King Arthur Ficlet: Half Awake
Feb. 18th, 2007 12:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zTitle: Half Awake
Warnings: Explicit Slash
Notes: Quick ficlet written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b a while ago, but then I forgot about it. She gave me a prompt of “first time,” which was no doubt accompanied by her snickering. I think she might be kind of evil like that. Slightly tongue in cheek response, but mainly because my usual modus operandi is more like this, and I thought she might appreciate something slightly different. I meant to go back and edit this, but it’s not going to happen now.
Lancelot woke with a start, unsure of where he was. The heavy weight pressed against his back and over his chest nearly made him panic, but, a confused moment later, he realized that he was being held by a warm body.
It was not unusual for him to wake up with company, but this was not the type of company he usually kept. It was too big, too heavy, and the arm across Lancelot’s chest was too thick and muscular. And all too evidently male.
Lancelot took a slow, steady breath and forced himself to think past the pounding in his head. He was on a bed, which meant a room, not the stables. A soft bed too, so not the barracks. His straining eyes could make out nothing; the room was pitch black.
Cursing himself, his unknown bedmate, Bors--for who else would have goaded him into drinking so much?--the universe at large, and Rome purely on principle, Lancelot moved in a careful attempt to free himself. With any luck, the man, whoever it was, had been as drunk as Lancelot and would remember nothing. Lancelot could get away and never have to think about this again.
But as Lancelot tried to squirm free, the man behind him stirred, and Lancelot froze. The arm around him tightened and then the man murmured something, his lips feathering over the nape of Lancelot’s neck. Despite himself, Lancelot shivered, and then his eyes widened in realization.
He knew that voice.
In panic, he nearly jerked himself free of the embrace. He could be wrong. Maybe. But no. Now that he realized, he recognized Arthur’s scent, mingled with the unaccustomed musk of sex. Lancelot’s brief flare of hope that he had somehow merely fallen asleep beside Arthur died a feeble and pathetic death. There was no mistaking that scent. Nor the fact that it was bare flesh pressing against Lancelot’s own.
Bloody rutting demons bugger it! What had he done? He bit his lip, and tried to think, all too aware now of the feel of Arthur’s heavy warmth against his back. Of Arthur’s hand like a brand on his hip.
He had been drinking, that much he remembered. Had Arthur even been there? Had Lancelot propositioned him? He blinked at the idea. It was possible, he supposed. Far more imaginable than Arthur making a pass at him. The very thought nearly made him laugh hysterically and a stifled sound escaped him.
To his horror, Arthur stirred again, and Lancelot held his breath as the body behind him shifted, skin moving over skin. A hand touched Lancelot’s face, fingers tracing over Lancelot’s cheek before sliding into his hair. “Lancelot?” It was unmistakably Arthur’s voice. He sounded sleepy and not particularly surprised, or panicked, or upset, or . . . . If Lancelot did not know better, he would say that Arthur sounded . . . happy.
“Hmmph?” was all that Lancelot managed. It was apparently sufficient. Arthur moved, seemingly utterly comfortable with manhandling a naked Lancelot so that they lay face to face. Lancelot was too witless to do anything but let Arthur maneuver him as he pleased. If he had thought of it, he might have been relieved that the room was too dark for Arthur to see his expression.
Arthur’s hands continued to roam over him, lazily, without any specific intent, as though he were merely enjoying the tactile contact. Lancelot tried to think despite his aching head, suddenly queasy stomach and a feeling that was not unlike being left gaping idiotically after a blow to the head from a particularly large blunt object. And he was not distracted by the way Arthur’s hands seemed to leave a trail of shivery heat wherever they touched. No, he was not.
Honestly speaking (something, as a matter of policy, he did no where but in own head), he could not deny that he had entertained a few thoughts of this, but such fancies had always been quickly dismissed. Arthur was a Christian, and Lancelot had believed that all those sanctimonious rules would have prevented even the idea of having sex with a man from occurring to Arthur. More to the point, though, it was unthinkable for Lancelot. Arthur was a Roman and being his friend was bad enough. But to share his bed–
Lancelot gasped in surprise as callused hands slid boldly between his legs, a sound that became a helpless moan as fingers closed around him. And he had been thinking that Arthur would be ignorant of this? There was nothing inexperienced about the way Arthur’s hands moved over him, nor was there anything tentative about the mouth that captured his in a hot, probing kiss. Lancelot was helpless to resist.
