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green_apples) wrote2011-04-12 09:08 am
green_apples) wrote2011-04-12 09:08 am
Entry tags:
Arthur and Gwen. Sitting in a tree-ee
In the interest of not losing these and also because they comprise the entirety of my fanfic production in the whole of last year, here are the prompts I filled in that glorious meme of yore. They've both undergone some polishing but remain unbeta'd.
The one with the camp fire, NC-17. In response to this prompt.
'What is it with you and getting kidnapped?'
Arthur's voice is a murmur, a vibration in the air mixing admonition and fondness with the soothing crackle of their camp fire.
The night is warm enough for them to probably go without it, but there's no moon to relieve the darkness of the forest around them and he needed something to do while she tried her best to fix her damaged clothes.
Last time this had happened she'd been wearing Morgana's silks, delicate material that did not tear and thus did not compromise her modesty. Figures it would be her own rougher, supposedly sturdier skirts that would tear in such inconvenient ways.
Then again, the few strips of fabric she managed to salvage were put to good use when Arthur decided her wounds needed cleaning and dressing even though they were just a collection of scratches that would scab over in a matter of days, so maybe not all was lost.
'You should rest', she says, ignoring the question. The implications.
He doesn't. 'I'm sorry, Gwen', his whisper is closer by her ear, forehead pressing gently against her temple. 'I shouldn't have kissed you like that' A pause. 'No, wait. I shouldn't have kissed you like that in such a public place'.
His face is so close, his breath hot on her cheek. All of him so close, too close. Alive and solid and right there. 'I shouldn't have let you kiss me like that in such a public place, Sire', she teases.
He sighs, puts his fingers on the bruise exposed by her wrecked skirt and prods gently. Her leg tenses.
'It hurts', he says but doesn't move away and Gwen's whole world shrinks to that point of contact, four little dots of warmth on her cool skin. It feels illicit even in this darkness, in this solitude. Her heart stutters.
'It does. But that's not it', her face grows hot at her admission, Gwen imagines her cheeks coloring as Arthur takes his time catching her meaning. Suddenly his breathing stops and she knows. Knows this is when it all changes, wants it with every inch of her skin, every beat of her heart.
Arthur slides his fingers upwards until his whole hand is pressed against her shin, almost touching her knee. The fire continues to talk to itself, crickets sing in the darkness around them and Arthur's breathing resumes, deep and controlled. Expectant. Gwen turns and finds his lips with hers.
Sharp intake of breath, blind fumble as they shift to better angle their bodies, Arthur's hands going to tangle in her curls, keeping her close to his mouth as his tongue dances with hers. Gwen's blood sings through her veins, rushing to accommodate her increased heartbeat, her sudden breathlessness. She wants more.
'Gwen', he husks, half warning, half plea when she guides his hand back to her leg, higher on her thigh this time. On the inside.
By the firelight and this close, she can see how his eyes darken, the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows. She's sure she can see the moment he makes his decision. Gently, oh so gently, Arthur hikes his fingers farther up her leg dragging her dress along. Gwen feels like dying, like freezing time right here where his eyes are locked with hers and the weight of that look feels somehow more intimate than his hand finally reaching it's destination. The heat in his eyes sears itself into her memory, leaving afterimages in the backs of her eyelids when she closes her eyes.
'Gwen', he whispers again, buries his face in her neck and presses against her center with his open palm, his other hand splayed over her lower back, keeping her close. God, she can feel herself growing wet for him and the thought of him feeling her as well fires her into action.
'Wait...', she shifts again. 'Let me-' she's on her knees in front of him, Arthur's tongue snakes out to wet his lips and then he reaches for her, kisses her again, hungry and messy as he puts his hand back where it was, growing bolder his fingers push her undergarments aside to stroke her skin and make her whimper at this first, hesitant touch.
Gwen breaks the kiss and nibbles her way down his throat, tasting salt and heat, breathing in leather and sweat and woodsmoke. She wants to tell him she likes that scent, that she's glad he came to get her back home again, that he's a fool for coming alone, that she loves him and thought she'd die without ever telling him. But he speaks first.
'Uh. How do you-?' he clears his throat. 'I mean, do you-? Er...'
She laughs then, loud and free. He looks slightly embarrassed and she loves him so much right now she thinks she might burst.
'Like this', she says, voice darker than she though it would be, and guides his hand to where she needs it, moves her hips to aid in the process and moans quietly when he slips a finger inside her without prompting.
