summer makes even the castle’s interiors, of late, feel diminutive.
Still, past lavender curtains she can feel it just a touch. A rare evening breeze. She proceeds to the window. The crank is turned.
Another breathes.
*
He races towards the stables, saddles the first horse, no servants there now to attend. No matter. He’s not the kind of prince who waits on help for long or insists assistance. Straddling the animal’s back, he commands forward pace. It leaps in the air at his hard yank, and then advances at thundering speed. It will take a lot to catch up to her.
He will not cease until he achieves victory.
*
Even with the lunette a touch cleared of its framework, her skin within its heavy satin trappings transudes. Perhaps that is why she does not add any more illumination to the room than the candles that stand by her bed. Nebulous hands lift to the hooked enclosures, her island skin more ecru than porcelain. The slender fingers reach upward and out. The hold is tenuous and defeating. In all her impatience she is not successful.
Groaning, the Lady Guinevere tries again. A shuffling of movement echoes from the wall.
“I do have a crowbar back in my quarry. Maybe that would help.”
She hisses complaint. “You tracked in multitudes of muck along the floor. Now not only will you have to make up for the mess downstairs, but the one you caused here.”
His lips grate over his teeth. “Is that so?”
She holds at one of the candles, moves it toward him, where he has been leaning against the wall with that wretched smirk. “Yes. Now down on your knees. Take out the spots you created.”
He smolders, moves forward and before she can withdraw from his physical advance, seizes the hooks of her gown. The satin ruptures under the force.
The gown is ruined.
She holds tightly to the damaged back.
He says nothing, just descends to his knees and scrapes from the floor with his torn rag every dirty…
Spot.
*
The spurt of following ends as his horse finally comes alongside hers. With no other choice, Gwaine clenches in his possession the reins, catching the woman and animal off guard. The silver maned horse screeches protest, lifting its front hooves into the night air. She starts to slide off the hind quarters, but before she can descend to the ground, Gwaine catches at the woman’s waist, brings her against him.
Together they fall to the ground, as both horses flee from the chaos.
She lands with her soft breasts pushed against his hard chest.
He looks up into her bewildered eyes, feels her hands push at his face, but he gives no quarter.
He captures her shoulders with his rough, princely, hands.
*
She pulls at the ravished fabric, gets it to steady on her bared shoulders, and now as it seems he’s found every one, she hisses out angrily, “That’s it. You’re done.”
He shakes negative. “Not quite Lady Guinevere.”
She is tempted to laugh at his sudden display of respect for royalty. It’s done so insincerely. “My dress is ruined. You’re the one who brought in all the spots. You’ve cleaned them. Now you can go.”
He looks up. Beryl blue eyes. Curved lips. “You wanted it off anyway. I only did you a favor commencing the process. Such WRETCHED heat we’ve been having with this summer swarm of sweat, don’t you think my Lady?”
*
She is not allowing his possession that easily. The golden haired dame counters. “You kissed her like you really are in-
Gwaine’s finger presses shut her mouth. “I kissed her like the little game demands. What has to be done to make sure everyone believes it.”
“Don’t try to fool me.”
He lifts her higher over him, feels her breasts press against his neck.
Her lips luscious even in their fury of dismay. “If anyone’s a fool it’s me, but it’s only temporary. Trust that.”
“Gwaine-
His fingers wrap into her luster of golden. They constrain anymore attempt of struggle.
Osculating under a hollow moon, surrounded by a breezeless calescent evening.
Kisses that only pause for seconds of breath…
“Trust me…
Elena.”
*
Guinevere turns away from his mocking chivalry, orders tersely. “I told you to leave. Now go.”
A whistle of amusement vacates his lips, before he informs. “I’ve yet to get out all the spots.”
She clenches her bedpost, teeth gritting. “What do you mean?”
“One spot left…
My Lady.”
“Where, I don’t see-
He bounds from the floor like a hunting cat of the wild. Only his prey is not meant to be eaten…
Entirely.
His hands are rigid, fixed. They bind her to the wall.
“Here.”
*
Finally she kisses him back. Gwaine moans, rolls them until she is underneath, and takes from her mouth harder.
