Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, mention of random & useless Camelot guards
Genre/Rating: NC-17, 100% PWP
Spoilers/Warnings: nope. Well, it may be a bit kinky.
Summary: As queen, Gwen must unexpectedly return to the forge. Arthur is... stimulated by the development.
A/N: Written for robinmarian for her extremely generous help_haiti donation. She wanted something smutty, and I mentioned a fic I'd had in mind for a while, and she liked it well enough to have it as commission for this. It was meant to have plot, and chapters, and lovely meaningful things. But instead the plot did not cooperate whatsoever and thus this is probably the most plot-less porn I've ever written. All that notwithstanding, J my darling, I hope you enjoy this and that it's something of what you were looking for. Thanks again, times a great deal, for your generosity to Haiti. My always & ever thanks go to imigination for her very (very ;) patient support and flash beta read ♥♥♥
She thrusts the blade into the waiting water, and rubs her arm across her forehead before turning to face him. "I didn't wake the whole castle, did I?" she asks, chagrined and watching him closely as she reaches up to untie her apron. "I thought, being so deep in the castle dungeon space..."
Arthur shakes his head and she trails off. "I noticed you were gone," he says. "And took a guess at where you'd be. The sound travels surprisingly little," he adds when she looks sceptical.
"Well, then I'm sorry I woke you," she says with a slight smile. "I wasn't sleeping very well, and as you're leaving in a few days time... I thought I might make use of the insomnia."
She's come to stand just before him now, and carefully lays the apron over an anvil before looking at him again. She had opened her mouth to say something, but whatever she sees in his expression mutes her question.
"I know what you're going to say," he begins, as Gwen swallows thickly and her eyes dart in the direction of the door; her brows momentarily knit when she doesn't see anything beyond his shoulder and he almost smiles. "But our chambers are very... far away."
"The guards -
"Two were asleep when I passed them and the third is half-deaf."
"Simon is not half deaf."
"No, but Simon is sound asleep... in his quarters presumably. Michael is half deaf."
"There was a guard change since I've been here then," Gwen says, tipping her head with a frown.
Arthur nods. "You were down here a long time."
She doesn't look convinced, so Arthur changes tactics. He rests his hand on her hip, and leans down to kiss her very gently, coaxingly.
He knows she'll relent, but it will take a little time, and he doesn't mind drawing out the process. The longer he can take in Gwen this way, before clothes are lost, and new kinds of sweat wash the ash and dust from her cheeks and hands, the better.
Her lips are a bit damp, and there's a faint metallic flavour to her mouth which blends with the salt of her sweat and he finds it all very appealing. As soon as she joins him in the kiss, both Arthur's arms wrap tight around her waist and he leans her back, letting his tongue explore her mouth in long, sweeping strokes.
Her head tips back, and she sucks in a deep breath as his hands slide to find the ties of her vest. She's panting, her hands resting on his shoulders as he unlaces it slowly.
"Okay," she whispers. Her fingers clench slightly and her breath hitches when his fingers slip fleetingly beneath the leather to caress her breast. "Okay," she breathes again, and catches him off guard by rising to her toes and pressing her mouth to his again. It's a long kiss, though she teases him, never opening her mouth, and when she pulls away, her eyes blink slowly up at him while her lips curve softly.
Her hands slide to his neck and Arthur drops his gaze from her face, working again at the ties of her vest. Reaching the last, he does not pull the string free with a flourish, merely lets it slide out of the tiny hole and drop limply to the floor.
No urgency, he reminds himself, tugging the damp leather back and over her shoulders. Gwen shimmies a little to be free of it, and it lands with a soft phwump beside the laces. Her shirt is soaked with sweat, clinging to every curve and crevice of her body. Her nipples are pert, the dark areolae clear through the sheer fabric, and it's all he can do not to bend and take one into his mouth, roll it on his tongue, and feel Gwen lean into his touch as she always does.
He can imagine the taste, and he knows so well the feel of the swelling bud in his mouth that it's difficult to resist. Particularly when Gwen inserts herself into the decision-making process, taking gentle hold of his hand and directing it upwards.
But he doesn't want this to go quickly, twisting his fingers around her wrist to bring her palm to his mouth instead. Arthur gently sucks at each callus, lending his tongue to the task when he nibbles his way to her palm and is rewarded when Gwen sighs, her free hand shifting to stroke along his jaw.
"It's been ages since I've had any calluses," she whispers as he brushes his lips across her wrist.
With enormous satisfaction - because Guinevere's mind and heart were constant gifts to the kingdom - Arthur mumbles, "I know."
She's silent for a moment, and Arthur glances up at her in the midst of debating whether she would allow him to get away with leaving a mark just above the line her vein weaves along her arm. But she is frowning a little, an enticing mess of sweat-sheened skin and tangled curls with the concerned tilt of her brow and her bottom lip pinched between her teeth, and when she catches him looking, she says, "You don't think that I've -
"No," he says definitively, letting her hand drop and glancing past her to the work table.
