King Arthur Fic - Contact - NC-17
Title: Contact
Pairing: Galahad/Gawain, implied Arthur/Lancelot.
Rating: Probably NC-17. Not for kiddies
Summary: Set after the battle. Sometimes we need tactile reassurance.
Author's notes: Well, this mess deserves an explaination. I was thinking about the Gawain/Galahad relationship (as seen by a totally unrepentant slasher) and trying to come up with an obvious place where I could see this two have both motive and opportunity to ...express affection. Thus the porn tribble was born....sorta. The first draft was written under the influence of anti-biotics and lost during the SP2 fiasco. I thought the tribble dead but it popped back up during the text conversations with deannawol. I started writing it again and the damn thing grew a vague plot. I whined (lots) to deannawol and very nearly chopped the whole thing off. Instead she persuaded me to finish it. I did...and have spent the entire night picking at it. It really doesn't get better.
Dedicated to deannawol who should have known better.
I stand in the shadows, rubbing my hands on my breeches. They're both slick with sweat and I can't keep my breathing steady. I keep swallowing back the sobs but I am salmartian. I am a knight! I will not weep like a woman. I will not! My skin prickles with cold sweat and my stomach heaves. I shake as if we stood again on the ice in a gale.
I cannot enter that room. Not for all the gold in the world, not with a blade at my throat, not for any man, God or cause. I can remember the simple joy of battle, yes, but I can also remember the devastation in his voice as he howled his loss to the skies. It was nothing compared to bleakness in his eyes now.
He sits on the wooden stool, without his armour. He looks...broken. I have seen him face armies...with only us to protect him yet I have never seen him like this. I have seen him as unbreakable, unflinching...inhuman. I look at the desolation in his face and am shamed by it. He holds Lancelot's hand as if it is his lifeline and stares into oblivion.
Surely it is only his honour that keeps him here. Supposedly, his God does not permit suicide but only Arthur's obligations will keep him here and he will pray that each day is his last until death comes at last. The Woad may get her wish - and her wedding - but Arthur's heart will go to the grave with his lover and dearest friend.
As suddenly as that, I know what troubles me and I slip away, leaving Arthur to his grief. I hurry deeper into the fort, past the wounded Woads and their healers. The wide eyes and hush surrounds me like a wall of ice as I hurry past them. I should stop, should take an interest...but it's too soon. They're still the enemy. I see that my given room is full but the three rooms at the end of the corridor are quiet.
I can hear Bors ...and what had better be Flora as I slip into our room. I close the door carefully and stare at the splintering, ancient wood, breath stuttering across my lips, as I try to work up the courage to turn. The drapes are drawn and the room is warm from the fire smouldering in the corner. Someone - Arthur or Bors - remembered to light candles, knowing you hate the darkness.
You murmur something and shift restlessly; a low groan and a satisfied sigh indicate you've found a comfortable position. I feel some of the tension ease at this proof you still live. You are not normally so restive but the healers warned that you might have a slight fever after they picked out the bits of leather and the arrowhead. I open my eyes - when did I close them? - and turn to look at you. My heart slows as I take in the vision before me.
The heat of the fire and your fever must have made you too hot as the sleeping furs are shoved aside and your skin glistens with a faint glaze of sweat. The candlelight turns your skin to liquid honey, smudged with shadows and bruises. I stare and wonder if it was the healer who undressed you. The wound from the arrow is un-bandaged - Merlin insisted that it needed air - and it appals me. The rough, puckered edges, the crude thread holding the skin across angry red flesh. I move to the side of the bed and reach out.
My fingers hover over the wound, almost close enough to touch. I can feel the warmth rising from the briar-like lattice of flesh and thread. I slide my fingers across your chest, combing lightly through the soft fur that covers it. I can feel your heart beating, slow, steady and strong under my fingers.
I am too far away from you and I force my hands away to pull off my own shirt. My boots and breeches are thrown into the corner of the room and I reach out again. You are velvet over strongest steel under my hands. You shift as I trace the scars along your chest and down. You shift again, wincing as the movement jolts the injury. I freeze and you mumble crossly. I brush my lips across your forehead, feeling the frown relax as I crawl cautiously onto the bed.