This was not the Arthur that Lancelot always teased, who seemed so straight laced and . . . virginal. This was the Arthur that Lancelot knew on the battlefield. Confident. Decisive. Commanding.
It was that Arthur who had Lancelot on his back before he fully realized what had happened and whose fingers were brazenly teasing Lancelot’s opening. If Lancelot had had any doubt about what they had done earlier that night, they vanished as he realized just how sore he was, but it was not pain that made him tense when Arthur’s fingers pressed into him.
Arthur released his mouth, and his hands stilled. Arthur whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Fuck. What to say to that? Who exactly are you and what did you do with the real Arthur? Or What the fuck was I drinking last night? Or maybe, Where, by all the gods, did you learn how to do that with your hands? “My head is pounding,” he heard himself say. There was a breathlessness to his voice that took him off guard.
Arthur chuckled, a sound that Lancelot not only heard, but also felt, as it rumbled through Arthur’s chest. “I’m not surprised.” He did not even sound relieved, the self-possessed son of a bitch, only amused. What had happened last night?
Arthur moved off Lancelot and lay down on his side, but he gathered Lancelot close against him, resting his cheek comfortably against Lancelot’s hair. “Go to sleep, then.”
He seemed to fall asleep quickly enough. Bastard. Lancelot lay awake, staring at the darkness and trying to ignore the disgruntled clamoring of his body.
He had slept with Arthur. And Arthur, far from being horrified, seemed not to be so much as batting an eye. In fact, he seemed to think it would be happening again.
Lancelot was Sarmatian. He had let a Roman fuck him. Even if that Roman was Arthur, he knew what the others would be thinking. What he himself could not help thinking.
Lancelot lay awake for the rest of the night, listening to the wind howl and chewing on his lip until it bleed, but making no move to free himself from Arthur’s arms.
Warnings: Explicit Slash
Notes: Quick ficlet written for
sasha_b a while ago, but then I forgot about it. She gave me a prompt of “first time,” which was no doubt accompanied by her snickering. I think she might be kind of evil like that. Slightly tongue in cheek response, but mainly because my usual modus operandi is more like this, and I thought she might appreciate something slightly different. I meant to go back and edit this, but it’s not going to happen now.Lancelot woke with a start, unsure of where he was. The heavy weight pressed against his back and over his chest nearly made him panic, but, a confused moment later, he realized that he was being held by a warm body.
It was not unusual for him to wake up with company, but this was not the type of company he usually kept. It was too big, too heavy, and the arm across Lancelot’s chest was too thick and muscular. And all too evidently male.
Lancelot took a slow, steady breath and forced himself to think past the pounding in his head. He was on a bed, which meant a room, not the stables. A soft bed too, so not the barracks. His straining eyes could make out nothing; the room was pitch black.
Cursing himself, his unknown bedmate, Bors--for who else would have goaded him into drinking so much?--the universe at large, and Rome purely on principle, Lancelot moved in a careful attempt to free himself. With any luck, the man, whoever it was, had been as drunk as Lancelot and would remember nothing. Lancelot could get away and never have to think about this again.
But as Lancelot tried to squirm free, the man behind him stirred, and Lancelot froze. The arm around him tightened and then the man murmured something, his lips feathering over the nape of Lancelot’s neck. Despite himself, Lancelot shivered, and then his eyes widened in realization.
He knew that voice.
In panic, he nearly jerked himself free of the embrace. He could be wrong. Maybe. But no. Now that he realized, he recognized Arthur’s scent, mingled with the unaccustomed musk of sex. Lancelot’s brief flare of hope that he had somehow merely fallen asleep beside Arthur died a feeble and pathetic death. There was no mistaking that scent. Nor the fact that it was bare flesh pressing against Lancelot’s own.
Bloody rutting demons bugger it! What had he done? He bit his lip, and tried to think, all too aware now of the feel of Arthur’s heavy warmth against his back. Of Arthur’s hand like a brand on his hip.
