Fic: Raw
Title: Raw
Author/Artist: Ashley
Fandom: King Arthur
Claim: Arthur x Lancelot
Theme List: one
Theme: #25, SEX NOW
Rating: NC17
Description: language, slash. Arthur's wanting, and Lancelot's willing to provide.
Disclaimer: This incarnation of the King Arthur myth does not belong to me. *sob*
Feedback would be loved.
For 30sexyfics challenge comm.
The sound of boots ringing on the stone covered ground was the only warning he had, and just as Lancelot was reaching for his boot-sheathed dagger, he was unceremoniously shoved against the hard brick of the wall in front of him.
He fought like an animal, his heels digging into the shins of the man behind him and his elbows poking into soft flesh, until he managed to understand some of the words that were being whispered harshly to him.
He relaxed and allowed his feet to touch the floor, even as hands were roaming over his bare back and leather covered arse.
“Arthur,” he growled, face scraping against the wall, “what in Mithras’ name are you -” he stiffened when Arthur’s firm flesh pressed against him.
“This is hardly the time, or the place,” he said lazily, rolling his eyes. Arthur’s mouth was at his neck, the lips warm and insistant. The Roman’s knee was resting between Lancelot’s thighs, just south of his groin, and Lancelot could feel Arthur’s arousal against the back of his leg.
“Let me touch you,” came the reply, breathy and moist at Lancelot’s ear. Despite himself, he shivered.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he argued, turning his head as far to the side as he could, trying to see Arthur’s face. The other man raised a hand and grasped Lancelot’s chin, pushing him around again so he couldn’t get a glimpse of Arthur’s expression.
“Arthur, you arse,” Lancelot added, the hair on his body standing up - along with his own arousal - at the sound of Arthur unbuckling his belt, and the rustle of the Roman’s leather trews being shoved down. He felt hands at his laces and sighed resignedly.
Arthur wasn’t usually one for public displays, but it had been a few weeks, and Lancelot was tired of the new serving girl Vanora had brought in from Eboracum.
And Lancelot had the inklings of an idea on just how to get back at Arthur later.
Forcing Arthur to slow - an elbow to the guts took care of that - Lancelot turned ‘round so he was face to face with the other man, proudly not tripping over his lowered trousers.
Arthur looked bad. Exhausted, worn out, dirty, and oh so wanting.
Shaking his head, Lancelot kicked one leg free of his leathers and grasped Arthur around the neck, raising his leg to wind close to Arthur’s thigh. “Finish it, then,” he sighed, liking to sound put upon.
Arthur didn’t answer; his body was hard and large and Lancelot winced and gasped unintentionally. The other man’s lips were on his pulse, and Arthur pulled away to meet Lancelot’s gaze, his flesh stilled inside Lancelot momentarily.
“I-I’m sor-” he began, but Lancelot caught his mouth up in a bruising kiss, shutting Arthur’s apology up.
The other man quickly began to move, and Lancelot, despite the spiralling pain that echoed through his spine, clung tighter to Arthur and allowed the Roman’s thrusts and the grip of his hand on Lancelot’s flesh to spin him away from the mundanity of his life. Of this life.
Arthur’s teeth were latched onto one of Lancelot’s nipples, and Lancelot’s fingers were spasming in Arthur’s hair, his name hissing out with each of Lancelot’s forced exhalations. Lancelot’s arse was scraping against the brick, and he was sure to have new bruises on his back come morning.
He bit Arthur’s jaw, wanting to leave the other man with his own mark.
A groan rolled out of Arthur, and he lifted his head, his hazy green eyes burning through Lancelot’s brown ones, so Lancelot kissed him again, not kindly, his tongue delving as deep as it could go into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s hand squeezed his erection once more - and Lancelot saw stars, planets, and lost what little oxygen he had left.
He felt the warm rush of liquid from Arthur a moment later, the other man moaning softly and his hips stuttering unevenly with his release. He held onto Lancelot for a few heart-stopping moments - his hands clenching and unclenching against Lancelot’s back, now sweaty and torn from the brick of the wall.