Drinks her essence like a vampire of the skin and lips.
*
His tongue is the only bit of wet that slivers through his rough mouth. Palms flat against the wall, he imprisons her.
Dines on her luscious lips.
Keeps up the painful pleasure until…
“Arthur…”
She moans with defeat.
And finally he unblocks the way.
Smiling with satisfaction, as her manicured fingernails scratch underneath his hair’s line.
*
She unties his cape. He lays it underneath. They start to undress each other, Gwaine and his Elena.
He pulls down the top of her dress. Brings it to her waist.
Licks.
She arches.
Flicks.
She pushes his head down further to the mounds. Grasps tightly his teasing fingers.
*
Guinevere gives osculation as hard as he has driven her into the wall, hisses. “You wretched, wretched man.”
Arthur laughs softly, pushes away the ruins of the dress. “It’s ugly anyway. Doesn’t suit you.”
She rolls her eyes, feels the rough stubble surrounding his lips at the juncture of her neck. Holding to his wild sands of hair, she forces him closer. “Hah, you’d rather I be in just a shift.”
He smiles up at her, before descending lower than her neck. “Or nothing at all…
MY…
Guinevere.”
*
“Gwaine…oh Gwaine…”
She has known him for so many years, but always there has been a division of class. It is something she can’t help, the casualty of birth. She’s peasant and he’s prince.
But he…
“Say it.” She stops his mouth, hearing him groan complaint. He wants only to enjoy her finely curved slender constitution, but her insistence is prevalent.
“I love you Elena. You alone.”
Finally she smiles, welcoming his mouth’s luster.
Welcoming the beginning of lovers’ roulette.
*
Lady Guinevere sighs with rapture, holding to his dirtied clothes, as underneath his skin is smooth, tidy, like he’s nothing of a serving kind. Maybe he’s sometimes justified in acting so expectant. Perhaps it is a desired asset. She loves where she is now, feeling him wanting her.
But he is not so satisfied. With an untamed snarl he grips her curls of nebulous shine. Hisses, “More spots to release.”
She grimaces. But his lips are parted, sucked in with heat.
Her legs lose their locking. Her knees touch the floor.
She removes the belt from his pants.
The Lady Guinevere kneels for the blacksmith.
*
They tangle. They twist. Writhe in the heights of the dried grasses. It’s forbidden, she knows, for a servant to want a prince.
But for the moment, none such matters.
Only this…
*
One hand presses down atop her head. The other grasps his own hair. No woman has ever done him like this. No supplicant ever could bring him to such a fever. He needs to extricate. Suffers to release. The wave of her head back and forth, those curls of caliginosity, her full open lips-
“No more!” He pulls her up with ravage, has to fight to not scrape her skin. Fervently he removes the last of her dress, pushes her to the bed.
She smiles upward, half naked. He presses down. She’s too much like a happy cat now. He’s so ready to blow.
To make her succumb.
*
Gwaine feels those precious hands that commanded that horse so authoritatively caressing his less clothed skin. They’re flesh to flesh, hotter than the earlier sun of the day. Wet. Glistening into the ground’s sparse moisture.
*
He wrenches her legs apart. She mewls at the opening. The blacksmith there.
She wants him to stop. To never cease. To…
“Oh Arthur…oh please Arthur…”
*
It’s like the night before. Only now they’re outside, contained only by nature, not inside a secluded room. Lips find points of no more recourse. Fingers know how to rightly tease. Each moans. Each cries. Comes.
Feral fornication.
Sought.
Found.
Extricated.
*
Oh, it’s somewhere beyond this bed and each other’s tangles of constitution. It’s someplace that feels so far. So near and so distant. So…
Oh…
Both gasp. Chained anatomies shudder.
Tickle the crest.
Reach the climax.
*
She rolls underneath the containment of his arm. Gwaine’s eyes are closed. He’s still not entirely down from the peak they torridly reached. He doesn’t care she’s far from royalty. This goes beyond just sexual attainment. It started years ago when they sometimes talked as children. When they would escape the castle and ride together deep into the woods, like he pursued her this night.
Most fear its wild atmosphere.
Not her. Not his effervescent Elena.
