Ashes, Prayers and Promises
folder
G through L › King Arthur
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
5,445
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › King Arthur
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
5,445
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own King Arthur, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
AShes, Prayers and Promises
Title: Ashes, Prayers and Promises
Author: shimmer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Threesome, mild violence
Summary: Arthur is torm between his loyatly to his men and his newfound loyalty to the Britons and to Guenivere.
Feddback: would be heavenly :-)
email: lakshmi242003@yahoo.com
Chapter 1/2
Guenivere and Merlin faded back into the mists; but Guenivere’s parting words lingered, troubling Arthur more than he cared to admit. If he hated the Britons so much, then why was he so intent on saving them? And why, too, did the image of Guenivere’s dark beauty intrude on his thoughts in thvil vil time?
There was a gentle touch at his back and he turned. Lancelot’s expression was unreadable, cold, like the snow that dusted the knight’s black curls. He stepped closer to Arthur and the other man let him, grateful for the knight’s warmth.
“Don’t listen to them, Arthur. This is no more your land than it is mine.”
Oh, Lancelot, Arthur thought as the knight took the liberty of circling an arm around his captain’s waist. Of all his men, Lancelot was the most difficult, the most complex, and the one who commanded his deepest loyalty. And from the start of this last, suicidal mission for Rome, the dark knight had been like a thorn in Arthur‘s side, arguing with him, questioning his orders, probing his heart and exposing his doubts.
Lancelot looked him in the eyes and then glanced at the wall of trees where the two Britons had vanished. “Don’t let yourself be distracted by a pretty face,” he murmured tilting his head to the side.
Arthur raised a brow, “You mean as long as it’s not your own?” That brought the ghost of a smile to Lancelot’s lips as Arthur pulled the knight to him and kissed him lightly.
“You don’t belong here,” Lanc whi whispered gently into Arthur’s neck. “You belong with us, with your knights.” Both of his hands were at Arthur’s sword belt now. “You belong *to* us.”
Arthur blinked snow out of his eyes. What Lancelot said was true; he belonged to his men more than he could ever belong to a woman, a cause, or even to a land. He tangled his fingers into Lancelot’s curls as the man knelt in the snow before him. He sword belt, and Excalibur with it, fell to the frozen ground.
At moments like this, when battle was immanent, or afterward, when his hands were still stained with the blood of the enemy, his desire for Lancelot could become all-consuming. He gasped aloud when Lancelot exposed his hard flesh to the freezing air.
The knight waited, one hand lightly caressing Arthur’s balls, his pretty face turned upward into the snow.
“Don’t tease me, Lancelot.”
“You can order me to pleasure you, Arthur.”
The thought sent a surge of blood to Arthur’s groin, but he refused to be baited. Lancelot was playing a nasty game now, angry with Arthur for his interest in Guenivere and for his weakness toward the Britons.
“You can order me.” He repeated, and Arthur could feel his hot breath misting over him. “After all, I’m not a free man yet.”
“You will be free; I promised you that,” Arthur growled, tightening his grip on his knight’s hair.
“Promises, promises . . .What will you promise her, Arthur?” Lancelot asked, touching the tip of his tongue to Arthur’s member. “What will you promise her when she is on her knees?”
Arthur growled in frustration, “Either do it and be done, or leave me. I won’t--I can’t fight with you anymore, Lancelot.”
The knight looked at Arthur for another minute before finally taking the other man deep in his mouth. He used tongue and lips and teeth to make Arthur moan above him, but it was really the sight of Lancelot kneeling in the snow, his cheeks hollow with suction and his lips red and wet, that brought Arthur to the edge and then over it.
He wasn’t satisfied, though. Far from it. He felt a strange urgency, something driving him, as he led a more compliant Lancelot back to the tree where he had been sleeping. He sat and pulled Lancelot back against him as they settled against his saddle. Then Arthur draped his red cloak over them.