His hands find her waist and Arthur guides her back towards it. Gwen rests her hands on his arms, and tilts her head, pointing out, "You don't even know what I was going to say."
"You were about to ask," he begins, ducking down to suck at the line of her shoulder, revealed as her shirt slips slightly to the side - her skin is so surprisingly salty and a little bit smokey, Arthur's distracted, working his way from her shoulder and up her neck. By Gwen's suddenly harried panting, he must be suckling with more fervour than he really realises or intends, but the taste... this new taste of her, still just like Guinevere yet so entirely different, and her scent - she tastes -
It's her hands making quick work of the knot on his sleeping trousers that startles him but he still doesn't mean for things to turn urgent.
He means to stop her, but it's too late, her clever fingers free him, the trousers dropping uselessly to the floor and he steps out of them, towards her, which causes Gwen to bump back against the table.
He glances past her, to the scattered instruments of her work, and nearly frowns. But Gwen reads his thoughts, and twists, shoving the hammer and several chisels aside. Her hands plant, ready to hoist herself up when Arthur stops her with a hand on her backside.
"You're not quite..." he trails off when she turns, letting his gaze drift down her still clothed body. "Ready. For that yet."
There's a twitch on her lips as she looks up at him, and as he stands still and bare-arsed before her, one of her brows lift. "Am I to do everything, then?" she whispers and the tease is almost enough to tip the scale.
Arthur ducks, enjoying the skitter of her laugh across his mouth as he kisses her. His hands go to her waist, relieved that these ties are simple; as he frequently whinges aloud to Gwen's constant amusement, he curses some of the bodices she wears.
He breaks the kiss, enjoys how she sways a little towards him, lips still puckered. When she blinks her eyes open, Arthur smirks, and bends as he follows the progress of her trousers down. They get caught, slightly, on her boots as she tries to step free of them, but he only takes the opportunity to nip at her shins and he chuckles against her knee when the slap comes to the top of his head after she's accomplished freedom.
"As I'm down here, Guinevere," he mumbles, crouching low to the ground, and running his nose up her thigh. The metallic scent lingers even here, and he wonders, hearing her breath catch the higher he goes, if he would discover a more powerful flavour between her legs.
Wrapping a hand around her ankle, he lets his fingers drift upwards as he breathes against her. She twitches slightly when his hand cups her bottom, and her fingers slip into his hair, massaging and flicking gently. "As I'm down here," he repeats, nudging the inside of her thigh with his chin. "Is there anything you would like me to do?"
"Mmm," she says thoughtfully above him, and he waits for the moment her legs part for him. But as the pause continues, Arthur glances up, slightly aggravated with being made to wait, being teased by the piquant scent of her, only to find her with a teasing smile. "If you wouldn't mind unlacing my boots? Only my feet are a bit sore -
Joke silenced as Arthur stands, presses his mouth fast to hers, Gwen's arms find his waist, pressing her fingers into his bum. He leans back, reaching to the hem of his shirt. "You're unbelievable," he mutters, tugging the sleep shirt over his head and reaching around her to lay it on the table.
Before she has a chance to respond, Arthur lifts Gwen up, onto the wooden surface and she runs her hands along the fabric. "To prevent splinters?" she asks with a smile.
"I don't imagine they'd be pleasant," he responds sombrely. When she meets his eyes, then reaches for his shoulders, Arthur adds, "Though it would certainly be interesting removing them."
And she laughs and scoffs all at once, and so when his fingers slip quickly up her thigh, sinking fast into the familiar heat of her, her sound of surprise is a bizarre mix of emotions, and Arthur grins.
Her hips shift, her legs widening, and Arthur leans forward, forehead to forehead as he begins with a slow rhythm. Gwen watches him, her eyes staying on his, widening with each stroke, and warm, so warm. He never gets used to the warmth she can convey with just a look.
Biting her lip, she wiggles forward a little, and Arthur pauses out of necessity while she readjusts. When he resumes, she's quick to return the favour, her fingers stroking, massaging, tugging... But slowly, slowly, as he goes with her.
It's when Gwen dips her hand low, fingers reaching, squeezing, tickling, that Arthur huffs and bucks without thinking. Her smile of mellow triumph is encouragement and as he starts to massage her breast through her shirt, to pluck and roll her nipple, her hips move in conjunction with his as their hands work faster - in his case, plunging deeper, and in hers, holding tighter.
"Gwen," he pants as she sucks in a sharp breath, tipping back, extending her legs on either side of him. An enormous twitch runs through her and she drops her hand from him, tugging his wrist from between her legs.
"Let's do this properly," she whispers, breathless. He strokes her thigh, leaving damp lines across the smooth skin as she lifts her legs and bends her knees, feet finding his backside. He lets her legs guide him forward, but resists just as he gets close.
She lets out an impatient sigh, but indulges him for once, staying quiet as he leans back slightly. "You know," he begins, taking a lingering survey of her, perched and spread before him. "This table is the perfect height."
She turns her face suspiciously when he meets her eyes again. Gwen reaches forward, hands around his hips and pulls him forward a little. "You're not -
"Better than the dining table, which is uncomfortably low, as you know."