“Gwaine?”
He opens his eyes, sees hers aglow under the moon’s illumination.
“You won’t marry her?” She asks almost painfully.
He caresses her exposed nipple with his finger. “I can’t marry…
What doesn’t thrill.”
*
His hands always seems so rough, clasping tools of forging, bristling at his poor state.
But now, they are both without clothes, just slightly equal.
As she lies with eyes closed she feels the tender of his fingered nubs against her curls. Relaxing away the wetness of their previous lustful vigor, gentle soothing.
“You are such a vixen. Beautiful dark lovely vixen…” He whispers against her brow, keeping her near, possessively.
She is his.
Along with every spot she commands him to clean.
Not some righteous prince’s.
*
Lovers together. In secret. But how did such start?
The night before each was with the other. But first the pretend visited.
Gwaine visited Guinevere as they continued to plot the deception. Then after he left her, he welcomed into his bedroom his love of veracity, Elena.
Meanwhile, Guinevere found the typical, now routine, reason to force the blacksmith into cleaning her quarters, before she lured him into her bed. It’s a necessary game. If found out, Arthur and Elena both could be subjected to cruel merciless punishment. The king wants an illusion, and so Guinevere and Gwaine give it to him.
*
The heat of lovemaking simmers. Elena complains as they lay within the shadows of the tangled tree branches. “I don’t see why you insist on this. If you don’t love her, then why-
Dully he cuts her off. For years he played the charmer with many of Camelot’s finer persuasion. In the interim he enjoyed befriending Elena. But then one night, receding a pleasurable afternoon where they rode to the forest to escape, he noticed a man of peasant class admiring her, and suddenly something within exploded.
“Who is he?”
Elena held to her heart, startled. It was just minutes past midnight, after one of the king’s wild feasts. She had of course been expected to work throughout the whole festival, so now to have time to her own, she couldn’t help but enjoy one of the more handsome, and genuine in nature, servants paying her due attention.
“You startled me Gw-
She halted her words. If the king heard her speak familiarly like she sometimes did when they escaped to the woods, she would be severely reprimanded. “Prince Gwaine.”
“I asked you who he is.”
Feeling his hand lock around her wrist, she forgot her display of propriety and pulled away. “A man. A good one.”
There was something in her voice, something that implied perhaps he was the antithesis. “Go on.”
She seemed hesitant at first. “It’s just, I think we’re more different my Lord than I believed at first. All those women who were around you tonight…”
Gwaine loosened his hand from her wrist, let his fingers fall to her slender ones, and held there. “That bothered you?”
Elena shook her head. This conversation could have no meaningful end. He was of a different class, no matter how brutally handsome he might be. No matter if sometimes when they rode together away from the palace, she felt a strange stirring rise in her stomach. “Love is not meant to be fickle.”
“Love?” Gwaine asked with more curiosity than he thought he’d ever feel. She started to answer, but then he had her hand deep enough in his to get them both into hiding. His lips descended downward, his eyes mesmerized by the stain of pink upon hers.
For a few precious seconds they communicated without words.
And when it was done, past the wondering stares of each, his fickle ways ended, while she saw him in a better fashion.
Actually, it wasn’t so simple. It took almost a year to get her to agree to meet like they had last night and to show her that all of what he was involved in before was just a spoiled sort enjoying himself.
Now…
Now love without question is part of the equation.
But with his father so expecting of certain procedures, nothing is without barrier.
“I don’t love the Lady Guinevere, Elena, but my father has to believe for now that we intend to marry. It has to be this way until-
“Until what?”
“Until he gives what is needed…
Or enough time has passed.”
*
Arthur sighs, left on the bed alone, as she stands at the cracked open door to spy upon what is transpiring in the hallway.
“I thought you found him distasteful.”
“I do. Entirely.”
Lazily the blacksmith stretches out his leg, revealing his nakedness. “Then why are you so interested in what he is doing?”
Guinevere grimaces, hearing more of the interaction between the king and the visiting lady. It’s to be another evening of his philandering ways of course, disavowing any regard of love for the queen. She doubts the man could inhabit such emotion.