They sat there for a time, listening to the snow fall in the forest, with Arthur propped comfortably against his saddle and Lancelot seated between his legs, leaning heavily against his chest. The knight was letting his hands drift gently up and down Arthur’s thighs where they caged him in, moving once in a while to rub himself back against Arthur’s renewed arousal.
Arthur put his hand Lan Lancelot’s upper arms to still him, and rested his face in the crook of the knight’s neck, nuzzling and nipping at the cool skin there. Lancelot let his head fall to the side, baring his throat to Arthur’s mouth and arching his back in pleasure. “Will you take me, Arthur?” he asked. “Will you take me where she could see?”
Arthur dropped one of his hands to Lancelot’s crotch and squeezed. “I’m tired of talking about Guenivere. I’m tired of talking, tired of praying, tiof fof fighting.”
Lancelot, hearing the weariness in Arthur’s voice gave in; and Arthur could feel it. The knight’s hands joined his, and together they worked the laces free on Lancelot’s trousers and pulled them down past his hips. Arthur took Lancelot’s member in one hand, stroking and fondling, while he searched his saddlebag for oil.
He found it, undid his own laces, and coated his fingers with with the slick, scented substance. He was aroused to the point of distraction, despite his earlier relief, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out at the soft noise of acquiescence from Lancelot as his fingers brushed the knight’s entrance.
This was different for them, Arthur thought, as he pulled Lancelot into his lap. Often their couplings were hurried, violent, battlefield affairs. This quiet, this almost-gentleness, was rare. He liked it. He liked the feeling of entering his lover slowly, of feeling his heat surround him, without Lancelot being trapped beneath him on his hands and knees, his muscles stiff with fatigue and pain. Arthur liked the quiet and the clean scent of snow and pine. And as Lancelot began to move on him, taking Arthur deep within his body, Arthur found that the cleanliness mattered. It made this act seem more real than when it was accompanied by the smell of blood and dirt and death.
He continued to stroke Lancelot’s cock, and muffled the knight’s grunts and cries of pleasure with a kiss. It was only when Lancelot’s rhythm had sped up and he was gripping Arthur’s thighs hard enough to bruise that the knight spoke: “Is this how you will remember me?”
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. What did Lancelot know? What did those sad, dark eyes see that he didn’t? Arthur remembered the fear that had come to his heart when Lancelot had confronted him in the stable before they had left Hadrian’s Wall. Lancelot had chastised him, then, for praying, asking Arthur, “Why do you talk to your god but not to me?” And Arthur had not had a satisfactory answer, but it was what Lancelot had said next that had truly hurt him. That night, dark eyes burning, he had implored Arthur not to bury him in Britain. “If I die on this island, don’t bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me, Arthur. And cast my ashes to a strong east wind.” East. Toward home. Where Arthur couldn’t follow.
That was the first time that Lancelot had mentioned his death, bu was wasn’t the last. Now, head thrown back and gasping for breath, with his olive skin flushed with pleasure, he asked again, “Is this how you will remember me?”
He was a knight, an accomplished, deadly warrior. He had ridden to battle beside Arthur coess ess times on his great black horse, killing countless Briton’s with his double swords. Lancelot was magnificent in war. But so were Bors, Tristan, Gawain, Galahad and all the others.
So, “Yes, Lancelot, my love. This-” And Arthur lifted himself off the ground, driving hard into the knight. “This is how I’ll remember you.” Lancelot moaned through clenched teeth; it was what he had wanted to hear. Arthur twisted his hips and thrust upward again. “I’ll remember that you were always the best rider of all my knights.” Lancelot had to bury his face in Arthur’s neck to smother his raspy cry. Arthur thrust again, just as roughly, letting himself go inside of his knight. “I’ll remember that you were mine, Lancelot.” The knight was biting roughly at his neck now. “And you’ll remember that too,” Arthur murmured, stroking Lancelot’s cock faster, “when you can barely sit on that great black beast of yours tomorrow, and when you sleep tonight with my seed wet on your thighs . . . You’ll remember.”
