Beltane Eve
I've just posted Arthurian smut over in the porn battle. I managed to write a full fic in response to the prompt which meant I ran hugely overlength (because this is my ultimate OT3) so I thought I'd post the full thing here. This is not supposed to be historically accurate. Despite the evidence below, I do actually know something about post-Roman Britain, and if they did celebrate Beltane like this, no documentary evidence has survived ^_~
Title: Beltane Eve
Words: 1685
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Threesome, gratuitous Tennyson misquoting.
Summary: The prompt was Arthurian myths, Guinevere/Lancelot/Arthur, may. It's Beltane Eve, the year after Badon, and Lancelot is feeling conflicted.
Lancelot could hear the drums pounding, the air shaking around him, quivering with heat from the fires. There was smoke, applewood and hawthorn, spring trees, wreathing around him..
The noise reminded him of Badon, though the battle was long done, and these were the days of Arthur’s rising. The summer king had risen, and it was Beltane Eve.
He seized a bottle from a passing dancer, and drank heavily, feeling the warm burn of metheglin coat his throat, and the clay smooth against his damp palms. Someone snatched the bottle from him, warm slim fingers brushing his wrist suggestively.
Lancelot ignored the girl, and went to look for Arthur. And for her.
There was Gawain, already entangled with a lithe, dark girl. Beyond him lame Kay was directing the flame boys, his narrow cheeks damp and his eyes bright.
The sun was setting in the west, the sky red as the dragon banner he had carried, briefly, at Badon, caught up from the hands of a dying man.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Dance, man.” It was Bedwyr, who had been Arthur’s man long before him, solid, loyal Bedwyr. He should love Arthur as Bedwyr did, pure and absolute. “Dance. It’s Beltane.”
Then a woman cried his name, and all around him the crowd began to roar, “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!”
Guinever came whirling towards him, between the fires, the line of dancers snaking behind her. With the sunset, and the firelight, glowing around her, and pale silk swirling around her, she seemed more light than flesh. There was a prickle of sweat on her brow, though, and between her breasts, and her hand was hot as she drew him into the dance.
Arthur, beyond her, swung round, reshaping the line, seizing his other hand, drawing him forward. He was wreathed in hawthorn and appleblossom, white petals drifting down with every step he took. He was laughing, and he shouted back at the crowd, “Britain! Britain! Britain!”
“Summer has come!” Guinever cried into his ear, leaning forward so her firebright hair feathered across his shoulders, and her shoulder bumped his arm.
Lancelot, drawn between them, the metheglin in his veins making him quiver and shake, gave himself to the dance.
The drums were still pounding, like his heartbeat, like the pulse in Guinever’s thumb, pressed against his wrist, the vein in Arthur’s forehead. There were others behind them, nameless, faceless, but he could only see the flames, and the queen, and the king.
He should not want either of them. To want both was beyond despair.
What he and Arthur had done, the night before the battle, had been a soldier’s act, The Greeks had done it, the Romans had, men would throughout time. With the threat of blood at dawn, it could be excused.
He had not touched Guinever, though his hands yearned to trace every curve and line of her. She was Arthur’s and he was Arthur’s man.
“The sun is down!” Kay roared, from somewhere beyond the crowd. “The sun is down!”
The dancers froze, arms lifted and entangled, feet about to leave the ground. Only the heavy rush of breath showed they were living, not stone.
The drums pounded, once, twice, again.
Then there was silence, and Kay cried again, “The spring is dead!”
Then the drums came again, a frantic, rolling of hammer, like thunder unleashed.
With howls and screams, the flame boys came running through the night, torches flaring behind them. The dancers broke apart, scattering between the fires.
Lancelot, suddenly bereft, stood still a moment too long, and was almost caught by a round, fair girl with wet lips. Then he recalled the game, and ran.
Hands brushed him as he stumbled through the crowd, stroking his thighs, or cupping his hip or buttock. Around him, others, his brothers-in-arms, were being gladly caught. Oh, there would be Beltane weddings this summer, by the score.
He evaded capture. The only ones he wanted to catch him wouldn’t.
Twice, he couldn’t dart away from the hands fast enough. Both times he escaped with a kiss, the first a chaste brush of lips from a girl he thought was one of Bedwyr’s cousins. The second was Morgan, who laughed at his dismay, and wound herself around him. She looked like Arthur, though they only shared a mother, and in the firelight, he could pretend that the line of the face before him was male, that the lips pressed against his were rougher, that the hand pressed against his cock was bigger and harder.
She trailed her lips up his cheek, and murmured, in a voice that was too light and too malicious, “My brother went into the maze.”