She closes the door entirely, leaves the king to his sick adultery. Turning back to her amaranthine bed, she sees the fine coverings askew, sprawled upon them with insouciant demeanor, the naked blacksmith. Her anger cools as the most sensitive parts of her constitution can’t help but react. He is physically sublime with taut muscles and softly tanned skin that is of usual, argent steel. As that grinning smirk comes though, she finds her sense, coldly charges, “If you soil my bed one bit I’ll bring you back to tidy it.”
Arthur only laughs, no consequence there. “You are so complimentary LADY Guinevere when you make me sound like a rutting pig. Considering how often you bring me here to deal with all those wretched spots, no skin off my nose to deal with a few more.”
She is wearing nothing more than his brown frayed tunic. It’s ragged and yet satiated with his scent, of a man’s work and…transuding desire. It’s natural for her to pick it up off the floor after shared physical release. He never complains, seems to like her aura as much she secretly enjoys his. Looking up to his playful expression, to the transparent beryl of his blue eyes, she is bothered by the king’s words of hours before. Moving down to the bed, only to sit stiffly, she warns.
“You should have been more careful tonight.” Finding one of his lazing hands, she rubs it against her cheek, pressing upon him the importance of her words. “Stop looking so relaxed. Be serious for a moment at least. I mean what I say. He noticed you acting so belligerent. I hate the man, but do not underestimate him Arthur.”
For a moment his ease lessens. Eyes and lips tender. He kisses gently at hers, pulling at her waist to bring her to lie against him. His tone is roughly bold. It’s almost as if he has some righteous belief that no other servant around would ever feel. But then he is the blacksmith. Her lover. “No man frightens me. You know that. I don’t care if my status is seen as so much lower than others. I’m a warrior and I know how to fight.” He gestures downward to his abandoned pants on the floor, something poking out of the side belt curiously.
Guinevere notices it too, but she does not give up her insistence. Arthur is too cavalier sometimes. Wretchedly expecting. Wretchedly making her obsessed. Holding his rough shoulders, she straddles his chest. “You’d never be allowed the chance. He’d have you in irons and under a mercenary’s blade in seconds.”
Arthur’s not having it though, even as his fingers playfully find the lovely tips of her breasts. “You say that with such care. And yet you’re betrothed to another man LADY Guinevere.”
She’s never told him why, never offered explanation, and he hasn’t pressed for one. What they engage in is physical, sexual gratification, and just. Right? “I have to be.”
She whispers, suddenly cold and needing of some comfort beyond his frolicking fingers.
Arthur peers curiously now, lowering his hands to protectively encircle her waist. “What do you mean?” Is she finally going to reveal a bit more than just her desire for him? She rarely opens up. She seems closed so tight. Only in erotic entanglement is she so…vulnerable.
“He’s set a trap for me.”
Arthur stares. Guinevere shudders. Her bones are full of ice. She dislikes when she gets like this because the past is gone, but sometimes it’s a dull knife’s pain. And her whole body turns frozen.
He groans unhappiness, brings her down hard, into his arms. Guinevere holds tight to the blacksmith’s chest, rests the side of her face against his muscled warmth.
It curiously reminds him and her of how this started.
*
“Gwaine I don’t understand.” Elena answers his queer words.
Gwaine sighs heavily, but then suddenly moves his hands down her skin, opens his mouth to her stomach, before burying his head there.
Elena holds at his dark hairs, so beautiful and thick. She feels his lips calescent, tickle her flesh. His caress is such wicked splendor, but she knows the morning will rise soon enough. She wants finally to understand why it is he insists he must be engaged. It’s hard to get him away, for having him there is so divine, but she tugs at his blackened hairs. “Gwaine?”
He lifts his head, feeling her fierce pull, smiles up to her questioning face. She deserves explanation. He can’t live with another night of her not knowing the truth.
“My father’s ensnared the Lady Guinevere. Me too in a way.”
“What?”
Gwaine slides forward, rests his cheek under his love’s heart. “He’s threatened her that if she doesn’t marry me, he will let the isle she grew up on, one that is highly vulnerable to attack by the ruthless King Mendred, fall to his brutal rule.”