With that, Lancelot bowed his back, keened aloud, and Arthur’s hand was covered in wet, sticky warmth.
TBC
Author: shimmer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Threesome, mild violence
Summary: Arthur is torm between his loyatly to his men and his newfound loyalty to the Britons and to Guenivere.
Feddback: would be heavenly :-)
email: lakshmi242003@yahoo.com
Chapter 1/2
Guenivere and Merlin faded back into the mists; but Guenivere’s parting words lingered, troubling Arthur more than he cared to admit. If he hated the Britons so much, then why was he so intent on saving them? And why, too, did the image of Guenivere’s dark beauty intrude on his thoughts in thvil vil time?
There was a gentle touch at his back and he turned. Lancelot’s expression was unreadable, cold, like the snow that dusted the knight’s black curls. He stepped closer to Arthur and the other man let him, grateful for the knight’s warmth.
“Don’t listen to them, Arthur. This is no more your land than it is mine.”
Oh, Lancelot, Arthur thought as the knight took the liberty of circling an arm around his captain’s waist. Of all his men, Lancelot was the most difficult, the most complex, and the one who commanded his deepest loyalty. And from the start of this last, suicidal mission for Rome, the dark knight had been like a thorn in Arthur‘s side, arguing with him, questioning his orders, probing his heart and exposing his doubts.
Lancelot looked him in the eyes and then glanced at the wall of trees where the two Britons had vanished. “Don’t let yourself be distracted by a pretty face,” he murmured tilting his head to the side.
Arthur raised a brow, “You mean as long as it’s not your own?” That brought the ghost of a smile to Lancelot’s lips as Arthur pulled the knight to him and kissed him lightly.
“You don’t belong here,” Lanc whi whispered gently into Arthur’s neck. “You belong with us, with your knights.” Both of his hands were at Arthur’s sword belt now. “You belong *to* us.”
Arthur blinked snow out of his eyes. What Lancelot said was true; he belonged to his men more than he could ever belong to a woman, a cause, or even to a land. He tangled his fingers into Lancelot’s curls as the man knelt in the snow before him. He sword belt, and Excalibur with it, fell to the frozen ground.
At moments like this, when battle was immanent, or afterward, when his hands were still stained with the blood of the enemy, his desire for Lancelot could become all-consuming. He gasped aloud when Lancelot exposed his hard flesh to the freezing air.
The knight waited, one hand lightly caressing Arthur’s balls, his pretty face turned upward into the snow.
“Don’t tease me, Lancelot.”
“You can order me to pleasure you, Arthur.”
The thought sent a surge of blood to Arthur’s groin, but he refused to be baited. Lancelot was playing a nasty game now, angry with Arthur for his interest in Guenivere and for his weakness toward the Britons.
“You can order me.” He repeated, and Arthur could feel his hot breath misting over him. “After all, I’m not a free man yet.”
“You will be free; I promised you that,” Arthur growled, tightening his grip on his knight’s hair.
“Promises, promises . . .What will you promise her, Arthur?” Lancelot asked, touching the tip of his tongue to Arthur’s member. “What will you promise her when she is on her knees?”
Arthur growled in frustration, “Either do it and be done, or leave me. I won’t--I can’t fight with you anymore, Lancelot.”
The knight looked at Arthur for another minute before finally taking the other man deep in his mouth. He used tongue and lips and teeth to make Arthur moan above him, but it was really the sight of Lancelot kneeling in the snow, his cheeks hollow with suction and his lips red and wet, that brought Arthur to the edge and then over it.
He wasn’t satisfied, though. Far from it. He felt a strange urgency, something driving him, as he led a more compliant Lancelot back to the tree where he had been sleeping. He sat and pulled Lancelot back against him as they settled against his saddle. Then Arthur draped his red cloak over them.
They sat there for a time, listening to the snow fall in the forest, with Arthur propped comfortably against his saddle and Lancelot seated between his legs, leaning heavily against his chest. The knight was letting his hands drift gently up and down Arthur’s thighs where they caged him in, moving once in a while to rub himself back against Arthur’s renewed arousal.