When she looks at him again, Arthur's looking right back, he's got this expression on his face, something like awe and eagerness maybe, that tugs at her, draws her in and makes her want to see what else she can make him look like. He's pumping his finger now, in and out, slowly and carefully, keeping his thumb pressed to the little sensitive nub she taught him where to find and dear God, she shouldn't want more. Knows she's not supposed to have more, maybe not even this much. But then Arthur adds a second finger and she forgets to worry about impossibilities and shoulds and shouldn'ts.
Still, her boldness has limits and so she finds she can't look him in the eye when she asks Arthur to tell her how he does it.
Arthur says nothing, a man of action, he splays his legs a bit further apart and takes her hand to put it on his crotch. Somehow she didn't expect him to be this hard already, the outline of him clear through the cloth of his pants, Gwen runs her fingers over that line, spying his reaction from under her eyelashes. He pulls his fingers from inside her and begins to trace her folds in the same way she does his erection, wicked little smirk on his face.
As enjoyable as this all is, she's had enough teasing already, and if the trembling of his thighs is any indication, so has he. He's holding back, she can tell, and that won't do. Gwen fumbles with the ties of his britches and stills Arthur's incoming protest ('Gwen, you-')when her hand wraps around him as though she's done this before and knows exactly what she's doing.
Even though she doesn't.
His fingers stutter and she takes the chance to grab his wrist and pull his hand away, straddle his thigh and settle her weight there, her abused knees grateful for the respite. Arthur lets her do, lets her make herself comfortable, put her lips by his ear and say 'show me'.
His hand feels huge and heavy as it envelopes her own over him. 'Like this', he tells her. 'With your thumb-', he's breathless now, so he demonstrates. She looks on mesmerized as he swipes his own thumb over the head of his cock where moisture is already gathering, she drinks in his closed eyes and open mouth, the flush rising over his neck, his strangled grunts and the pressure of his fingers interwoven with hers.
His other hand clamps hard on her hip and it's not until she feels the rush of liquid heat surge between her legs that she realizes she's been rocking against his thigh, keeping up with her hand.
Arthur picks up the pace and Gwen moans as she matches it with her hips. A shared rhythm that has them both sweaty and panting. She's close, so close now, just... Arthur swears when he see her free hand go from clutching at his shoulder to rub between her legs where she cannot quite angle herself to reach with his thigh alone.
'Gwen. Gwen', his voice sounds wrecked and she wonders what would he sound like were he inside of her, what he would feel like pressed up close to her body, pushing her down into a mattress with his weight. Arthur's babbling nonsenses into her neck now, and it's with his teeth biting into her collarbone and the phantom sensation of him between her legs that she throws her head back and comes, heat expanding through her, her belly, her chest, her fingertips, overflowing all over Arthur's thigh.
Arthur stills their hands and increases the pressure a bit more before grunting something into her neck and spilling over their fingers.
They sag against each other and for a while all she can hear is the sound of their ragged breathing and the sound of his thumb drawing circles into the material of her skirt over her hip. After they've cleaned up with yet another strip of fabric from her dress, Arthur lays his sleeping roll next to the fire and pulls her down onto it next to him, his arm around her shoulders.
'So, I was thinking', he begins. Gwen hums. 'Maybe you should get kidnapped more often'.
Gwen debates whether to slap his shoulder or the side of his head, decides on the former and somehow ends up curling up closer to him instead of exerting any violence. Oh, well.
'You just want an excuse to ride around looking serious and feeling heroic', she says at last.
He snorts. 'I don't need an excuse for that, Guinevere'.
Untitled. May straddle the line between R and NC-17, if there is such a line. Let's call it R and move on, shall we? This was the prompt.
They lay in the grass, the smell of green in her nose and the taste of his kiss in her mouth. His hand feels the same, always the same, and yet it isn't. In her mind's eye she tries to see him as he is here on the blanket, as he could have been on that boat sailing into the mist.
She fails, she only sees him as he was and has always been.
They say the stars are burning memories, these dead things shining and twinkling down at them from long lost pasts, unbroken by time's passing, undaunted by the feeble existence of these mayfly mortals. Sometimes she wonders if the stars know how much they mean to these silly humans who think themselves so important, are so arrogant that their destinies, their entire futures would be spelled out on those bright, distant dots in the night sky. Was their destiny written there? Did such encryption happen when the stars were born or when they finally consumed themselves in a burning blaze?
'Stop it', he says, hand squeezing hers. The same hand she knows so well. 'I can hear you thinking from over here'.
