Shared Chambers: Completion
Title Shared Chambers: Completion {Make sure you clicked on the title, not the heading so that the font/html is not askew.
Rating R
Characters/Pairing Arthur/Gwen
Word Count 2,674
Warnings/Spoilers spoilers for series 5, episodes 5.01-5.06 {I only list 5.06 because it inspired me more. That’s all. Nothing from the episode really.} / some inexplicit mature matter
Author’s Note The episode,5.05, had wonderful A/G scenes, but after 5.06 especially I wanted to write a little for the end, an extension maybe of A/G after they retreated to their private chambers. Hence, this.
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Shared Chambers:Completion
He watches her from the doorway, silent reverie upon his face. They’ve been married now for just a little past three years. He can still recall what it felt like that night to enter these chambers and close the door, her hand sliding against his waist. She kissed him then with little shyness, Her lips brushing across his own with currents of long held away desire. So, he too felt his, after their time apart during the banishment.
All that feels so long ago. Now the chambers that were once his alone, have a woman’s touch. No longer is everything about practicality, but also beauty. Dressing furniture adorns the sides of the bed. The linens upon the mattress are no longer so deep red and gold, but tempered too by the rose of flowers. The changing screen has moved from the corner to the side of the bed. Basically beyond that point, is their private area. He likes now that he can laze upon the bed and watch her change out of her attire with no hindrance. His wife’s body, although petite, is filled with luscious curves and dips. Her curls when they fall against her henna hued skin is one of the most enticing things ever.
Now she is dressed in her nightgown. It’s a soft shade of cream and milky white, sprinkles of flowers. Its flowing material bounces against her hips with luscious life. Her body cambers there quite nicely. Her fingers are reaching for the bottom of her hair, twisting the ends. He’s always a little bit fascinated when she does this. After all, her dark hair is filled with ringlets of wonder that his fingers quite love. So why all the fuss?
She’s humming softly. She’s humming one of those medieval tunes the minstrels play at their occasional banquets, celebrating a conquered feat of Camelot or a holiday of recognition. It is softly lyrical. Since marrying her, he has learnt that his wife’s voice is tuned to song very well.
Her body turns slowly, before her eyes face him. She smiles with slow gradual splendor. He smiles the same, closing the door behind to give them privacy. He’s wearing his red tunic, so he unbelts it from his waist. Then he pulls it away from his chest. Her fingertips still right at the ends of her hair, she gazes at him with silent appreciation and a tiny flickering frown.
Being a warrior king means a muscled body. It also mean a collection of scars. No new ones now, but still whenever she sees the line of them, her smile breaks for a bit. He’s told her often enough it is the price of being a man in these times, a ruler of kingdom. So she’s accepted it with just a hint of disapproval. He looks around and sees it on the edge of their bed as she returns to the twisting of the bottom sections of her hair. He pulls the thin material over his chest, the white tunic molding the sinew of his toned build. He walks further into the room and sits down on the side of the bed, observing as she moves closer to the window, still faintly humming as she continues the weaving of her nebulous curls.
“Why do you do that?”
She turns around at the question, raising her eyebrows some. “What?”
Arthur points forward. “You do it most every night, except those when sleep is far from our minds.” His blue eyes look to her suggestively.
She returns the gesture with hint of excitement.
“Why do you bind your hair? It’s not like you could get it to curl anymore.”
She laughs softly at that, walking toward him. He watches with appreciation how the nightgown bounces against her full swaying hips. He loves her womanly cantor. Her knees bump against his as she comes in front. He lifts his hands to her waist, presses his fingers into the feathery folds. He feels her hand lift to his face, brush across his hair.
“I don’t do it for that reason, Arthur. I bind it to keep it from tangling in the middle of the night so it is no fuss in the morning. That is why my husband.”
“Oh…” He answers with new understanding, pulling at the nightgown’s material, hearing her flutter of laughter as he gets her to sit upon his lap with silent physical command. “I never knew that.”
His lips tinker with her cheeks. Soft and wet against her skin. He loves how she tastes, clean, flowery, no doubt from the floral scented soap she prefers to use. His head pushes against her chin, his hair raising against her face. She sighs, not protesting at his closeness.