Arthur at last let Lancelot unwind, pulling his body out quickly, which made Lancelot breathe sharply and curse against Arthur’s throat.
They stayed locked together, Lancelot not wanting to lose Arthur’s warmth or musk, now combined with his own. He was rather obscenely proud of that.
A conscript couldn’t own much in his world. He owned Arthur.
He wasn’t ashamed of it, either.
The Roman pulled away from him, tugged up his trousers and buckled his sword belt, biting at his lip, refusing to meet Lancelot’s eyes.
“You can look at me, Arthur,” Lancelot snarked. “I’m not going to hit you - or absolve you of this ‘sin.’”
Arthur perused him briefly, eyes darkening at the sight of the bite marks on Lancelot’s chest. He ran a finger lightly over them.
“I - will I see you later?”
Lancelot barked a laugh. “If that is what you desire, commander.”
Arthur didn’t answer; he merely gave wounded eyes to Lancelot and moved off into the darkness.
Lancelot followed his dark head as far as he could see it, then leaned heavily against the brick. He pulled up his own trousers and laced them.
A figure detached itself from the corner and slunk to him.
“Is he always that fast?”
A wry twist of Lancelot’s mouth. “On the good days, no.”
Tristan eyed Lancelot sideways, then shrugged. “You love him, I suppose.”
Lancelot glared at the scout, then sighed. Those particular eyes were harder sometimes for Lancelot to meet than Arthur’s hurt and liquid ones. “Leave it to you to make it that plain, Tristan.”
Tristan shrugged again, and meandered off, tossing one comment back over his shoulder.
“Don’t waste it, then.”
He was gone faster than Arthur had been.
“Fuck,” Lancelot spat, and found the tunic he had set aside, tugging it on. The scrapes on his back hurt, and his arse was sore, and his nipple throbbed from where Arthur had sucked at it.
“Waste it, indeed,” he muttered. He picked up the twin swords he’d been sharpening before Arthur had interrupted him, and decided he’d follow Tristan’s advice.
On the way to Arthur’s quarters, he passed the armory, but didn’t stop to put away his weapons.
~
Author/Artist: Ashley
Fandom: King Arthur
Claim: Arthur x Lancelot
Theme List: one
Theme: #25, SEX NOW
Rating: NC17
Description: language, slash. Arthur's wanting, and Lancelot's willing to provide.
Disclaimer: This incarnation of the King Arthur myth does not belong to me. *sob*
Feedback would be loved.
For 30sexyfics challenge comm.
The sound of boots ringing on the stone covered ground was the only warning he had, and just as Lancelot was reaching for his boot-sheathed dagger, he was unceremoniously shoved against the hard brick of the wall in front of him.
He fought like an animal, his heels digging into the shins of the man behind him and his elbows poking into soft flesh, until he managed to understand some of the words that were being whispered harshly to him.
He relaxed and allowed his feet to touch the floor, even as hands were roaming over his bare back and leather covered arse.
“Arthur,” he growled, face scraping against the wall, “what in Mithras’ name are you -” he stiffened when Arthur’s firm flesh pressed against him.
“This is hardly the time, or the place,” he said lazily, rolling his eyes. Arthur’s mouth was at his neck, the lips warm and insistant. The Roman’s knee was resting between Lancelot’s thighs, just south of his groin, and Lancelot could feel Arthur’s arousal against the back of his leg.
“Let me touch you,” came the reply, breathy and moist at Lancelot’s ear. Despite himself, he shivered.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he argued, turning his head as far to the side as he could, trying to see Arthur’s face. The other man raised a hand and grasped Lancelot’s chin, pushing him around again so he couldn’t get a glimpse of Arthur’s expression.
“Arthur, you arse,” Lancelot added, the hair on his body standing up - along with his own arousal - at the sound of Arthur unbuckling his belt, and the rustle of the Roman’s leather trews being shoved down. He felt hands at his laces and sighed resignedly.
Arthur wasn’t usually one for public displays, but it had been a few weeks, and Lancelot was tired of the new serving girl Vanora had brought in from Eboracum.
And Lancelot had the inklings of an idea on just how to get back at Arthur later.