“That’s terrible!” Elena gasps. She has heard of how Mendred treats his people, worse even than King Uther. She could even see him setting the whole isle aflame.
Her voice falls into defeat. “But then you have to marry.”
Gwaine lifts his head, holds Elena’s cheeks. “We don’t. And we’re not going to. I told you I love you and I meant it. We just need some time. I can figure a way out of this.”
“Are you sure?”
Gwaine’s breath catches a bit. He remembers the conversation that begun this wild little plan.
“We have to marry.
“Oh you’re joking-ha!”
“I’m not Gwaine!”
“Heh…now there, what is it?”
“Your father, he’s forcing me into this. I cannot let the people of the only place I’ve truly known as home, perish. I can’t allow that Gwaine!”
“Calm down…calm down Guinevere. We don’t even love each other.”
“I know, but, if we could just…maybe…pretend.”
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t know. I just-
“Wait a minute. Maybe that’s not so bad. It would get him off my back too of finding the right woman and keep him from spotting me and…”
“Elena?”
“Now you’re not supposed to know that.”
“I won’t say anything of course. Beyond all your sometimes silly foolery, you’ve been a good friend to me Gwaine.”
“Good. Then I won’t tell anyone of your fondling of the blacksmith.”
“Gwaine! I feel nothing for him.”
“Hah…right.”
“Oh-stop.”
“Alright, look, both of us is meeting with someone in secret, that if ever found out, could put each in danger. Your lover and mine.”
“He is not my lover.”
“Right.”
“Gwaine-
“Guinevere listen to me. In any other circumstance I would laugh off your earlier insistence. But now, we both have someone to protect, don’t we? So why not play the game that my father wants? Play it until we find a way out-or until that moment of commitment hits.”
“But with no outlet, won’t it be dangerous?”
“It’s all dangerous Guinevere. Camelot is a land of danger.”
“We have no choice.”
“Take it easy. I won’t let anything happen to your isle, alright? And in the meantime we’ll protect those we desire. We’ll BE with those we really desire.”
“Gwaine.”
“So let’s do it Lady Guinevere. Let’s get married.”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s PRETEND that’s what we plan to do. Let’s beat my father at his game. Deal?”
“Oh…there seems no other choice. Yes.
Deal.”
*
Arthur has lived in Camelot most of his life, except for a few spare early years where his father was his entire guiding sense. Guinevere, on the other hand, has been in Camelot for less than a handful of years.
When Guinevere first came to be the king’s ward, Arthur noticed her instantly. He noticed too how she seemed to look upon him as something likened to the scum on the bottom of someone’s shoes.
This past winter, is when everything changed. It was as brutal in chilled ice as this summer is in sweltering heat. She came to his forge, wrapped tightly in a flowing blue cape.
Guinevere walked through the heavy door, watching with unplanned curiosity. There was something about how the man tended to the sword he was forming, with hard steel determination and finesse of hand. Through his ragged coat she could see the line of muscled movement his covered arms made.
Feeling the presence, smelling the sweetest scent, Arthur turned around sharply. His blue beryl eyes focused hard. The Lady Guinevere, in all her royal attire, at his forge. No doubt made him curiously sly. “Need something?”
It wasn’t asked with politeness, any kind of regard for her stature, but more-so offensive. It was as if HE was the one with royal blood. She grimaced tightly. “You should address me as the Lady Guinevere. In case you did not notice, I am the king’s ward.”
It was peculiar how she spoke of the king, sweltering with contempt really. No matter. He believed the man a brutal letch. “Need something…LADY Guinevere?”
So infuriating! He had no call to speak to her in such a slovenly way. “You are a wretched man.”
Arthur laughed softly, returning full attention to his task. “You say that even as your eyes have not once left my hands. They’re really good with tools and…other things.”
He fixed his eyes on her heatedly before turning away again, just getting in a glimpse of her blushing cheeks.
The icy winds blew into the opening of the forge. Guinevere flinched, tightening her cape. She still was not used to this type of weather. Remembering where she came from, the frozen air her hurt, she shivered starkly.