The Disir took him away from home for a week about. Before that was everything with Mithian. The one thing he doesn’t like about those kinds of adventures, is that they mean days and nights away from here. Their private chambers. His wife’s closeness. Before he was married, sleeping in the wood was not such an ordeal. Now, even though he is silent about it, he often finds himself missing the sweet pressure of having her lie beside. Even if she is fully on the other end of the mattress, it is her presence that makes him calm. And those nights when they enjoy the physical aspect of being married, he loves the way her naked glistening skin feels against his. Their bodies ever so supple to each other’s in those moments.
His lips climb. Travel. A sensuous journey up her chin. Past her cheeks. Landing on her temple. Finding her eyebrows, lids. Kissing. Dining upon love. He can’t even imagine what it would be like to lose her momentarily. To not have her close. His hands, have since marriage, found possession of her body whenever they can. They covet every inch. Womanly breasts. Tempestuous hips. Sexual locking thighs. Even her delicate gracious hands. He knows his wife’s divine constitution intimately. But still when they shed it all and she opens herself up to him, and he enters, his mind turns to carnal delirium. She is his everything in this world.
“I love you…”He breaks from all his affections, whispering upward, peering into her dark eyes. “I love you…so so much Guinevere.”
She caresses his cheeks with her tender enamored fingers. How can there be so much pleasure in them? How they touch him. How he feels his body tighten. His manhood growl. Her eyes. Calescent splendor. She is his. And he hers. When they make love sometimes he thrusts so hard to be outside of his body, to soar inside her.
It’s not just man’s hormonal need for sex mind you. It’s more. He had those kinds of drives when he was younger, had infatuations with a princess here or there. He had a young man’s urges then. That’s not what this is. Never has been. Swears, fell in love with Guinevere’s mind before her body. Or maybe it was a little of both. Maybe it was just so intermingled he can’t even classify it. Because that was what falling in love with her was like. Losing his control of mind so viciously that his heart and fever of feeling took over.
Now he has more control of that. Now he’s not some lovesick fool. But still when she looks upon him like she is now, he is too blissfully happy, too feverish, too abandoned of sense, too in love.
“I love you too Arthur…” Her sweet hands caress him, coil into his hair, and express their feeling on his skin. He catches at her hair, feels where she has yet to braid it entirely. He wants to assist. “Teach me.”
“What?” She smiles just a bit.
“How to braid it. Your hair.”
So she shows him, how to part it, how to get it into three sections. Then how to twist. So he begins to follow the lead. She is a divine teacher. He tangles it up a few times, but then starts to get the hang of it. He loves the task because even though Guinevere’s hair is full of ringlets, it’s actually quite soft too while quite thick. It’s like a man’s play. He’s so deep into it when she whispers something that surprises him.
“Merlin seemed troubled when you came back.”
He sighs, letting out, “From the Disir you mean?”
“Yes.”
Well he had wanted a little more of the mundane before his mind turned to jelly, which it can with her, so now he gets it. Guinevere is a passionate woman, but also notices when anyone at all, especially those they are closest too, is not at usual. It’s something for him to love about her for sure. “I noticed too. But every time I try to talk to him he clams up. Maybe you should try. You’ve always had a good friendship.”
She lets out a sigh. “Yes, tomorrow I will.”
He finishes the braiding and turns her around with his hands. “Good. Now that we’ve dealt with that…”
He means it. Merlin is more than servant no matter how much Arthur does not admit it out loud. He is his friend too, probably the best one he’s ever had.
But at the moment, looking into his wife’s eyes again, seeing how the braiding exposes her beautiful neck, he is far from thoughts about friendship. His hand gripping her waist tightly, he presses kisses along her neck. Before pressing into it more profoundly. His tongue slides out. Slides over. Warm wet sweeps of predilection. Mindset concentrated on just this. Loving her. Loving this poetically lush skin she inhabits. And that makes him let out some dry laughter.
She pulls away from his tittering lips. “So now I amuse you?”
He captures her head, possessing her cheeks. “No. Not that. Just, hadn’t told you yet. Seemed silly to. When my father’s ghost was around…”
Her brow furrows. Her chest rises with reaction.
“Oh.” He rubs his hand over her arm comfortingly. “It’s a funny moment of it I swear. Doesn’t include him.” Arthur loved his father all his life. Still does. But he realizes now too that his father’s love was quite twisted at times. And just ruined by all his fears. They made him cruel far too often. Especially what his ghost did to his wife. So Arthur understands her troubling look right now.
“Leon found Merlin and me. Wondering what we were up to. And so Merlin, idiot, tells him he was teaching me poetry.”
“Poetry?” Gwen questions, before letting out a round of laughter.