She sighs, 'won't be long now, I think'. She turns a looks at him, eyes closed and mouth turned up at the edges, his skin is warm when she presses her fingers to the pulse point on his neck. He opens his eyes.
'Gwen. Please'.
'It's just-' she doesn't finish, instead she looks back to the sky.
'I know'. Up on his elbow now, looking at her, feeling her breathe with his palm flat on her ribcage. This too is an old habit.
She fancies him a comet, unstoppable, trailing debris and people along his path wherever he goes, whenever he goes. His kisses are warm and overwhelming, when he seals his mouth over hers, alive in every stroke of his tongue and she feels wound tight. So close now to the end.
They also say every end is a new beginning. She wishes they'd shut up.
Gwen snakes a hand under his shirt, touching blood-warm skin. No scars this time 'round. And yet the patterns are there, her fingers swirling and tracing, drawing wells and dips she knows had been there once. How can this man still be her Arthur? And yet.
'I will find you again, Gwen', his voice is harsh, broken. 'I always do'.
'You will. You always do'.
She lets him lift up her skirt, pulls him to her, on top of her, now now now, don't wait. No time to wait. He gasps when he enters her, she's not ready for him, she doesn't care. Tells him so with her hips and her lips and her hands. And then it's all rhythm, push-pull, drag-press, this dance as old as time and maybe the only thing they have any right to remember so clearly at all. He still buries his face in her neck, still cups the underside of her knee, still makes her shiver and quake just by breathing on the right place. They are still Arthur and Guinevere, as young as they were when they died that first time. As old as Morgana could make them ever be.
'I don't think she meant it to work quite like this', he tells her afterward, his arm a comforting weight over her stomach. She borrows closer to him.
'No, she couldn't have', the bitterness has not faded one bit over the years, and she feels wretched because it was a gift, a forgive-me note Morgana stuck on their foreheads when Arthur fell and Gwen felt like the sky had fallen too. Morgana's farewell gift. Somehow Gwen thought they'd find her again, Morgana, and maybe Merlin too, but no, that was not how it was intended to be. How was it intended to be, then? This endless wheel of lives and deaths and ends and beginnings?
'Maybe we're like those stars, Arthur. Maybe we've been dead all along but somehow we cannot see it, cannot know because we're still warm'.
He gives her a look. She blushes and says it doesn't matter, he should ignore her, she's being silly. He tells her she's never been silly and he's never been able to ignore her. They kiss again. They make love again. They watch the stars again and continue to burn bright, to never die.
Gwen wonders if they are living at all
The one with the camp fire, NC-17. In response to this prompt.
'What is it with you and getting kidnapped?'
Arthur's voice is a murmur, a vibration in the air mixing admonition and fondness with the soothing crackle of their camp fire.
The night is warm enough for them to probably go without it, but there's no moon to relieve the darkness of the forest around them and he needed something to do while she tried her best to fix her damaged clothes.
Last time this had happened she'd been wearing Morgana's silks, delicate material that did not tear and thus did not compromise her modesty. Figures it would be her own rougher, supposedly sturdier skirts that would tear in such inconvenient ways.
Then again, the few strips of fabric she managed to salvage were put to good use when Arthur decided her wounds needed cleaning and dressing even though they were just a collection of scratches that would scab over in a matter of days, so maybe not all was lost.
'You should rest', she says, ignoring the question. The implications.
He doesn't. 'I'm sorry, Gwen', his whisper is closer by her ear, forehead pressing gently against her temple. 'I shouldn't have kissed you like that' A pause. 'No, wait. I shouldn't have kissed you like that in such a public place'.
His face is so close, his breath hot on her cheek. All of him so close, too close. Alive and solid and right there. 'I shouldn't have let you kiss me like that in such a public place, Sire', she teases.
He sighs, puts his fingers on the bruise exposed by her wrecked skirt and prods gently. Her leg tenses.
'It hurts', he says but doesn't move away and Gwen's whole world shrinks to that point of contact, four little dots of warmth on her cool skin. It feels illicit even in this darkness, in this solitude. Her heart stutters.
'It does. But that's not it', her face grows hot at her admission, Gwen imagines her cheeks coloring as Arthur takes his time catching her meaning. Suddenly his breathing stops and she knows. Knows this is when it all changes, wants it with every inch of her skin, every beat of her heart.
Arthur slides his fingers upwards until his whole hand is pressed against her shin, almost touching her knee. The fire continues to talk to itself, crickets sing in the darkness around them and Arthur's breathing resumes, deep and controlled. Expectant. Gwen turns and finds his lips with hers.