Your scent, your breathing, the feel of you under my hands...there is a fire burning under your slick skin and it draws me like a moth to a candle. I trace every scar I can touch, first with finger tips then my mouth. The taste of sweat and roughed ridge under my tongue starts a low flame smouldering in my own groin but I am desperate. A starving man at a banquet, I am frantic to touch, to feel your heart beat beneath my lips, to assure myself that you are here, you are alive, not cold and dead on the trestles with Lancelot and Tristan.
You moan softly and I pause, tongue flicking restlessly over the scar that cuts across your hip and down your thigh. A hand on my head makes me look up to see you looking down at me. You are flushed, blinking dazedly, and pushed up on your good elbow. I drag my tongue up along the scar, keeping our eyes locked as I draw level with your swelling cock. Your hips twist as your breath catches.
One hand trails up along your other thigh while I explore the dip under the point your hip and you cry out as I trail interested fingers along the underside, following the vein. You arch, gasping and I lift my head to smile at you. Your eyes flicker open and your mouth opens.
I turn my head and whatever you intended to say is lost in a strangled groan as I swallow you whole. I run my tongue along your flesh, savouring the taste and knowing it cannot last. You are too sensual, too easily swept away. Still groggy from sleep, you are defenceless and a gasp as the hand in my hair tightens to the point of pain signals your climax. I swallow, savouring your taste and feeling your muscles quiver under me before shifting position to lie against your uninjured side.
It takes a minute for you to rouse again and I feel your breath against my forehead. "Galahad....cariad..."
I raise my head to kiss you, silently ask-begging. You pause and I tense, afraid of....what? Rejection? Hurting you further? My confusion must be plainly obvious - even if it has been ten years since I managed to keep a secret from you. A sigh escapes into my mouth and your good arm comes up as you open your mouth, deepening the kiss. I groan and kiss you back, careful to stay on my side.
My chivalry earns me an exasperated huff and a warning nip on my lower lip. I smile into the kiss and shift so my elbows are braced on either side of your head and our legs are entwined. We break from the kiss to gasp for air and I fumble for the earthenware bottle under the bed. It is a little awkward to reach with my mouth latched on the scar across your chest and without sprawling across you. But motivation is a wondrous thing and I manage to get a grip on the bottle without breaking it.
You have recovered...enough that I can feel hot pressure against my hip as I nudge your legs apart. You are talking - a breathless litany, mingled with groans and gasps. I slide a slick finger inside you and feeling the tight heat. I am careful, unwilling to cause you further pain. My lips and free hand rove over your chest, mapping every ridge, scar and bruise. Sweat and saliva mingle making you gleam in the dim light like one of Arthur's angels. Beautiful, radiant...mine. Salty sweat, mingled with the lingering tang of blood.
You squirm under me, thigh brushing against me and making me gasp. I have three fingers inside you now and my vision is blurred. I feel like I am melting into you, fuel for the fires. You seize a fistful of hair and haul me up so we are nose-to-nose. Your eyes are glittering, sharp enough to pierce any subterfuge. Our lips collide in a hungry devouring kiss. You pull away again, leaving me gasping. Your voice is a harsh, demanding growl that makes me quiver. "Now, cariad...let me...feel you!"
I withdraw my fingers and shift to kneel between your legs. You have me enthralled, the emotion seething in your eyes. I love your eyes. Your words are guarded, measured but your eyes...your eyes tell the whole story. I push in slowly, hissing in pleasure. You are so hot, it feels like every nerve in my body has caught fire. I push in and pause. Leaning over you, staring into your eyes, your heat enveloping me and feeling your racing heartbeat against my own. I stay still as long as I can, treasuring this affirmation. Far sooner than I wish, the sensations overwhelm me and I start to thrust into you. I am too hungry to prolong it. I do manage to grasp your cock and pull you over the edge with me as the world dissolves into an explosion of stars.
When I regain some sense of my surroundings, we are sprawled among the furs in a boneless tangle. I cannot be certain where I stop and you begin. I listen to your steady breathing before a yawn nearly cracks my jaw. I pull the nearest fur over us and move closer. I can feel your heart beat. The heat from your skin has banished the chill of the death room.