He had been drinking, that much he remembered. Had Arthur even been there? Had Lancelot propositioned him? He blinked at the idea. It was possible, he supposed. Far more imaginable than Arthur making a pass at him. The very thought nearly made him laugh hysterically and a stifled sound escaped him.
To his horror, Arthur stirred again, and Lancelot held his breath as the body behind him shifted, skin moving over skin. A hand touched Lancelot’s face, fingers tracing over Lancelot’s cheek before sliding into his hair. “Lancelot?” It was unmistakably Arthur’s voice. He sounded sleepy and not particularly surprised, or panicked, or upset, or . . . . If Lancelot did not know better, he would say that Arthur sounded . . . happy.
“Hmmph?” was all that Lancelot managed. It was apparently sufficient. Arthur moved, seemingly utterly comfortable with manhandling a naked Lancelot so that they lay face to face. Lancelot was too witless to do anything but let Arthur maneuver him as he pleased. If he had thought of it, he might have been relieved that the room was too dark for Arthur to see his expression.
Arthur’s hands continued to roam over him, lazily, without any specific intent, as though he were merely enjoying the tactile contact. Lancelot tried to think despite his aching head, suddenly queasy stomach and a feeling that was not unlike being left gaping idiotically after a blow to the head from a particularly large blunt object. And he was not distracted by the way Arthur’s hands seemed to leave a trail of shivery heat wherever they touched. No, he was not.
Honestly speaking (something, as a matter of policy, he did no where but in own head), he could not deny that he had entertained a few thoughts of this, but such fancies had always been quickly dismissed. Arthur was a Christian, and Lancelot had believed that all those sanctimonious rules would have prevented even the idea of having sex with a man from occurring to Arthur. More to the point, though, it was unthinkable for Lancelot. Arthur was a Roman and being his friend was bad enough. But to share his bed–
Lancelot gasped in surprise as callused hands slid boldly between his legs, a sound that became a helpless moan as fingers closed around him. And he had been thinking that Arthur would be ignorant of this? There was nothing inexperienced about the way Arthur’s hands moved over him, nor was there anything tentative about the mouth that captured his in a hot, probing kiss. Lancelot was helpless to resist.
This was not the Arthur that Lancelot always teased, who seemed so straight laced and . . . virginal. This was the Arthur that Lancelot knew on the battlefield. Confident. Decisive. Commanding.
It was that Arthur who had Lancelot on his back before he fully realized what had happened and whose fingers were brazenly teasing Lancelot’s opening. If Lancelot had had any doubt about what they had done earlier that night, they vanished as he realized just how sore he was, but it was not pain that made him tense when Arthur’s fingers pressed into him.
Arthur released his mouth, and his hands stilled. Arthur whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Fuck. What to say to that? Who exactly are you and what did you do with the real Arthur? Or What the fuck was I drinking last night? Or maybe, Where, by all the gods, did you learn how to do that with your hands? “My head is pounding,” he heard himself say. There was a breathlessness to his voice that took him off guard.
Arthur chuckled, a sound that Lancelot not only heard, but also felt, as it rumbled through Arthur’s chest. “I’m not surprised.” He did not even sound relieved, the self-possessed son of a bitch, only amused. What had happened last night?
Arthur moved off Lancelot and lay down on his side, but he gathered Lancelot close against him, resting his cheek comfortably against Lancelot’s hair. “Go to sleep, then.”
He seemed to fall asleep quickly enough. Bastard. Lancelot lay awake, staring at the darkness and trying to ignore the disgruntled clamoring of his body.
He had slept with Arthur. And Arthur, far from being horrified, seemed not to be so much as batting an eye. In fact, he seemed to think it would be happening again.
Lancelot was Sarmatian. He had let a Roman fuck him. Even if that Roman was Arthur, he knew what the others would be thinking. What he himself could not help thinking.
Lancelot lay awake for the rest of the night, listening to the wind howl and chewing on his lip until it bleed, but making no move to free himself from Arthur’s arms.
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Date: 2010-02-16 09:45 pm (UTC)The place to start is
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Date: 2010-02-17 03:18 am (UTC)And this is especially fun as I'm reading in the Merlin fandom--that show is so bad, it's strangely good! *haz it bad*