"Don't you dare," she says warningly, but he can see the beginnings of a smile in the turn of her lips.
"It would fit nicely just by the door," he continues smiling broadly, letting her pull him closer. "We could have it polished, so there's no worry of splinters."
"Oh, quiet," she breathes, muting his chuckles with her mouth, before digging her heels into his arse in retribution as her hand wraps around him, guiding him into her. They both sigh, still, before Gwen's hands slide across his chest to his shoulders.
With each thrust, his thighs bump the table edge, the heels of her boots clack, and her mouth sucks and kisses his chest as his hand lay flat, either side of her for leverage. Gwen nips, just at the hollow of his throat, and her nails glide over his ribcage and Arthur grunts, leaning into her, moving faster as her legs pull him tighter to her.
Soon she's leaning back, her hands drop from his body to support herself from behind as her hips rise from the table surface to meet each thrust. Her ragged breathing tempts him, and Arthur finds her shoulder again, that singular taste again, sucking needily - then biting as her mouth closes around his earlobe.
When she cries out in surprise, he pants out an apology, but she gasps, "No, no, it's not -
Then she arches and gentle trembles start through her, and her fingers clasp tight around a chisel or hammer or god knows but it's thudding against the table's surface along with his thighs and her boots and -
"Hell," he growls, around sweat and metal and ash on his tongue. She lets out a small whimper, throwing an arm across his shoulder and moving to hurry him, increase his pace and pull him deeper.
After a delay, she gasps, "Heavens," and he doesn't know if it's a correction or plea, because it's followed by a low curse and she tilts back further, pulling him with her, wrapping her legs so tight around his middle he can hardly move and gods he needs to move but then she's trembling, trembling, trembling and clutching all over his back and the noises that sound from her throat - gods he's always loved those noises - and she's close, he knows she's close, if he just -
It's with the dull prick of something in his mid-back - chisel, then, he thinks dimly - when both her arms are wrapped around him and she moans, long and low, and heat, tight and wet, surrounds him so entirely that Arthur kisses her anywhere he can reach but lets her breathe, gasping, panting, and riding out, milking, her peak.
Her legs loosen marginally and he pumps, pumps, pumps - hellhellhellhellhell - with her mouth at his ear, ragged breathing and her tremulous stroking, and that scent, so like the taste, just everywhere around him with his face in her shoulder.
Then the pressure snaps. His shout is hoarse. Pleasure rolls as heavy and thick as storm clouds in the winter sky.
"Oh, sorry," she breathes after a moment, and the light press from the chisel vanishes as she drops it down beside them. "It didn't do damage, did it?"
He snorts into her throat, because she actually sounds concerned, when all he really gives a damn about is sorting out when he can manage to do all that with her again.
If she were to behave any other way, she wouldn't be his Gwen. So, "No," he murmurs, lifting his head to kiss her deeply. "No damage."
"Oh, goooood," she mumbles, dazed or sleepy, blinking slowly up at him. After a moment, her brow furrows and she says, with more than a thread of accusation in her tone, "You've exhausted me."
"Yes," she replies, sounding surprised. "I was wide awake before you came down here and ... seduced me."
"As I remember it, it was you who did the seducing," he drawls, and then Gwen is shifting, trying to sit up properly and so Arthur gives her just enough room.
She yawns hugely, and puts a hand on his stomach, fingers tightening. "I did not," she finally says firmly. "I was down here working, and then you came in -
"Exactly. You were working at the anvil. Seduction managed." When her eyes flash up, Arthur smiles softly at her and a lazy flush works its way across her cheeks as she breathes, "Oh."
"Yes." On impulse, he leans forward and presses his mouth to her forehead, letting the kiss linger and enjoying that she leans into him a little. "I was planning on showing you another advantage of this table -
"We are not -
"But it seems you're ready for bed. In order to sleep," he adds, colouring his tone put-off. "Which is, I don't really have to point out, entirely boring."
Gwen takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, watching him with her head tilted. He watches with satisfaction as emotions move across her face - irritation and intrigue high among them - and waits, for the moment she'll pass her judgement.
Which will be agreement, he's absolutely sure.
"We are not bringing this table to our chambers," she begins, firmly, as though he ever thought that was going to happen. But this, "But... What was it you had in mind?" was entirely expected and he falls immediately to his knees, landing painfully on the jumbled mess of his trousers.
She's watching him closely, signs of sleepiness almost entirely gone. "The other advantage of this table's height," he begins mildly, as though he was discussing the day's plans with her. Except that his hands are busy, gently nudging her legs wider, and his eyes follow closely the increasingly harried rise and fall of her chest.
When he speaks again, Arthur draws nearer until his breath stirs the damp triangle of hair. "Is that my mouth is almost perfectly aligned -
Her sharp gasp alone is nearly as arousing as the high cry that follows a little while later.
By morning, the smithy hardly smells of smoke at all, but the weak aroma of something far more intimate permeates.