What's been driving me nuts? Not being able to share in all the speculative excitement. I'm so phobic about getting spoiled at this point that I've decided to just ignore a lot of what's being talked about with the trailer and what's to come. I can't even read the fic that's showing up in my flist because it seems like all the A/G shippers want to write about is...you guessed it, the trailer. There's even a whole spec fic fest going on that I can't look at.
So I went back to the last fest I watched, the Get Arthur and Gwen laid campaign, and remembered, "Hey, I wrote something for that I can finally put in my LJ."
Because see, I wrote it anonymously. I might have written a ton of Spuffy fic, but honestly, I feel like such a newbie with the A/G people that I'm more than a little intimidated. My little ficlet over there was only the third A/G piece I've ever done, and I'm still feeling my way around the characters. It's not like it was with Spike living in my brain, lol.
Which is all just one big long-winded, whiny way of saying, I'm posting a ficlet tonight. :)
RATING: NC17 (though it's a very light NC17)
LENGTH: 1150 words
SUMMARY: Written for the Get Arthur and Gwen laid prompt: Arthur's head under Gwen's skirts.
Her skin taunts him. He catches glimpses at the most inopportune moments, like when she drops a curtsey in the throne room and all he can see is the uppermost swell of her breasts, or turning when someone calls her name and exposing the delicate line of her neck. Her new dress only makes it worse, but then again, he had known when he suggested it to Morgana as a gift exactly how delectable Gwen’s skin would appear next to the pale pink shade.
Now, when his thoughts linger on Gwen, she always wears the dress he selected. It’s his favorite obsession. The only thing that would make it better is if she knew he was the one who wanted to see her in it.
He wakes one morning, hard and aching, because dreams of Gwen twirling away from him in that damnable dress have tormented him all night. He jerks off, but coming is merely a release, unsatisfying, and he’s still mostly erect afterward when he’s fighting with his clothes that seem to have taken on a mind of their own. Merlin simply rolls his eyes at him when his ill temper continues through breakfast, and Arthur bolts for freedom as soon as he can, ready to take out his frustrations on the men hoping to become knights.
Except, as soon as he rounds the first corner toward the courtyard, he spies Gwen.
In the pink dress.
Humming. Smiling. With sunshine from the windows at the end of the hall gilding her skin until it shone.
He stops. She doesn’t. Halfway down the corridor, she finally looks up and sees him, her smile widening and deepening at the same time.
“Good morning, sire,” she says, so softly he has to strain to hear her.
Her cheeks have a faint flush in them. For the morning, for her work, for him…he has no idea. He only knows the pink highlights the contrast between her skin and the dress, and all his intentions vanish in the face of his need.
With long, purposeful strides, he meets her halfway and grasps her wrist. Her startled gasp holds no fear, though beneath his fingertips, her pulse flutters like a bird attempting to escape its cage. If he was in his right mind, he’d release her.
If he was in his right mind, he never would have pulled her into the nearest alcove in the first place.
He stifles the sound of his title with the press of his mouth to hers, unable to play the part of the honorable prince any longer. He wants her, like he’s wanted her for days, weeks, months, lifetimes, and this time, he cannot stop from taking what he’s craved, what has tormented him to distraction. His tongue delves past her pliant lips, curling around hers, while his free hand catches her skirt and slowly begins to hike it up.
“Arthur,” she breathes when he nips at the tender corner of her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t tell me to stop.” He might be begging. When his fingertips graze across the hot skin of her thigh, he knows he’ll do even more than that if that’s what it takes.
“I don’t care.”
Her nostrils flare, and hot breath fans across his cheek. Though the bunch of her skirt prevents him from full contact, he feels her body shift. The back of her hand brushes against his throbbing cock, but all too fleeting to be anything but coincidental, and the other side of her skirt joins the section Arthur holds.
Their eyes meet. Hers have gone black with lust, and the muscles tremble against his knuckles where he holds her dress out of his way. The tip of her tongue appears, painting the center of her upper lip, and he stares at her mouth, wondering how he’s managed to stay away from her this long.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
He sinks to his knees. Anybody might come along. Anybody might see. But with his desires so damnably close, he gives up any pretense at caring.
He has to let go of her dress to smooth his palms up the strong column of her leg, but the trade is more than worth it. Her skin burns, him, her, hotter than anything he could have imagined. The heat swells even further as her skirt falls around his shoulders, enveloping him in the swelter of her flesh. Beads of perspiration pop on his brow, mirroring the moisture prickling his mouth, and he leans forward to nuzzle the velvety skin of her inner thigh.
Gwen makes a sound, but her dress muffles it. Against his cheek, she quivers, and a fresh scent fills his nose.
His cock presses painfully against his pants. He wants her, to bury himself inside her tight pussy, but the watering of his mouth is far more urgent, and he is not about to deny himself when she is only inches away.
He begins with a single lick. Starting at the top of her knee, he drags his tongue upward, tasting every bit of sweat, of salt, of delicious skin he can. It would be better if he could see, but he can still taste, and smell, and touch, and hear the muted whimpers Gwen can’t contain as he gets closer and closer to the junction of her thighs. Hands press down against his shoulders through her skirt, keeping him in place. He wants to laugh. Like there is anyplace else he’d rather be.
Especially when he sucks at the delicate sinew and absorbs her heartbeat into his own.
Footsteps echo from far away, and the slim fingers that had been holding him down disappear. “Arthur!” she hisses, and tugs at her dress, shattering his sanctuary with new light and cool.
He barely has time to straighten, to swipe the back of his hand across his mouth – not to scrub away the evidence but to rub it in since he has no idea when he’ll get it again. Then, there is his father, long strides sure as he discusses some matter of court with Gaius at his side, nodding at Arthur as he passes by.
Arthur nods back. All he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears, the tick of every second he’s not touching Gwen thudding in time with his pulse. He waits only as long as he must before turning back to her to continue what they both wanted.
She’s gone. He looks down the hall to see her disappearing around the corner, on her way to Morgana’s room.
Instincts scream at him to take chase. Rationale stops him.
He’s had a taste. He’ll have another. Soon.
A hunter knows when to go slow.
And when to strike.