Forcing Arthur to slow - an elbow to the guts took care of that - Lancelot turned ‘round so he was face to face with the other man, proudly not tripping over his lowered trousers.
Arthur looked bad. Exhausted, worn out, dirty, and oh so wanting.
Shaking his head, Lancelot kicked one leg free of his leathers and grasped Arthur around the neck, raising his leg to wind close to Arthur’s thigh. “Finish it, then,” he sighed, liking to sound put upon.
Arthur didn’t answer; his body was hard and large and Lancelot winced and gasped unintentionally. The other man’s lips were on his pulse, and Arthur pulled away to meet Lancelot’s gaze, his flesh stilled inside Lancelot momentarily.
“I-I’m sor-” he began, but Lancelot caught his mouth up in a bruising kiss, shutting Arthur’s apology up.
The other man quickly began to move, and Lancelot, despite the spiralling pain that echoed through his spine, clung tighter to Arthur and allowed the Roman’s thrusts and the grip of his hand on Lancelot’s flesh to spin him away from the mundanity of his life. Of this life.
Arthur’s teeth were latched onto one of Lancelot’s nipples, and Lancelot’s fingers were spasming in Arthur’s hair, his name hissing out with each of Lancelot’s forced exhalations. Lancelot’s arse was scraping against the brick, and he was sure to have new bruises on his back come morning.
He bit Arthur’s jaw, wanting to leave the other man with his own mark.
A groan rolled out of Arthur, and he lifted his head, his hazy green eyes burning through Lancelot’s brown ones, so Lancelot kissed him again, not kindly, his tongue delving as deep as it could go into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s hand squeezed his erection once more - and Lancelot saw stars, planets, and lost what little oxygen he had left.
He felt the warm rush of liquid from Arthur a moment later, the other man moaning softly and his hips stuttering unevenly with his release. He held onto Lancelot for a few heart-stopping moments - his hands clenching and unclenching against Lancelot’s back, now sweaty and torn from the brick of the wall.
Arthur at last let Lancelot unwind, pulling his body out quickly, which made Lancelot breathe sharply and curse against Arthur’s throat.
They stayed locked together, Lancelot not wanting to lose Arthur’s warmth or musk, now combined with his own. He was rather obscenely proud of that.
A conscript couldn’t own much in his world. He owned Arthur.
He wasn’t ashamed of it, either.
The Roman pulled away from him, tugged up his trousers and buckled his sword belt, biting at his lip, refusing to meet Lancelot’s eyes.
“You can look at me, Arthur,” Lancelot snarked. “I’m not going to hit you - or absolve you of this ‘sin.’”
Arthur perused him briefly, eyes darkening at the sight of the bite marks on Lancelot’s chest. He ran a finger lightly over them.
“I - will I see you later?”
Lancelot barked a laugh. “If that is what you desire, commander.”
Arthur didn’t answer; he merely gave wounded eyes to Lancelot and moved off into the darkness.
Lancelot followed his dark head as far as he could see it, then leaned heavily against the brick. He pulled up his own trousers and laced them.
A figure detached itself from the corner and slunk to him.
“Is he always that fast?”
A wry twist of Lancelot’s mouth. “On the good days, no.”
Tristan eyed Lancelot sideways, then shrugged. “You love him, I suppose.”
Lancelot glared at the scout, then sighed. Those particular eyes were harder sometimes for Lancelot to meet than Arthur’s hurt and liquid ones. “Leave it to you to make it that plain, Tristan.”
Tristan shrugged again, and meandered off, tossing one comment back over his shoulder.
“Don’t waste it, then.”
He was gone faster than Arthur had been.
“Fuck,” Lancelot spat, and found the tunic he had set aside, tugging it on. The scrapes on his back hurt, and his arse was sore, and his nipple throbbed from where Arthur had sucked at it.
“Waste it, indeed,” he muttered. He picked up the twin swords he’d been sharpening before Arthur had interrupted him, and decided he’d follow Tristan’s advice.
On the way to Arthur’s quarters, he passed the armory, but didn’t stop to put away his weapons.
~