Shared Chambers: Gillyflowers
Title Shared Chambers: Gillyflowers
Rating R
Characters/Pairing Arthur/Gwen
Word Count 2,527
Warnings/Spoilers spoilers for series 5, 5.01-5.08 / mature situations at times
Author’s Note This is a scene extender of the opening romantic scene of A/G in episode 5.08. It’s a lot of speculation, but I see conflict in Guinevere. I also see her loving her husband without reservation when they are alone together. So here we go. For all the arwen shippers. For the fantastic gif/art creators. And for rubberglue who just recently celebrated her birthday.
Shared Chambers:Gillyflowers
They are everywhere. In this room. Upon this bed. The scent. The color. It has been like that for years now, since he married her. When she took her bath, they were in her soap. And now, as they endeavor into the truest part of marriage, they are sprinkled over her naked body. He put them there. Petal by petal. Flutter to flutter. He knows she loves how their soft texture caresses her skin.
He loves how if he slides one up higher on her thigh it causes her body to give a lightning spark’s shudder. He loves pressing them over her breasts, watching the pink lavender white mold her tender crescent nipples. He loves her quaking sigh as he takes each petal, turns it to a washcloth, a body brush, an intimate comb, a prelude to capitulation.
His fingers, grasp petioles and woman’s flesh. Her waist responds to his firm hold. Her fingers lock hard into his hair. Hold him there so he descends even further. It is sensual. It is sexual. It is love. His heart has never filled so full as it does when he is with her. He goes just a bit mindless. Just a bit scattered. All over, all protected, all shielding, he is with her.
That is why he gathered strings of gillyflowers. Had Merlin find the rest. That is why he strung them all around their bed this night. Because when she smiles the way she did when she saw them all, the sweet lift of her voice, is what enraptures him the most.
Makes him excited. Makes him yearn. Makes him ache to be free of clothing, bonded to love. Bonded to desire.
His manhood throbs. His chest beats, long staccato of vibrations. He rubs himself against her, against the petals, feeling one find his thigh, go between even more. And the friction’s so deep. He presses further against her. Rubs. Thrusts. Pulse right there. Her breasts, petals and all, push upward, rasping his chest. He moans. He aches. Yearn so deep.
Too fast. He’ll expel if he keeps up the foreplay. But for her benefit. Make her feel-
“Now Arthur.”
She whispers in his ear, telling him to stop his silly resistance. Let it go. She’s ready to catch. To hold him inside.
So he enters. And feels petals. She’s holding them, rubbing them into his shoulders. They’re between her hot wet thighs. Caressing him. Teasing him. They’re within this intimate cavort. She is like the flowers. Wild. Beautiful. Unique. Loving her is like a melodic dance that reaches crescendos too high to sing. It’s only seconds. He can’t take it. Apologizes.
Sometimes he’s patient. Sometimes she does this to him. But her kisses tell him to feel no sorrow. She loves him and wants him to be free. To not hold back. Closing his eyes, everything on the tip, too critical to go back now, the surge there, he is swelled. So full it’s too much. Like loving her. Like-
“Come inside me Arthur.”
And he’s gone.
He’s a hot mess of man’s exodus.
He’s falling against her shoulder, his palm pressing into the mattress and an equally fallen petal the only thing keeping him from collapse. His pleasure first. Juvenile feeling. Like when they first married and he couldn’t contain things.
But she’s there, caressing his wet locks of hair, bringing his head down, bringing it to rest under her breasts. He lifts his shaking fingers, catches a nipple, squeezes it gently, swallows it for a second with his mouth, and loves it. Loves her. As her fingers continue stroking. Pushing back from his eyes.
He wanted it to be together. He wanted it to be perfect. But he should know by now nothing ever is. And that she will never blame him for being taken over by emotion, by passion.
And yet…
He finds it. The strength. He’s over his fill. He loves seeing her body arch. Watching her breasts bounce. Hearing her shudder. He loves giving her pleasure. So he slowly pulls out, the swell over. He grasps her curls. He rubs his fingers across her beautiful skin.
And whispers.
“Now yours.”
And he means it. He gives it. He brings her to a point of highest ascent. He feels her hot and wet. Sees her cry.
As he returns the favor. To be her husband. To give his wife the same joy she gives him, a sprinkling of petals pressed between their ardent passion-slickened bodies.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Gwen wakes up, feeling a bit of moisture and softness against her breast. She opens her eyes. There are wet pressed petals upon her skin. And there is also a head with golden hairs that are still a bit damp. She has turmoil of emotions as she gazes at him within the slowly lightening room. It will be morning near enough and she will have to push him away. Time to wake and dress. But for now the hour is still pardoned for sleep. And rest. And husband and wife intimacies.
She has this cacophony of noise in her head. Arthur’s. Morgana’s. Back and forth. She has temptations and desires that don’t quite mesh. One part of her wants to leave this bed, go to see her mistress, for Morgana is the one she loves and cares for. She is her dearest friend, like a sister really. Morgana is the one who will keep her safe, keep away those awful slimy black things. Morgana.
