The first time they slept together, neither of them uttered a word.
The marriage had gone unconsummated for months by that point. There was talk in court that the king was hoping to return her to Carmelide, and gentlemen and gentlewomen alike waited for such a thing with batted breath, some with purer intents than others. He had assured his wife he had no such plans, but until he bedded her, those are nothing but words.
Guinevere had been pacing around in the Round Table room, devoid of any of its usual occupants, thinking mostly alone about the next upcoming strategies needed to protect Camelot. They were in a vulnerable situation compared to its bordering nations, the Empire loomed large and every precaution to avoid the materialization of her vision was a worthy effort.
However, it is not always that she can have things her way, and she and the king were bickering over how they should proceed. She is not quite sure how exactly it happened, but the handsome man came closer, for the first time invading her personal space. She does not know what came over her, but her body naturally leaned into his. Her eyes closed for a second, mind on overdrive as it concentrated on his heartbeat, the heat in his body, the smell of sandalwood in his clothes.
His face was close, licking his lips in the darkness as if he was getting ready to speak before she pressed her lips onto him, effectively rendering him silent. With that, suddenly, she was hoisted on the table, his mouth grazing every inch of skin with newfound urgency.
The queen can still remember touching her lips afterwards, tingling with the ghost of his memory, that, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel it happening as if it has been but a moment ago. She remembered her heart beating quickly, threatening to burst at the seams. She remembered the heat flare coming from the depths of her sex.
This had been just the first time, there had been plenty of experiences afterwards, plenty of moments of passion and longing. She could not quite recall all the other times where they were tangled with each other, but it was a cycle that neither could break and nobody wanted to acknowledge, never addressing it head-on, never putting a name to it. Their marriage continues of convenience, and to the court and the Church, she is still pure.
Guinevere wagers this is fear. Or perhaps His Majesty wants to preserve the liaisons she never really attested with her own eyes, but that the noble ladies of court all say they have spent a night in a bed where his wife is not welcome.
Now, separated for weeks on end due to a skirmish at the border, once they had finally reunited, they both ignored each other.
Not that this achieved anything. They were both so attuned with each other, almost like if their relationship had been written in the stars. Every thought, every movement, every fibre of their being were keenly intertwined. If they were to ever push, the other would pull back. They did not even have to make a sound, almost like an ancient drive forced them to be bonded together. However, not a word was ushered between them again, aside from forced proximity due to meetings or their performance for the Yule feast.
He had returned to her once more in the late hours of the night, sneaking into her chambers, always her chambers. She was hyper-aware of him as she pried her eyes open, her mind snapping out of her dreams. She sat up, pushing the covers off and peered up.
He was fixated on her, eyes staring directly into hers in nothing but the pale moonlight. The knot at the top of his washed chemise is undone, golden hair tousled, unlike his normal neat image.
There was a look in his eyes that she had seen many times before in men like this, a look of desire, power and need. None of them, however, was quite as intense as his. It was like looking into the blackness of a bottomless well, so far down that it could reflect a sky full of stars. Like two sapphires that held on them the future of humanity, and, in a sense, she supposes they are.
There it was again, the tantalizing and dangerous allure of the King of Camelot.
Guinevere sighed heavily, the sense of disquietude flaring as the uncertainty of what to do grew. All the silent words, lingering stares, the sleepless nights filled with soft moans and unspoken promises. What did they mean? What did he want them to mean?
Because she knew what she wanted. Her every thought was of him. She wanted more than just secret nights between silk sheets.
"What is it?" She finally asked.
The cold from the winter slowly seeped into her bones, but maybe that was his doing. After all, his shadows loved to watch her greedily.
His face was twisted in longing, an expression she is not used to seeing. She wanted to reach out for him, but she instead forced herself to remain seated.
Her eyes close in slight annoyance when he makes no move to speak. Rather, she concentrated on his striding footsteps. With each step, her chest rose and fell rapidly, getting a sense of his intention. The bed dipped and his hand cupped her chin to tilt her head up to stare at him directly.
Countless deaths and blood laid on his hands, and yet his hands are scrubbed clean, free of blood. Guinevere watched him kill multiple men with a single flick of his wrist and watched the splatter of blood hit his face. However, with his murderous being, stained with lives haunting him and burdened by perpetual lifetimes, he worshipped her tenderly like she was a precious jewel.
"Your Majesty…"
"My name." He said, stilted. "Please, my name is Arthur."
His speech was slightly broken as if he had never told anyone to call him by his name before. Maybe he had not.
Her breath hitched.
"Arthur…" She tried, testing his name on her tongue. "I have always thought it is such an ordinary name for such a legendary king."
He breathed out, mimicking a half-hearted chuckle. "I am sorry to disappoint."
His hand moved, knuckles brushing against her cheek before cupping the side of her face. Everything about him, his touch, his exotic perfume, his lips, was insurrectionary, making her want to surrender to temptation.
"Speak my name." He commanded.
There was a pleading tone that bleed into his voice. Guinevere could not deny him.
"Arthur."
He leaned in closer. "Again."
"Arthur."
Finally, it earned her a soft peck to her lips.
"Arthur."
Another peck. And another.
"Arthur…"
Then it prolongs, turning into heated kisses as she finds herself melting into his touch. Everything about him was cold, freezing, but his lips were warm and inviting, almost sultry.
To Arthur, her voice was hypnotizing, laced in spun gold and made an ache break loose in his chest, basking in her warmth. He felt his heart patch over with the inexplicable glow of sunlight, replacing the loneliness that had drilled so deeply within him for so many years.
Whenever it was her, he felt consumed with uncontrollable longing and need.