Then she whirled away, laughing, and he staggered away.
The boys were still running, lines of fire trailing through the night. He could see the drummers through the flames, flashes of slick arms rising and falling.
Suddenly, the metheglin hit his gut, and he was dizzy, the world spinning around him, all noise and fire, and the need pounding through him.
He stumbled away from the fires, into the hawthorn bushes that ringed the Tor. The mayflowers, wax-pale, seemed like ghosts, brushing his hot skin. Here, away from the fires, the night was cold, and he found himself gulping down air.
He didn’t even realise he was walking into the maze until he found them.
She was milk-pale in the moonlight, her eyes dark with mystery. The distant firelight limned the curve of her breast as she rode Arthur, her knees pressed into the turf.
Arthur’s hands, dark and strong, were on her hips. His head was thrown back, the garlands fallen to the ground around him.
He should have left them. He should have backed away and found a quiet space under the moon where he could spill his seed into the dark earth.
He couldn’t move. The blood was pounding in his groin, and in his head, and before him was everything he wanted yet could not have.
Then Guinever looked up and smiled at him. As the breath caught in his throat, she held out her arms, beckoning him.
Lancelot stumbled forward. As he came closer he could see more, the colour in her cheeks, the damp curls of hair where their bodies joined, the hard pebbles of her nipples.
“Undress,” Arthur said softly.
Lancelot shoved his tunic off, and let it fall among silks and garlands. Within moments he was crawling forward, his skin pebbling with goosebumps as the cold air hit him.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Guinever said, and drew him forward into a kiss.
Arthur’s hand curled around his thigh, squeezing welcomingly.
Her mouth was hot against his, her tongue tangling with his urgently. Every movement Arthur made below them thrust her forward onto his mouth.
Arthur’s hand slid across, stroking up his cock. Lancelot groaned into her mouth, and she moaned back, a low throaty sound, which made his cock jerk in Arthur’s hand.
One hand was pressed against the ground, but he lifted the other one to stroke along her hip, and down to where Arthur’s cock pressed into her. He could feel them both moving below his hand, wet and slick.
She moaned again, and he dipped his fingers into that wetness, seeking her nub, stroking them both.
He felt her tremble, and she began to whimper, her teeth catching on his lip. Arthur’s hand tightened.
The small part of him that could still think felt that was wrong. Arthur shouldn’t be below them. This was no feast of misrule.
Then she arched away from him, screaming, her hips pressing down on his hand.
When she fell forward he caught her, rising to his knees. She sighed into his shoulder, clinging to him.
Arthur moved out from below them, and Lancelot felt his chest pressing against his back, his rough cheek at his nape. Guinever lifted her hands, and pulled Arthur closer. His cock pressed between Lancelot’s buttocks, still hard.
“Stamina of a bull,” Guinever murmured.
“Strength of one,” Arthur murmured, a ripple of laughter in his voice.
She laughed, and pressed closer to Lancelot, her breasts flattening against him. He could feel damp curls against his cock, and rocked between them, desperate for release.
“Patience, my eagle,” Arthur murmured, his hand slipping between Lancelot’s legs to reach for her. “I’ll have you yet.”
She sighed into his shoulder. “I have him now.”
“Share,” Arthur murmured, and she gasped again.
Then his hand, slick from her, was slipping down Lancelot’s cleft, circling his hole. Lancelot, beyond words, let his head fall back on Arthur’s shoulder.
“You’re both mine,” Guinever murmured, voice languid.
Arthur’s finger was in him, pressing him open. He gasped at the burn, and then moaned as Guinever’s mouth closed over his again, slow and soft.
Then Arthur’s cock was pressing into him, blunt and wide. Guinever cupped his balls, stroking gently.
Arthur laughed into his ear, breathy, and rocked forward, thrusting harder. Guinever put her hands on his hips, holding him up, and slid her mouth down his torso, closing it over his leaking cock.
Lancelot abandoned himself to them, to the twin pulses of sensation, to the distant sound of the drums. Arthur was gasping behind him now, his name and hers tangling into incoherency. Guinever’s tongue swirled over the head of his cock.
Arthur was pounding into him, his hands scrabbling over Lancelot’s ribs, tracing the lines of battlescars. Every thrust pushed him further into the heat of Guinever’s mouth, and he couldn’t stop moaning.
With a final thrust, Arthur came, groaning. Guinever hollowed her cheeks.
Lancelot came, with a cry that shivered to the tingling stars.
Lying beneath the moon, tangled with them, Lancelot thought of the dawn, when the summer would begin. Then, they would no longer be caught out of time, between seasons. They would once again be king and queen and champion.
