Arthur fucks Gwen wearing full armour
He comes bursting through the doors to their chamber, dirty, bloodied, tired. Ragged. His chainmail is battered and rent, his tunic surely torn beneath it. His armor is dirty and dented, and there is mud on his boots. His prized sword hangs from his gloved hand.
She gasps, tears immediately erupting from her eyes as she rushes to him, leaping into his arms, caring not one bit if she soils her beautiful burgundy gown. It could be ruined beyond repair, and she wouldn't care one bit.
He is home. They said he was near death, that he was struck by an almost-assuredly-fatal blow.
But he is home.
Her husband is home.
He crushes her to him, dropping his sword to the floor with a clatter as his arms wrap around her, groping, grasping. Making sure she is real.
His lips are on hers now, crushing, forceful. She gives back in kind, full of just as much need.
A sweet reunion full of whispered words and soft, gentle caresses will come later.
He backs her up against the door. She barely notices the hard wood when her back hits it. Her hands clutch his face, they rake through his hair, they slide on the metal plates of armor at his shoulder.
Her hands drop down, purposefully pushing past the chainmail, under it, searching for the ties holding his trousers together.
He merely grunts his approval, gathering her heavy skirts up, searching for the treasure beneath while his lips reacquaint themselves with the skin of her neck, her breasts.
Freed, he hoists her into his arms and she clings to his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist as he plunges into her with no preamble whatsoever, encasing his shaft in her soaking wet sheath.
He groans, low and long; she cries out with desire as he fills her, again and again he fills her, hard and urgent. Needful. Desperate.
If they could climb completely inside one another, they would.
He drills her against the door, occasionally banging into it, causing the wood to creak in protest. People pass in the corridor and pretend not to hear the rhythmic creaking of the doors or the passionate cries of their queen.
He scoops his arms under her knees, his fingers clutching the fabric of her bunched-up skirts behind her, and leans into her, pounding harder still.
Veins bulge on the side of his neck with the effort. She kisses them. She absorbs his passion and returns it, not even noticing the bite of the chainmail behind her knees, the hard edge of the armor as it scrapes her collarbone.
She rides him and rides with him, as lost in him as he is in her, and they both climb to the pinnacle together, soaring, floating, finally exploding in a shower of sparks.
Together, they slowly sink to the floor, wrapped in each others' arms, forehead to forehead. Breathing. Kissing. Weeping. Holding.
He is home.