Arthur put his hand Lan Lancelot’s upper arms to still him, and rested his face in the crook of the knight’s neck, nuzzling and nipping at the cool skin there. Lancelot let his head fall to the side, baring his throat to Arthur’s mouth and arching his back in pleasure. “Will you take me, Arthur?” he asked. “Will you take me where she could see?”
Arthur dropped one of his hands to Lancelot’s crotch and squeezed. “I’m tired of talking about Guenivere. I’m tired of talking, tired of praying, tiof fof fighting.”
Lancelot, hearing the weariness in Arthur’s voice gave in; and Arthur could feel it. The knight’s hands joined his, and together they worked the laces free on Lancelot’s trousers and pulled them down past his hips. Arthur took Lancelot’s member in one hand, stroking and fondling, while he searched his saddlebag for oil.
He found it, undid his own laces, and coated his fingers with with the slick, scented substance. He was aroused to the point of distraction, despite his earlier relief, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out at the soft noise of acquiescence from Lancelot as his fingers brushed the knight’s entrance.
This was different for them, Arthur thought, as he pulled Lancelot into his lap. Often their couplings were hurried, violent, battlefield affairs. This quiet, this almost-gentleness, was rare. He liked it. He liked the feeling of entering his lover slowly, of feeling his heat surround him, without Lancelot being trapped beneath him on his hands and knees, his muscles stiff with fatigue and pain. Arthur liked the quiet and the clean scent of snow and pine. And as Lancelot began to move on him, taking Arthur deep within his body, Arthur found that the cleanliness mattered. It made this act seem more real than when it was accompanied by the smell of blood and dirt and death.
He continued to stroke Lancelot’s cock, and muffled the knight’s grunts and cries of pleasure with a kiss. It was only when Lancelot’s rhythm had sped up and he was gripping Arthur’s thighs hard enough to bruise that the knight spoke: “Is this how you will remember me?”
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. What did Lancelot know? What did those sad, dark eyes see that he didn’t? Arthur remembered the fear that had come to his heart when Lancelot had confronted him in the stable before they had left Hadrian’s Wall. Lancelot had chastised him, then, for praying, asking Arthur, “Why do you talk to your god but not to me?” And Arthur had not had a satisfactory answer, but it was what Lancelot had said next that had truly hurt him. That night, dark eyes burning, he had implored Arthur not to bury him in Britain. “If I die on this island, don’t bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me, Arthur. And cast my ashes to a strong east wind.” East. Toward home. Where Arthur couldn’t follow.
That was the first time that Lancelot had mentioned his death, bu was wasn’t the last. Now, head thrown back and gasping for breath, with his olive skin flushed with pleasure, he asked again, “Is this how you will remember me?”
He was a knight, an accomplished, deadly warrior. He had ridden to battle beside Arthur coess ess times on his great black horse, killing countless Briton’s with his double swords. Lancelot was magnificent in war. But so were Bors, Tristan, Gawain, Galahad and all the others.
So, “Yes, Lancelot, my love. This-” And Arthur lifted himself off the ground, driving hard into the knight. “This is how I’ll remember you.” Lancelot moaned through clenched teeth; it was what he had wanted to hear. Arthur twisted his hips and thrust upward again. “I’ll remember that you were always the best rider of all my knights.” Lancelot had to bury his face in Arthur’s neck to smother his raspy cry. Arthur thrust again, just as roughly, letting himself go inside of his knight. “I’ll remember that you were mine, Lancelot.” The knight was biting roughly at his neck now. “And you’ll remember that too,” Arthur murmured, stroking Lancelot’s cock faster, “when you can barely sit on that great black beast of yours tomorrow, and when you sleep tonight with my seed wet on your thighs . . . You’ll remember.”
With that, Lancelot bowed his back, keened aloud, and Arthur’s hand was covered in wet, sticky warmth.
TBC