Hands wandered across skin and soft flesh pressed against hard. Lancelot forgot the morning. They were the king and queen of summer, and he was, now and forever, theirs to command.
Title: Beltane Eve
Words: 1685
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Threesome, gratuitous Tennyson misquoting.
Summary: The prompt was Arthurian myths, Guinevere/Lancelot/Arthur, may. It's Beltane Eve, the year after Badon, and Lancelot is feeling conflicted.
Lancelot could hear the drums pounding, the air shaking around him, quivering with heat from the fires. There was smoke, applewood and hawthorn, spring trees, wreathing around him..
The noise reminded him of Badon, though the battle was long done, and these were the days of Arthur’s rising. The summer king had risen, and it was Beltane Eve.
He seized a bottle from a passing dancer, and drank heavily, feeling the warm burn of metheglin coat his throat, and the clay smooth against his damp palms. Someone snatched the bottle from him, warm slim fingers brushing his wrist suggestively.
Lancelot ignored the girl, and went to look for Arthur. And for her.
There was Gawain, already entangled with a lithe, dark girl. Beyond him lame Kay was directing the flame boys, his narrow cheeks damp and his eyes bright.
The sun was setting in the west, the sky red as the dragon banner he had carried, briefly, at Badon, caught up from the hands of a dying man.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Dance, man.” It was Bedwyr, who had been Arthur’s man long before him, solid, loyal Bedwyr. He should love Arthur as Bedwyr did, pure and absolute. “Dance. It’s Beltane.”
Then a woman cried his name, and all around him the crowd began to roar, “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!”
Guinever came whirling towards him, between the fires, the line of dancers snaking behind her. With the sunset, and the firelight, glowing around her, and pale silk swirling around her, she seemed more light than flesh. There was a prickle of sweat on her brow, though, and between her breasts, and her hand was hot as she drew him into the dance.
Arthur, beyond her, swung round, reshaping the line, seizing his other hand, drawing him forward. He was wreathed in hawthorn and appleblossom, white petals drifting down with every step he took. He was laughing, and he shouted back at the crowd, “Britain! Britain! Britain!”
“Summer has come!” Guinever cried into his ear, leaning forward so her firebright hair feathered across his shoulders, and her shoulder bumped his arm.
Lancelot, drawn between them, the metheglin in his veins making him quiver and shake, gave himself to the dance.
The drums were still pounding, like his heartbeat, like the pulse in Guinever’s thumb, pressed against his wrist, the vein in Arthur’s forehead. There were others behind them, nameless, faceless, but he could only see the flames, and the queen, and the king.
He should not want either of them. To want both was beyond despair.
What he and Arthur had done, the night before the battle, had been a soldier’s act, The Greeks had done it, the Romans had, men would throughout time. With the threat of blood at dawn, it could be excused.
He had not touched Guinever, though his hands yearned to trace every curve and line of her. She was Arthur’s and he was Arthur’s man.
“The sun is down!” Kay roared, from somewhere beyond the crowd. “The sun is down!”
The dancers froze, arms lifted and entangled, feet about to leave the ground. Only the heavy rush of breath showed they were living, not stone.
The drums pounded, once, twice, again.
Then there was silence, and Kay cried again, “The spring is dead!”
Then the drums came again, a frantic, rolling of hammer, like thunder unleashed.
With howls and screams, the flame boys came running through the night, torches flaring behind them. The dancers broke apart, scattering between the fires.
Lancelot, suddenly bereft, stood still a moment too long, and was almost caught by a round, fair girl with wet lips. Then he recalled the game, and ran.
Hands brushed him as he stumbled through the crowd, stroking his thighs, or cupping his hip or buttock. Around him, others, his brothers-in-arms, were being gladly caught. Oh, there would be Beltane weddings this summer, by the score.
He evaded capture. The only ones he wanted to catch him wouldn’t.
Twice, he couldn’t dart away from the hands fast enough. Both times he escaped with a kiss, the first a chaste brush of lips from a girl he thought was one of Bedwyr’s cousins. The second was Morgan, who laughed at his dismay, and wound herself around him. She looked like Arthur, though they only shared a mother, and in the firelight, he could pretend that the line of the face before him was male, that the lips pressed against his were rougher, that the hand pressed against his cock was bigger and harder.
She trailed her lips up his cheek, and murmured, in a voice that was too light and too malicious, “My brother went into the maze.”
Then she whirled away, laughing, and he staggered away.
The boys were still running, lines of fire trailing through the night. He could see the drummers through the flames, flashes of slick arms rising and falling.