Sharp intake of breath, blind fumble as they shift to better angle their bodies, Arthur's hands going to tangle in her curls, keeping her close to his mouth as his tongue dances with hers. Gwen's blood sings through her veins, rushing to accommodate her increased heartbeat, her sudden breathlessness. She wants more.
'Gwen', he husks, half warning, half plea when she guides his hand back to her leg, higher on her thigh this time. On the inside.
By the firelight and this close, she can see how his eyes darken, the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows. She's sure she can see the moment he makes his decision. Gently, oh so gently, Arthur hikes his fingers farther up her leg dragging her dress along. Gwen feels like dying, like freezing time right here where his eyes are locked with hers and the weight of that look feels somehow more intimate than his hand finally reaching it's destination. The heat in his eyes sears itself into her memory, leaving afterimages in the backs of her eyelids when she closes her eyes.
'Gwen', he whispers again, buries his face in her neck and presses against her center with his open palm, his other hand splayed over her lower back, keeping her close. God, she can feel herself growing wet for him and the thought of him feeling her as well fires her into action.
'Wait...', she shifts again. 'Let me-' she's on her knees in front of him, Arthur's tongue snakes out to wet his lips and then he reaches for her, kisses her again, hungry and messy as he puts his hand back where it was, growing bolder his fingers push her undergarments aside to stroke her skin and make her whimper at this first, hesitant touch.
Gwen breaks the kiss and nibbles her way down his throat, tasting salt and heat, breathing in leather and sweat and woodsmoke. She wants to tell him she likes that scent, that she's glad he came to get her back home again, that he's a fool for coming alone, that she loves him and thought she'd die without ever telling him. But he speaks first.
'Uh. How do you-?' he clears his throat. 'I mean, do you-? Er...'
She laughs then, loud and free. He looks slightly embarrassed and she loves him so much right now she thinks she might burst.
'Like this', she says, voice darker than she though it would be, and guides his hand to where she needs it, moves her hips to aid in the process and moans quietly when he slips a finger inside her without prompting.
When she looks at him again, Arthur's looking right back, he's got this expression on his face, something like awe and eagerness maybe, that tugs at her, draws her in and makes her want to see what else she can make him look like. He's pumping his finger now, in and out, slowly and carefully, keeping his thumb pressed to the little sensitive nub she taught him where to find and dear God, she shouldn't want more. Knows she's not supposed to have more, maybe not even this much. But then Arthur adds a second finger and she forgets to worry about impossibilities and shoulds and shouldn'ts.
Still, her boldness has limits and so she finds she can't look him in the eye when she asks Arthur to tell her how he does it.
Arthur says nothing, a man of action, he splays his legs a bit further apart and takes her hand to put it on his crotch. Somehow she didn't expect him to be this hard already, the outline of him clear through the cloth of his pants, Gwen runs her fingers over that line, spying his reaction from under her eyelashes. He pulls his fingers from inside her and begins to trace her folds in the same way she does his erection, wicked little smirk on his face.
As enjoyable as this all is, she's had enough teasing already, and if the trembling of his thighs is any indication, so has he. He's holding back, she can tell, and that won't do. Gwen fumbles with the ties of his britches and stills Arthur's incoming protest ('Gwen, you-')when her hand wraps around him as though she's done this before and knows exactly what she's doing.
Even though she doesn't.
His fingers stutter and she takes the chance to grab his wrist and pull his hand away, straddle his thigh and settle her weight there, her abused knees grateful for the respite. Arthur lets her do, lets her make herself comfortable, put her lips by his ear and say 'show me'.
His hand feels huge and heavy as it envelopes her own over him. 'Like this', he tells her. 'With your thumb-', he's breathless now, so he demonstrates. She looks on mesmerized as he swipes his own thumb over the head of his cock where moisture is already gathering, she drinks in his closed eyes and open mouth, the flush rising over his neck, his strangled grunts and the pressure of his fingers interwoven with hers.
His other hand clamps hard on her hip and it's not until she feels the rush of liquid heat surge between her legs that she realizes she's been rocking against his thigh, keeping up with her hand.
Arthur picks up the pace and Gwen moans as she matches it with her hips. A shared rhythm that has them both sweaty and panting. She's close, so close now, just... Arthur swears when he see her free hand go from clutching at his shoulder to rub between her legs where she cannot quite angle herself to reach with his thigh alone.