Arthur turned at that moment, catching all the vulnerability, just a flash, but bitterly there. He frowned at it, before looking around. Finding it, a blanket of heavy wool, said to be gifted to him when he was a babe by his deceased mother, he lifted it around the Lady Guinevere’s shoulders. “Here…you’re cold.”
She stared.
Arthur smiled. Just a touch. Soft. Real. Intimate.
“I’m not used to this bitter cold.” The blanket was strangely made of fine fabric.
“Well, with the raw luck we’ve been having this year, we’ll be sure to have a torrid swarm of heat in the summer.”
She grimaced. She didn’t like either extreme. The island had coolness mostly, not too chilled, and not too full of heat. Just right. She missed it so.
Looking back to the table, she felt herself commenting. “You take care in what you do.”
“You say that to a man you just called wretched?” Arthur teased, before sobering some, lifting the heavy sword with practiced expertise. “I used to have one, somewhat like this, but more grand.”
“What happened to it?”
Arthur lowered his head. He felt his own deep chill. “Lost it in a fight…where my father gave his life..for mine. I vow to get it back though someday. Leave this…hideous place. Make the bandits pay for leaving me orphaned years ago.”
She stared. A man like him, where would he get such a fine weapon? The poor in this kingdom had no such devices. “But you’re only a blacksmith.”
He snarled now. Arthur never thought of himself as only ANYTHING. “I’m a lot more than that Lady Guinevere. The sword was left by my mother’s side…something there. Royalty? Maybe. Don’t know for sure. Just rest assured that your precious king has skewed the backgrounds of many of his people. He wants all the rule for himself and us workers to be his slaves, but I owe my craft to no man. And one day I will leave this WRETCHED place.”
“I despise the man, myself.” Guinevere countered coldly and started to leave.
But then…
She remembered the wool blanket, so warm against her cold body. With care she removed it, lowered it back to the shelf it had been on, noticing how he was so diligently back at his task.
So she quietly vacated.
One month later she returned, on a less chilled day. Smuggled into the cape of her dress were some odd materials.
Arthur chuckled. “Visiting me again?”
She grimaced. Was he ever not so wretchedly amusing? Then she opened her cape.
Arthur watched with interest. If she wanted to show him something well then, who was he to stop her? A lady’s pleasures-
But what was inside her cape stopped him. “What-
She lowered them all down to the table. “It is to mold the blade. Wear for the handles. Perhaps a bit of jeweled glory. You can craft your own again. Your own sword.”
Arthur looked down at them, back up to her hesitant dark midnight eyes. So beautiful. “Why?”
Guinevere faltered. She had no real answer, other than she truly hated the king, and saw something in this man, as much as he was wretchedly rude. He covered her with his blanket. He had some raw sense in him of duty that she respected. Her family had always been so good to its people. There were no slaves of the king like here. Everyone took their part. She felt a tear trace down her cheek as she recalled.
Arthur took a step forward, scraped away the tear roughly, his fingers blistered from their work. “Why?” He asked again quietly.
She shook her head, started to leave, but he plastered his hands to her waist. He pushed her slowly into the wall. “You want me.” He whispered.
She was feeling something, and then he opened that BOLD mouth. She moved to get away, but he wasn’t letting her rid of him so easily.
“You’re wretched.” She suddenly complained. “Like the wretched spots sometimes upon my floor even after I know the servants have cleaned them up.” Where those words came from she wasn’t entirely sure, but they definitely peaked his interest.
“You want me to get them out…LADY Guinevere?”
She pushed away, but he was too intent on the rust of her lips. Pressing into her, he hinged his mouth between hers. She gasped, but he didn’t stop until he was satisfied. She was moist. Wet. All the ice of the weather faded as he tasted only the burning cascade of her.
She closed her eyes despite herself, lifted fingers that screamed out protest. His shoulder shelved her grip. His sanding hairs whispered temptation to her nails. And his mouth…oh his evil luscious mouth.
Even finding enough, he felt his inner being falter, as his outer simply gave a roguish grin. Pretend of fire.
Guinevere flinched. It was over. He was done. He had such an impish look of completion. She frowned with anger, pretending his lips hadn’t lit a spark. “You’ll pay for that. Tonight. Every spot.”