Suddenly, the metheglin hit his gut, and he was dizzy, the world spinning around him, all noise and fire, and the need pounding through him.
He stumbled away from the fires, into the hawthorn bushes that ringed the Tor. The mayflowers, wax-pale, seemed like ghosts, brushing his hot skin. Here, away from the fires, the night was cold, and he found himself gulping down air.
He didn’t even realise he was walking into the maze until he found them.
She was milk-pale in the moonlight, her eyes dark with mystery. The distant firelight limned the curve of her breast as she rode Arthur, her knees pressed into the turf.
Arthur’s hands, dark and strong, were on her hips. His head was thrown back, the garlands fallen to the ground around him.
He should have left them. He should have backed away and found a quiet space under the moon where he could spill his seed into the dark earth.
He couldn’t move. The blood was pounding in his groin, and in his head, and before him was everything he wanted yet could not have.
Then Guinever looked up and smiled at him. As the breath caught in his throat, she held out her arms, beckoning him.
Lancelot stumbled forward. As he came closer he could see more, the colour in her cheeks, the damp curls of hair where their bodies joined, the hard pebbles of her nipples.
“Undress,” Arthur said softly.
Lancelot shoved his tunic off, and let it fall among silks and garlands. Within moments he was crawling forward, his skin pebbling with goosebumps as the cold air hit him.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Guinever said, and drew him forward into a kiss.
Arthur’s hand curled around his thigh, squeezing welcomingly.
Her mouth was hot against his, her tongue tangling with his urgently. Every movement Arthur made below them thrust her forward onto his mouth.
Arthur’s hand slid across, stroking up his cock. Lancelot groaned into her mouth, and she moaned back, a low throaty sound, which made his cock jerk in Arthur’s hand.
One hand was pressed against the ground, but he lifted the other one to stroke along her hip, and down to where Arthur’s cock pressed into her. He could feel them both moving below his hand, wet and slick.
She moaned again, and he dipped his fingers into that wetness, seeking her nub, stroking them both.
He felt her tremble, and she began to whimper, her teeth catching on his lip. Arthur’s hand tightened.
The small part of him that could still think felt that was wrong. Arthur shouldn’t be below them. This was no feast of misrule.
Then she arched away from him, screaming, her hips pressing down on his hand.
When she fell forward he caught her, rising to his knees. She sighed into his shoulder, clinging to him.
Arthur moved out from below them, and Lancelot felt his chest pressing against his back, his rough cheek at his nape. Guinever lifted her hands, and pulled Arthur closer. His cock pressed between Lancelot’s buttocks, still hard.
“Stamina of a bull,” Guinever murmured.
“Strength of one,” Arthur murmured, a ripple of laughter in his voice.
She laughed, and pressed closer to Lancelot, her breasts flattening against him. He could feel damp curls against his cock, and rocked between them, desperate for release.
“Patience, my eagle,” Arthur murmured, his hand slipping between Lancelot’s legs to reach for her. “I’ll have you yet.”
She sighed into his shoulder. “I have him now.”
“Share,” Arthur murmured, and she gasped again.
Then his hand, slick from her, was slipping down Lancelot’s cleft, circling his hole. Lancelot, beyond words, let his head fall back on Arthur’s shoulder.
“You’re both mine,” Guinever murmured, voice languid.
Arthur’s finger was in him, pressing him open. He gasped at the burn, and then moaned as Guinever’s mouth closed over his again, slow and soft.
Then Arthur’s cock was pressing into him, blunt and wide. Guinever cupped his balls, stroking gently.
Arthur laughed into his ear, breathy, and rocked forward, thrusting harder. Guinever put her hands on his hips, holding him up, and slid her mouth down his torso, closing it over his leaking cock.
Lancelot abandoned himself to them, to the twin pulses of sensation, to the distant sound of the drums. Arthur was gasping behind him now, his name and hers tangling into incoherency. Guinever’s tongue swirled over the head of his cock.
Arthur was pounding into him, his hands scrabbling over Lancelot’s ribs, tracing the lines of battlescars. Every thrust pushed him further into the heat of Guinever’s mouth, and he couldn’t stop moaning.
With a final thrust, Arthur came, groaning. Guinever hollowed her cheeks.
Lancelot came, with a cry that shivered to the tingling stars.
Lying beneath the moon, tangled with them, Lancelot thought of the dawn, when the summer would begin. Then, they would no longer be caught out of time, between seasons. They would once again be king and queen and champion.
Hands wandered across skin and soft flesh pressed against hard. Lancelot forgot the morning. They were the king and queen of summer, and he was, now and forever, theirs to command.