'Gwen. Gwen', his voice sounds wrecked and she wonders what would he sound like were he inside of her, what he would feel like pressed up close to her body, pushing her down into a mattress with his weight. Arthur's babbling nonsenses into her neck now, and it's with his teeth biting into her collarbone and the phantom sensation of him between her legs that she throws her head back and comes, heat expanding through her, her belly, her chest, her fingertips, overflowing all over Arthur's thigh.
Arthur stills their hands and increases the pressure a bit more before grunting something into her neck and spilling over their fingers.
They sag against each other and for a while all she can hear is the sound of their ragged breathing and the sound of his thumb drawing circles into the material of her skirt over her hip. After they've cleaned up with yet another strip of fabric from her dress, Arthur lays his sleeping roll next to the fire and pulls her down onto it next to him, his arm around her shoulders.
'So, I was thinking', he begins. Gwen hums. 'Maybe you should get kidnapped more often'.
Gwen debates whether to slap his shoulder or the side of his head, decides on the former and somehow ends up curling up closer to him instead of exerting any violence. Oh, well.
'You just want an excuse to ride around looking serious and feeling heroic', she says at last.
He snorts. 'I don't need an excuse for that, Guinevere'.
Untitled. May straddle the line between R and NC-17, if there is such a line. Let's call it R and move on, shall we? This was the prompt.
They lay in the grass, the smell of green in her nose and the taste of his kiss in her mouth. His hand feels the same, always the same, and yet it isn't. In her mind's eye she tries to see him as he is here on the blanket, as he could have been on that boat sailing into the mist.
She fails, she only sees him as he was and has always been.
They say the stars are burning memories, these dead things shining and twinkling down at them from long lost pasts, unbroken by time's passing, undaunted by the feeble existence of these mayfly mortals. Sometimes she wonders if the stars know how much they mean to these silly humans who think themselves so important, are so arrogant that their destinies, their entire futures would be spelled out on those bright, distant dots in the night sky. Was their destiny written there? Did such encryption happen when the stars were born or when they finally consumed themselves in a burning blaze?
'Stop it', he says, hand squeezing hers. The same hand she knows so well. 'I can hear you thinking from over here'.
She sighs, 'won't be long now, I think'. She turns a looks at him, eyes closed and mouth turned up at the edges, his skin is warm when she presses her fingers to the pulse point on his neck. He opens his eyes.
'Gwen. Please'.
'It's just-' she doesn't finish, instead she looks back to the sky.
'I know'. Up on his elbow now, looking at her, feeling her breathe with his palm flat on her ribcage. This too is an old habit.
She fancies him a comet, unstoppable, trailing debris and people along his path wherever he goes, whenever he goes. His kisses are warm and overwhelming, when he seals his mouth over hers, alive in every stroke of his tongue and she feels wound tight. So close now to the end.
They also say every end is a new beginning. She wishes they'd shut up.
Gwen snakes a hand under his shirt, touching blood-warm skin. No scars this time 'round. And yet the patterns are there, her fingers swirling and tracing, drawing wells and dips she knows had been there once. How can this man still be her Arthur? And yet.
'I will find you again, Gwen', his voice is harsh, broken. 'I always do'.
'You will. You always do'.
She lets him lift up her skirt, pulls him to her, on top of her, now now now, don't wait. No time to wait. He gasps when he enters her, she's not ready for him, she doesn't care. Tells him so with her hips and her lips and her hands. And then it's all rhythm, push-pull, drag-press, this dance as old as time and maybe the only thing they have any right to remember so clearly at all. He still buries his face in her neck, still cups the underside of her knee, still makes her shiver and quake just by breathing on the right place. They are still Arthur and Guinevere, as young as they were when they died that first time. As old as Morgana could make them ever be.
'I don't think she meant it to work quite like this', he tells her afterward, his arm a comforting weight over her stomach. She borrows closer to him.
'No, she couldn't have', the bitterness has not faded one bit over the years, and she feels wretched because it was a gift, a forgive-me note Morgana stuck on their foreheads when Arthur fell and Gwen felt like the sky had fallen too. Morgana's farewell gift. Somehow Gwen thought they'd find her again, Morgana, and maybe Merlin too, but no, that was not how it was intended to be. How was it intended to be, then? This endless wheel of lives and deaths and ends and beginnings?
'Maybe we're like those stars, Arthur. Maybe we've been dead all along but somehow we cannot see it, cannot know because we're still warm'.
He gives her a look. She blushes and says it doesn't matter, he should ignore her, she's being silly. He tells her she's never been silly and he's never been able to ignore her. They kiss again. They make love again. They watch the stars again and continue to burn bright, to never die.
Gwen wonders if they are living at all