His fingers climbed up her waist, just to under the curve of her breasts, before discreetly stopping. “Is that a command Lady Guinevere?”
“Yes.”
His eyes strayed to the wool blanket upon the shelf he’d wrapped her in last time, to the fine excellent materials she had generously brought him for the sword she told him to craft, and to the midnight of her wide eyes. “Then let it be so.”
She smirked, started to move to get out, but then his hand latched tightly around her wrist. He turned her to face him. Faces inches apart. So close for another….kiss.
“But I might have a few…spots…for you too…
To tidy up.”
That was how it started. One hot torrid affair, but now something was softening like the tenderness of when he wrapped that blanket around her. Arthur looked back, saw it so caringly wrapped at the foot of her bed. He let her…borrow it from time to time now. He pulled away his tunic from her body, wrapped them both into the blanket so their skin could touch under the wool’s heat, pressed his lips against her brow, and commanded. “Tell me. What’s he doing?”
*
“Gwaine…what if you can’t get out?”
“I have to.”
“Gwaine…”
The prince captures one breast between his fingers, squeezes.
Elena moans.
“We’re going to be together Elena.” He soothes the area with his tongue. Wets it. Feels her fingers claw at his back, as he reaches impatience. Swiftly he lifts her body atop his. She straddles his waist. Every night it must be like this. Some nights he visits Guinevere. Others she visits him. And then…when the hours grow much more into lateness, the visitor leaves. They race back for their room, wait for the one they really love.
He always waits for his Elena.
He guesses Guinevere waits for the blacksmith.
Her thighs roll backward, forward. Over him. Atop him. Her breasts lightly bounce. Elena. All his. If only for these moments of the darkest night.
But one day, somehow…
“Gwaine…we will be together, right?”
He doesn’t know for sure how he’ll do it. Maybe the weeks will afford an outlet. Maybe if they’re all lucky.
But even if not, he’ll find a way. He’s the prince. He can’t abandon his people.
But he also won’t let go of the woman…
He loves.
“Yes…” He whispers
As the liquid of their passion explodes within.
And out.
And they commence to succumb to all their erotic entanglement.
“We’ll be together Elena.
I promise you.”
*
She shakes her head to his question, speaks of elsewhere instead. Of life before ugly Camelot. Her voice is soft with tender recall.
“I grew up on this precious island. My father and mother ruled it, but they were no typical king and queen. They were such rulers of heart, good to their people. What happens here would have outraged them. In their land you would have a sword without the materials having to be smuggled in. Your job would pay well. And you’d be appreciated. On my beautiful isle the winds were never too harsh, and the sun was never too blazing. I miss it so much.”
“What happened?”
Guinevere runs her hands down the length of Arthur’s body, holds his back, to lower, with intimate care. His hard etched curves feel justified to her fingers. “They were murdered. Attacked by brutal adversaries. I was moved away, but the island still exists. Only its ruler now is too weak. It’s faltering. It’s dying. The people…”
She feels it build, weakness that she tries always to squelch. But she can’t now. Not naked. Not under the blanket with the man who owns it, who first wrapped her in it.
Her initial sob pierces something inside him. Arthur holds tight. It makes sense now, her sometimes hardness. And now he understands too more deeply why he was interested in her from the start. Sure she is beautiful with such womanly curves, but beyond she is noble. She is good. Beyond, like beyond all his hard edge he has always strived to lead, to be something of importance, of greatness. He wants to show ruthless kings like the one of Camelot how a just ruler rules, with care and regard, with courageous battle when necessary. For its people. For the love of its people and kingdom.
“He says if I marry his son, he will use his power to keep the attacks at bay. It’s the only way I know to save the land I love. I cannot do it alone. I hate having to beg him for this, but…
There is no other choice.”
Arthur shakes his head, lifts her tear spotted face to his so she can hear him say it strongly. “Maybe there is. Maybe if you leave this land.”
She startles.
Arthur continues, boldly, with meaning. “I hate this place as much as you. Maybe your people just need someone to really lead. To show them that they don’t have to be afraid. To…”
She smiles with wonder. He is wretched. Wretchedly beautifully interesting. That first kiss, she felt something she didn’t want to feel. When he wrapped that blanket around her, she knew something beyond all his cock of an attitude.