They take their time and Arthur lets her lead. One of his hands snakes around her waist, pulling her flush against him while the other supports the back of her neck. Her fingers ran up his chest, before threading through his hair.
"My love." He moans into the kiss. "Tell me what you want."
"Please…"
"Please what?" He pulls back from her lips reluctantly.
Her breath hitches. "Please, I need you. Now."
"Dearest…" He coos, ignoring her requisition entirely. "Repeat that?"
Bastard. Guinevere clicks her tongue.
Arthur chuckles at her reaction. His lips brush against the column of her neck, fingers gliding over the fine silk of her red nightgown before looping beneath her ribbon straps, pushing them off her shoulder. Her breasts were exposed, nipples hardening from the cool air.
His hand shoots to knead her breast, and she has to hold back a gasp as his fingers, littered in silver rings, brushes over her nipple. After a particularly hard swipe, her body twitches as his thumb rubs incessant circles over the sensitive nub, similar to how he would play with her clit.
"I love it when you beg." The king mused.
The fact that his wife wore red made him tick further. He never wanted to see anyone in the royal colours until her. A wrapped, perfect present just for him.
His kisses until that point were gentle, but he pressed a particularly hard one, laced in possession before laying her flat on her back. He positioned himself on top of her, hands pinning her wrist to the bed.
"I missed you." A kiss and he is suddenly vulnerable again. "I thought about you every day, wife."
Her heart ached, and she smiled softly. "I have missed you too."
Arthur dips his head, burying his face in her chest meanwhile his tongue continues to lap at her nipple, swirling it around with his tongue, then sucking. His free hand finds itself between her legs as he rubs her clothed clit, spreading her legs wide.
Guinevere buckles in his hold from the feather-like touch, but he is so strong that she hardly budges out from him. She is already dripping and she can feel him smile against her skin.
"So pretty, aren't you? Always desperate for my touch." He chuckled.
Impatient, Arthur slides down her underwear. He rubs slow circles on her clit and he is more than pleased to hear the little sighs and moans that leave her, each louder than the next.
He moves to hover back over her face, letting her hands free as he is too busy devouring her lips. He pressed a leg between her legs and her hips to move involuntarily, grinding on the fabric of his trousers.
The man finally relents, pulling back as he descends across her body, nestling himself between her thighs. Her glistening folds sparkle in the starlight. It feels like he is examining her and embarrassment flares until he blows cool air to her entrance, placing a tentative kitten lick. He finally wrapped his lips around her clit, fingers gliding through her slit.
He groans, sending vibrations through her pussy. One hand flew to grip his hair, the other cupping her breast.
"Arthur…" Guinevere moans sweetly.
It causes a chain reaction, setting something deep within him to crack. He holds her in place, unable to move while his finger slid through her fluttering hole as he pushed in. He sucks harshly against her, fingers pumping quickly.
He slipped in another finger and the woman felt her skin heat. Having him still clad in his formal attire gives him an edge, leaving her completely exposed or his eyes to feast on her.
Arthur groans loudly while he feels Guinevere cum on his tongue, listening to her shuddery whines. It flooded his senses, and all he could do was watch, wanting to imprint the memory into his mind forever. Her moans, resounded by pleasure, sound like music to him. He only pulls away when she's left trembling.
He rids himself of his chemise, exposing white chest sculped like marble to the elements.
"Do you want my cock?" He taunts slightly, but subsequently frowns when she does not respond, still too dazed from her high.
"What, now you can't speak?" He insists.
Arthur undid his trousers, reaching to take his cock in hand, stroking himself languidly.
"Want you." She sounded sweet, smooth like honey and he cannot help but indulge in her more.
She lets out a whimper of pain at the stretch as he enters her. His lips claim hers, drinking in every sound, feeling him sink in inch by inch.
"So good for me. Taking me so well..." He praises.
Guinevere moans as he hits a spot so deep inside her that it feels delicious. His movements are so controlled and precise, and it is clear he is going to take his time, milking every second.
She drags her hands down his back, nails digging in, leaving red scratches in their wake. She has never felt so full before.
One hard thrust had her slapping a hand over her mouth, making her choke on a moan.
Arthur frowns, ripping her hand away. "I need to hear you, my love. How else will I know you are feeling good?"
Something was different, very unlike the other times. She exploded him thoroughly before. She has taken him in her mouth, on her knees; fingers clawing his hand, trashing either on top or beneath him…
This time, however, it felt intimate, full of an yearning from his end. The understanding caused an electric sensation to fill her body.
His hands grip her jaw, turning her head to look at him with some brutality.
"Say it." His voice was low, nothing more than a whisper but it came out as an underlying threat that sent shivers up her spine. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you." She says for the first time, and she means it wholeheartedly.
"Yeah?"
Arthur could feel his treacherous heart exploding into blazing white light and eyes softened by her words. He slows his pace significantly, fingers rubbing circles on her clit that has her crying. Adjusting his position slightly, he pressed his chest against her, his cock unremitting.
Something takes over Guinevere and she shouts, "Of course! I love you. Love you, love you!"
His heart clenches together from her eagerness. He leant forward, teeth grazing her bottom lip, nibbling until pressing a searing kiss against her. His pace picked back up.
He bites and kisses her neck, furiously rubbing her clit. The way she clenches around him has his head thrown back, panting and looking down at her with a gaze so warm, idolatry, that it could set the sun ablaze.
"I love you, too, my dearest wife." He smiles widely.
Arthur means it like he had never meant anything before. Guinevere was almost a prayer, a mirage he thought he could never touch, never quite grasp. Alas, here they were, colliding with one another.
She is his.