We are together. We are alive. That is victory enough for me.
Pairing: Galahad/Gawain, implied Arthur/Lancelot.
Rating: Probably NC-17. Not for kiddies
Summary: Set after the battle. Sometimes we need tactile reassurance.
Author's notes: Well, this mess deserves an explaination. I was thinking about the Gawain/Galahad relationship (as seen by a totally unrepentant slasher) and trying to come up with an obvious place where I could see this two have both motive and opportunity to ...express affection. Thus the porn tribble was born....sorta. The first draft was written under the influence of anti-biotics and lost during the SP2 fiasco. I thought the tribble dead but it popped back up during the text conversations with deannawol. I started writing it again and the damn thing grew a vague plot. I whined (lots) to deannawol and very nearly chopped the whole thing off. Instead she persuaded me to finish it. I did...and have spent the entire night picking at it. It really doesn't get better.
Dedicated to deannawol who should have known better.
I stand in the shadows, rubbing my hands on my breeches. They're both slick with sweat and I can't keep my breathing steady. I keep swallowing back the sobs but I am salmartian. I am a knight! I will not weep like a woman. I will not! My skin prickles with cold sweat and my stomach heaves. I shake as if we stood again on the ice in a gale.
I cannot enter that room. Not for all the gold in the world, not with a blade at my throat, not for any man, God or cause. I can remember the simple joy of battle, yes, but I can also remember the devastation in his voice as he howled his loss to the skies. It was nothing compared to bleakness in his eyes now.
He sits on the wooden stool, without his armour. He looks...broken. I have seen him face armies...with only us to protect him yet I have never seen him like this. I have seen him as unbreakable, unflinching...inhuman. I look at the desolation in his face and am shamed by it. He holds Lancelot's hand as if it is his lifeline and stares into oblivion.
Surely it is only his honour that keeps him here. Supposedly, his God does not permit suicide but only Arthur's obligations will keep him here and he will pray that each day is his last until death comes at last. The Woad may get her wish - and her wedding - but Arthur's heart will go to the grave with his lover and dearest friend.
As suddenly as that, I know what troubles me and I slip away, leaving Arthur to his grief. I hurry deeper into the fort, past the wounded Woads and their healers. The wide eyes and hush surrounds me like a wall of ice as I hurry past them. I should stop, should take an interest...but it's too soon. They're still the enemy. I see that my given room is full but the three rooms at the end of the corridor are quiet.
I can hear Bors ...and what had better be Flora as I slip into our room. I close the door carefully and stare at the splintering, ancient wood, breath stuttering across my lips, as I try to work up the courage to turn. The drapes are drawn and the room is warm from the fire smouldering in the corner. Someone - Arthur or Bors - remembered to light candles, knowing you hate the darkness.
You murmur something and shift restlessly; a low groan and a satisfied sigh indicate you've found a comfortable position. I feel some of the tension ease at this proof you still live. You are not normally so restive but the healers warned that you might have a slight fever after they picked out the bits of leather and the arrowhead. I open my eyes - when did I close them? - and turn to look at you. My heart slows as I take in the vision before me.
The heat of the fire and your fever must have made you too hot as the sleeping furs are shoved aside and your skin glistens with a faint glaze of sweat. The candlelight turns your skin to liquid honey, smudged with shadows and bruises. I stare and wonder if it was the healer who undressed you. The wound from the arrow is un-bandaged - Merlin insisted that it needed air - and it appals me. The rough, puckered edges, the crude thread holding the skin across angry red flesh. I move to the side of the bed and reach out.
My fingers hover over the wound, almost close enough to touch. I can feel the warmth rising from the briar-like lattice of flesh and thread. I slide my fingers across your chest, combing lightly through the soft fur that covers it. I can feel your heart beating, slow, steady and strong under my fingers.
I am too far away from you and I force my hands away to pull off my own shirt. My boots and breeches are thrown into the corner of the room and I reach out again. You are velvet over strongest steel under my hands. You shift as I trace the scars along your chest and down. You shift again, wincing as the movement jolts the injury. I freeze and you mumble crossly. I brush my lips across your forehead, feeling the frown relax as I crawl cautiously onto the bed.
