King Arthur ficlet: Quest
Sep. 27th, 2006 08:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Quest
Warnings: Slash
Notes: A quick little ficlet.
Arthur’s fingers tangled in dark curls as he struggled not to pull while holding his partner’s head against himself. It was maddening, and he could not keep his hips still as he fucked the hot, generous mouth with rare abandon. It was over far too quickly, and, as he came, he cried out for the first time. A name that escaped his lips like a prayer.
It took him a moment to catch his breath afterwards. When he opened his eyes, his partner was standing. The man grinned as he wiped at his mouth, and Arthur felt a moment of furious shock. The hair was dark and curly, the form lean and tall, but the eyes were too light, too placid, the face too rounded, the mouth, even the mouth that had felt so good, too thin lipped.
And the voice, when he spoke, was utterly wrong. “That was nice, friend. Maybe I’ll see you again?”
Arthur did not respond as the man sauntered off. He fastened his breeches and clinched his belt. And then he slid to the ground, head buried in his hands. He stayed crouched for only a moment before he stood and walked out of the shadows.
Guinevere was queen of the Britons, and as such there were few things that happened in her country that she did not learn of, and fewer things in her own court that did not make it to her ears.
It was no secret to her that for years her husband had been betraying her. It happened infrequently, never with the same person twice, but these acts were betrayals nonetheless. She might have tolerated them more easily if they had been random—a hot flare of attraction for an enticing form (for men were only men after all)—but these one-time encounters had little to do with animal lust.
She was not unaware that each of her husband’s partners shared common characteristics. Tall, dark and lean, with hair that curled. The first time she had learned of Arthur’s unfaithfulness, furious and humiliated, she had sought out his lover. She had found a pale, weak imitation of that man she had known so briefly. This one had had none of that man’s coiled intensity, none of the charismatic, deadly grace that drew the eye. Nevertheless, there had been a fleeting resemblance. She, young wife and new queen, had been bent on confronting Arthur and his lover both, but after seeing her rival, had realized that this young man had not been the one that challenged her.
And she could not confront a ghost.
Before she had been either wife or a queen, Guinevere had been a warrior. Losing without a fight did not come easily to her, but she had become wise enough to know that there were some battles that could not be won, and that simply to engage in them was to lose.
So she held her peace. It was with some, perhaps unworthy, satisfaction that she saw that these encounters, far from leaving Arthur sated or pleased, left him brooding and unhappy. At first she had thought it guilt—Arthur was a Christian still, and guilt seemed to be his primary offering of worship—but time had dissuaded her of that small sop to her pride as well.
It was not guilt, it was renewed grief that had Arthur throwing himself grimly into his work after each such betrayal. But, still, as the years passed, he did not stop looking for Lancelot.
Warnings: Slash
Notes: A quick little ficlet.
Arthur’s fingers tangled in dark curls as he struggled not to pull while holding his partner’s head against himself. It was maddening, and he could not keep his hips still as he fucked the hot, generous mouth with rare abandon. It was over far too quickly, and, as he came, he cried out for the first time. A name that escaped his lips like a prayer.
It took him a moment to catch his breath afterwards. When he opened his eyes, his partner was standing. The man grinned as he wiped at his mouth, and Arthur felt a moment of furious shock. The hair was dark and curly, the form lean and tall, but the eyes were too light, too placid, the face too rounded, the mouth, even the mouth that had felt so good, too thin lipped.
And the voice, when he spoke, was utterly wrong. “That was nice, friend. Maybe I’ll see you again?”
Arthur did not respond as the man sauntered off. He fastened his breeches and clinched his belt. And then he slid to the ground, head buried in his hands. He stayed crouched for only a moment before he stood and walked out of the shadows.
Guinevere was queen of the Britons, and as such there were few things that happened in her country that she did not learn of, and fewer things in her own court that did not make it to her ears.
It was no secret to her that for years her husband had been betraying her. It happened infrequently, never with the same person twice, but these acts were betrayals nonetheless. She might have tolerated them more easily if they had been random—a hot flare of attraction for an enticing form (for men were only men after all)—but these one-time encounters had little to do with animal lust.
She was not unaware that each of her husband’s partners shared common characteristics. Tall, dark and lean, with hair that curled. The first time she had learned of Arthur’s unfaithfulness, furious and humiliated, she had sought out his lover. She had found a pale, weak imitation of that man she had known so briefly. This one had had none of that man’s coiled intensity, none of the charismatic, deadly grace that drew the eye. Nevertheless, there had been a fleeting resemblance. She, young wife and new queen, had been bent on confronting Arthur and his lover both, but after seeing her rival, had realized that this young man had not been the one that challenged her.
And she could not confront a ghost.
Before she had been either wife or a queen, Guinevere had been a warrior. Losing without a fight did not come easily to her, but she had become wise enough to know that there were some battles that could not be won, and that simply to engage in them was to lose.
So she held her peace. It was with some, perhaps unworthy, satisfaction that she saw that these encounters, far from leaving Arthur sated or pleased, left him brooding and unhappy. At first she had thought it guilt—Arthur was a Christian still, and guilt seemed to be his primary offering of worship—but time had dissuaded her of that small sop to her pride as well.
It was not guilt, it was renewed grief that had Arthur throwing himself grimly into his work after each such betrayal. But, still, as the years passed, he did not stop looking for Lancelot.
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no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 09:07 pm (UTC)And this was lovely and very very ... stupid, big dumb commander. And bitchy!guinevere is always fun to hate.
Nice to read work from you anytime hon. Well done.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 09:22 pm (UTC)I actually felt kind of sorry for A here (shocking, I know). He's made a mess of it and now he's dealing with the aftermath.
And as much as I don't like Guin, she's actually kind of fun to write.
Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2006-09-28 01:20 am (UTC)I'm slowly in the process of rewriting the first chapter I ever did of lbts *groan* so it fits the world I created better. We'll have to see how that goes.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-28 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-28 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-29 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-29 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-29 11:51 pm (UTC)