He laughs with her, his smile full. “Yes.”
When Guinevere recovers she touches his cheeks. He looks up to her grin. “You are good at many things Arthur. But poetry is not one of them.”
He has to begrudgingly admit. Years ago he wrote her some as an apology after that crazy love enchantment with Vivian. It wasn’t until after he left her tiny home that she read it. And would later tell him it made her cry and laugh at the same.
He decides something, in his spontaneous manner, grasping her waist and lifting her from his lap. She protests, ‘Arthur’. But he ignores it and moves to the table. There he finds two glasses and the bottle. He pours the contents into just one and returns to the bed, scooping her back up into his grasp and getting her to be seated upon his lap again. A small kiss of her lips, and then, “Wine.”
“Mmm…” She murmurs. Guinevere does not care for Ale or anything such, but like him she does indeed enjoy a bit of wine’s velvety taste. Lifting the glass to her lips, he watches as they part to drink. Then he takes the glass for his own enjoyment, before putting it down near their feet. He gazes upon her mouth. It’s just a bit redder now. Just a bit wetter.
Arthur plunges, letting everything mingle. His taste. Hers. Then he just looks into her eyes, feeling the excitement of being married, of being loved, of being desired. So sumptuous is this feeling. So passionate and open. He grasps her closer, hearing her tiny shudder, hearing her even stronger moan. He looks away for a moment, brings his hand down. Reaches for the glass. Still some left.
He dips his fingers in, lets the velvety liquid dabble onto them. Then seeing her watching his actions, her eyes full orbs of erotic wonder, he kisses her, fingers pressing the warm wetness against the opening of her nightgown, down to the curve of her breasts. And she pants against him. She heaves. Like the beautiful passionate woman she is. Like the wife he feels zealously fortunate to have.
Oh yes. A man’s most voluble fortunes she is. Everything in these private chambers she gives him. Now as she grips him close. Urgently presses her fingers almost painfully against his thigh, up higher to his manhood. And when he pulls her away some, her eyes, oh her eyes, like calescent balls of fire. All for him. All this is greedily his. And all he wants to covet back. Show her. Always.
He presses into her nightgown. Feels her push at his pants. He pulls the feathery material away from her body. Feels her pull off his trousers. Bodies exposed. He can’t stop kissing with his lips. Even more can’t stop giving protracted sweeps of his tongue. That make her vibrate against him. Make her fingers claim so persistently. So ardently.
Naked, in between all the movement, the red and gold silken covers, sheets tease so profoundly he rolls against them, against her. Heaving, the friction so almost impossible to take. She’s open. Her eyes exuding libertine desire. So he pushes forward with her passionate permission. Impels into his wife all he so salaciously feels. And as he does, he feels her clinging. He feels her holding tight to the rocking of their bodies. He feels not only her strong beautiful love, but his own, pulsing, throbbing, and thrusting. It’s in every piece and fiber of his body. Love.
Love of wine they share.
Love of caring for friends.
Love of kingdom.
Love of duty.
And this.
Love of
Each other.
Of being bound to each other.
Of being inside her. Of she seizing him within so for the moment there is no escape. None he entreats.
Love.
Calescent. Dripping. Crown of completion.
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An hour or so later he is sleepy and he can feel so is she. It’s a bitterly cold evening, whereas even with body warmth they will feel the chill in the morning, so she wears her nightgown again and he’s in his sleepwear too, thin trousers, and white tunic. Murmuring, he presses against her, holding his wife’s waist, feeling the feathery material under his fingers. It’s what he misses most when away from Camelot. Her warmth. Her softness. The curls of her hair. He presses himself into it all now, kissing her neck tenderly.
“Good night Guinevere.”
He can feel her smile as his fingers graze over her mouth and she kisses them. “Good night Arthur. May your dreams be sweet ones.”
He smiles at that, letting out a bit naughtily, “And licentious ones?”
She laughs a bit, before nudging her teeth against his finger.
“Ah.” He reacts.
And he feels her hold his hand to her breast as she whispers. “Only if they are of me.”
He reacts rapidly, with fervor of feeling. “Who else would they be of. You’re my only desire.”
Her smile again as she lifts his fingers for him to feel it. And that makes him smile before he lets out another murmur, closes his eyes. “The sweetest of dreams to you too my love.”
Warm, pressed around and into her, he feels his mind let go. Within their private chambers he has all he has ever truly, of heart, needed, within his arms.
Thus…
Sleep is so eased.
So blessed.