Your scent, your breathing, the feel of you under my hands...there is a fire burning under your slick skin and it draws me like a moth to a candle. I trace every scar I can touch, first with finger tips then my mouth. The taste of sweat and roughed ridge under my tongue starts a low flame smouldering in my own groin but I am desperate. A starving man at a banquet, I am frantic to touch, to feel your heart beat beneath my lips, to assure myself that you are here, you are alive, not cold and dead on the trestles with Lancelot and Tristan.
You moan softly and I pause, tongue flicking restlessly over the scar that cuts across your hip and down your thigh. A hand on my head makes me look up to see you looking down at me. You are flushed, blinking dazedly, and pushed up on your good elbow. I drag my tongue up along the scar, keeping our eyes locked as I draw level with your swelling cock. Your hips twist as your breath catches.
One hand trails up along your other thigh while I explore the dip under the point your hip and you cry out as I trail interested fingers along the underside, following the vein. You arch, gasping and I lift my head to smile at you. Your eyes flicker open and your mouth opens.
I turn my head and whatever you intended to say is lost in a strangled groan as I swallow you whole. I run my tongue along your flesh, savouring the taste and knowing it cannot last. You are too sensual, too easily swept away. Still groggy from sleep, you are defenceless and a gasp as the hand in my hair tightens to the point of pain signals your climax. I swallow, savouring your taste and feeling your muscles quiver under me before shifting position to lie against your uninjured side.
It takes a minute for you to rouse again and I feel your breath against my forehead. "Galahad....cariad..."
I raise my head to kiss you, silently ask-begging. You pause and I tense, afraid of....what? Rejection? Hurting you further? My confusion must be plainly obvious - even if it has been ten years since I managed to keep a secret from you. A sigh escapes into my mouth and your good arm comes up as you open your mouth, deepening the kiss. I groan and kiss you back, careful to stay on my side.
My chivalry earns me an exasperated huff and a warning nip on my lower lip. I smile into the kiss and shift so my elbows are braced on either side of your head and our legs are entwined. We break from the kiss to gasp for air and I fumble for the earthenware bottle under the bed. It is a little awkward to reach with my mouth latched on the scar across your chest and without sprawling across you. But motivation is a wondrous thing and I manage to get a grip on the bottle without breaking it.
You have recovered...enough that I can feel hot pressure against my hip as I nudge your legs apart. You are talking - a breathless litany, mingled with groans and gasps. I slide a slick finger inside you and feeling the tight heat. I am careful, unwilling to cause you further pain. My lips and free hand rove over your chest, mapping every ridge, scar and bruise. Sweat and saliva mingle making you gleam in the dim light like one of Arthur's angels. Beautiful, radiant...mine. Salty sweat, mingled with the lingering tang of blood.
You squirm under me, thigh brushing against me and making me gasp. I have three fingers inside you now and my vision is blurred. I feel like I am melting into you, fuel for the fires. You seize a fistful of hair and haul me up so we are nose-to-nose. Your eyes are glittering, sharp enough to pierce any subterfuge. Our lips collide in a hungry devouring kiss. You pull away again, leaving me gasping. Your voice is a harsh, demanding growl that makes me quiver. "Now, cariad...let me...feel you!"
I withdraw my fingers and shift to kneel between your legs. You have me enthralled, the emotion seething in your eyes. I love your eyes. Your words are guarded, measured but your eyes...your eyes tell the whole story. I push in slowly, hissing in pleasure. You are so hot, it feels like every nerve in my body has caught fire. I push in and pause. Leaning over you, staring into your eyes, your heat enveloping me and feeling your racing heartbeat against my own. I stay still as long as I can, treasuring this affirmation. Far sooner than I wish, the sensations overwhelm me and I start to thrust into you. I am too hungry to prolong it. I do manage to grasp your cock and pull you over the edge with me as the world dissolves into an explosion of stars.
When I regain some sense of my surroundings, we are sprawled among the furs in a boneless tangle. I cannot be certain where I stop and you begin. I listen to your steady breathing before a yawn nearly cracks my jaw. I pull the nearest fur over us and move closer. I can feel your heart beat. The heat from your skin has banished the chill of the death room.
We are together. We are alive. That is victory enough for me.