Perhaps this goes beyond carnal need. “If I asked you to leave here with me…would you do it?”
He hesitates none. “Yes. But not for you Lady Guinevere, not entirely anyway. I’d do it because I want something away from here. Something better. If that place just happens to be your island, I guess that would be…alright.”
She presses into him. He intercedes with a growl.
“You still have another man you plan to marry. Don’t think I forgot that.”
She counters. “We have no intention of marrying. You know Gwaine is in love with Elena and you and I…”
She doesn’t go on.
Arthur rubs his worked fingers against her cheeks intently. “You and I…what?”
She speaks only of the plan. “Gwaine and I intend for it only to go so far. He says he will be able to get us out of it.”
“And you believe him?”
“I’ve had no choice.”
“You do now.”
She moves away from the blanket.
He watches the moonlight trace shadows over her naked back. Bringing her hands down to his discarded pants, she lifts the sword he crafted with the materials she gave him.
Arthur quickly takes it from her, gestures. “The jewel, like nothing I’ve ever seen.” It is sparkling, amethyst in color. “Did it come from your isle?”
“Yes.”
Arthur smiles softly, lowers the sword with care. She gave him all the materials for it. “You’re not going alone.” He emits fiercely, tugging at one of her thick curls of caliginosity. “I won’t let you.”
She sits up. The moonlight bathes her body with its pale glow. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
He grins a rogue’s impish look, and then lays his head upon her lap as if she is his divine furniture. “Certainly I can.”
Guinevere lowers her fingers to the golden sands of his hair. They remind her of her lost home. Maybe it can be found again? “You’d really go with me?”
No answer comes…yet.
Her fingers reach for the wool blanket. She kindly gathers it around his waist.
His eyes tender to the morning’s blue. It will come soon enough, with the accompanying torrid heat.
*
But one day lingers in the future. When all the lovers will take a chance. Make their own type of escape, of wicked loving release.
For two, life within the castle walls perhaps in loving secret until the king’s rule ends, and then let the land become one of glory and fairness.
Two others, commence a new life, a new just rule, on an island of too much vulnerability without what it needs, guidance and strength.
Outside, Gwaine is in the heat of passion with his Elena, dreading each second that passes by, as soon enough the cock’s crow will come, and they will have to dress. Pretend.
Guinevere, inside, fear’s night’s passing, as she too will have to enter once again the land of make-believe.
A Lovers’ Wicked Tale coming to indecisive completion.
For none can come…
Not as of yet.
*
There is no certainty in their bodies or hearts, but love. It is dripping with passion and care. Gwaine and Elena vibrate into the erotic ecstasy of love once more. Then they hold to each other, gazing upon the sky as the moon’s glow starts to fade away.
“The sun will be coming up soon enough.” Elena whispers, lips pressed against his nipples, mouth tickling his chest hairs.
Gwaine holds her there, eyes closed, her touch the sweetest burn. “Yes…” No more promises. Just moans. Wild yearns.
She sits upon his thighs, open to just him. He finally parts his lids, looks up to her beaming face. Feels her hands upon his hair, tangling into his messy long locks.
Oh how she loves her rustic prince. There’s no definite assurance of any kind, but this. He loves her. She loves him.
Let that intemperate fever be enough.
Let it bring them to a life together.
“Let’s wait till the moon fully departs Gwaine, my love…”
He locks his mouth on her breast, feels her fervent emotion of reaction as he agrees, servant to her desires. “Let’s…lady who commands me."
*
What is his answer? Guinevere can’t help but wonder.
If there’s no choice but this journey, if Gwaine can’t figure another way out, will she be left on her own? Or will he…
Will Arthur…
Her question hangs still.
She feels rare cold upon her. Inside her heart.
Arthur brings her to lie down. The blacksmith’s hands spread the sweetness of her thighs. He moves between them. Gives one hard thrust. Hears her moan with aching welcome. Feels his soul shudder.
She.
Beyond beautiful.
This.
Beyond carnal.
His lips part to whisper, to press upon her beating heart their warmth, their desire, their…
“Don’t ask what you already know.”
*
fin