But Morgana did not give her gillyflowers. Oh beautiful precious colorful gillyflowers, always with that edging sprinkle of pink. No matter what their shade, forever that bit of pink. And it is only with him she feels such strong passionate yearnings. Even when he can’t hold back, like last night. Nearly falls apart in her arms.
Actually maybe that is when it is most prevalent. When he is a quaking mess of man’s need and also man’s overflowing love. She knows he is less satisfied with himself then. Thinking he’s not being the kind of man who quashes his own happiness for his wife. So she always strokes his wet hairs then. Tenders it all away from his wet forehead.
Maybe it’s counter to what he thinks will come, but she loves him even more then. Because she knows he tried. Tried so hard to temper himself for her. But sometimes it just doesn’t work that way.
Like sometimes assassination attempts go bad. She tried to kill him a week or two ago. It didn’t work. Poisoning him, he still lived. And yet the poison affected him. When he first woke, he was feeling some pain, some discomfort. Walking around to relieve himself, other things, were hard for him. And so she would hold his waist, assist him to the pot, back to the bed and such. Until he was okay to do it himself. Until he no longer needed someone to lean upon.
She felt herself actually wanting to help him then. Feeling discomfort at his pain and lack of resource.
Which is all so strongly strange. Because she is the one who gave him the poison. Morgana wanted her to do it and she did.
Now he sleeps. Trusting. Believing. He is so pressed up against her that it would only take seconds for her hands to find a way to rid the world of him.
Her fingers ascend. They clasp his throat. A little harder. A little tighter. In sleep a gasp comes from his mouth. His forehead wrinkles. Then a moan.
She shudders at it, bringing her fingers away.
It wouldn’t work like that. He’d wake and see her she tells herself. No way could she do it fast enough that he wouldn’t know. That is her excuse, not that hearing him moan with ache actually bothered her. She tenders his neck with her fingers, caressing to rub away the faint redness, thinking it is because she doesn’t want to leave a noticeable mark, not because of her heart swelling.
His hands when they touch her breasts, when they enter her most intimate walls and stroke do not make her body flutter with excitement. That can’t be it. He can’t be her desire.
That’s wrong. That will bring back the black slimy things. That will displease Morgana. Oh sweet wonderful Morgana. Like her sister. Keeping her safe.
She doesn’t love this man in bed with her. She only pretends. If she could, she would end his life now. But the time, the place is wrong. It will only spoil the plans. Morgana has them. She tells her. Wait and she will learn what the next move is. No failure. They will succeed.
And then…
Arthur Pendragon will be a corpse.
Oh. Her breast pangs. She moves away from his damp head. She pushes it far away and then recoils at what she’s done. She tries to bring it back, but then he’s waking, slowly. Eyeing her with confusion.
“Guinevere?”
She looks down upon the mattress, gathers some in her hands, and rubs them against his cheek. “I love you so much for getting these for me…tying them around the headboard, the end. You are a wonderful husband.”
He smiles at that, grasping her naked shoulders and looking into her eyes. He gazes upon her face. Her lips. Her teasing breasts. “You enjoyed them then?”
She smiles back genuinely at his question. It is the queerest thing. This man she is meant to hate. He remembers the sweetest little things. Cares about them as he does her. His lovemaking is full of devotion. Oh it ardent. It is fast. It is also sensual though. Slow as much as the fevered pitch.
It is balance.
He weaves it all in, along with these beautiful gillyflowers, some lifting into her fingers now, the others being pressed across her cheeks as he holds her in his grasp now. She reaches out. Touches with a fingertip his cheek. His brow. His chin. Her finger sliding. As he gazes. Looks down. Looks up. Licks his lips. As she presses down upon hers. As he finally kisses her. Mouth wet. Warm.
It is love.
Is it not?
Morgana is love, like a sister. But this kind of love, a man’s love, it is so real, so vivid, so-
“Alright?”
He asks tenderly, tipping her chin.
She stares too long. Too questioning. Scared to feel the black sliminess. Scared to face death and horror. Laughing and-
“I’m alright Arthur.”
That’s enough to make him smile, to make him kiss her again, to lower himself and bring her down too. She gathers some of the petals. Sprinkles them over his chest. Kisses each one. Kisses his warm damp skin. Presses her lips to his flesh. To the petioles.
Whispering…
“You are beautiful.”
He doesn’t counter, just holds her tighter. Letting out a growl of sensual pleasure.
And she doesn’t let go. Of the petals of the wild gorgeous gillyflowers. Of him.
Even as she is determined to follow Morgana’s word.
Even as she loves her sister Morgana.
She queerly
In some deep part of her heart, that an enchantment cannot touch, that coldness of feeling will never conquer…
Loves him.
For getting her gillyflowers.
For making them part of their love bath.
A shower of love.
Of petals.
Of color.
Of passion.
That try as she might…
She cannot deny its furor.
Arthur Pendragon.
Maybe keep him alive a little longer.
Solve this flaming mystery.
Wait until the petals wither away.
Wait until then.
For now…
She presses one hand over his nipple, a gillyflower locked into her fingers and interpolated between his pale snow skin and her sun dripped one.
It makes no sense really to want this, to so strongly desire this, but that one piece of her does. It clutches him and the gillyflowers.
It wants to press them together…
Forever.