Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Lancelot
Rating/Genre: R; angst
Spoilers/Warnings: mentions of events in 2.04; sexuality.
Author's Note/Summary: written for the New Beginnings drabblefest at thefuturequeen. robinmarian's prompt was: Lancelot comes back to Camelot hoping to reunite with Gwen and Arthur gets really insanely jealous. Edited from its original posting.
He knows Guinevere. He trusts Guinevere.
But the image of her expression as her hand rested delicately in Lancelot's before her fingers squeezed his - in the sort of quiet affection and silent communication which Arthur had now accustomed himself to receiving from her - is still burned inexorably in his mind, and it drives him mad to see them together.
Guinevere is demure, and her eyes drop when Lancelot says something too forward. Arthur is nearly certain that most of her interaction with the knight is polite, verging on friendly. Guinevere likes and trusts Lancelot - in his sane moments (Merlin would say those are increasingly rare these days) Arthur likes Lancelot, too - and she views him as a great asset to Camelot, however brief his stay is likely to be.
He is no fool. He has two eyes.
There are lingering glances. Whatever his reasons for leaving her in the forest, Lancelot had clearly arrived intent to restoke whatever flames had sparked between them at Hengist's castle. He had backed down, officially, with news of Arthur and Gwen's public romance. But Lancelot's eyes study, critically, where Gwen's eyes observe, curiously. In the line of their shared glance, there's future and possibility that has Arthur fearing for his own.
Rage tinges Arthur's cheeks mottled red, though he knows the colour really ought to be green.
Relief is almost crippling when Guinevere appears at his chambers near midnight. He takes her to bed because she allows him to, but beneath the covers he restakes his claim upon her. He demands she say his name; he tries not to beg when he asks if she loves him. He employs his knowledge of her body to coax her nearly to climax, only to let her drift back from it, just to take her there again while ordering that she open her eyes, that she watch the man who pleasures her. Watch the man who makes love to her, and induces her to a screaming release.
And, though he played master, he is ultimately her servant. It's there, in the way her fingers stroke soothingly across his slick skin when they're done. In how her lips dust across the curves of his ear, as she voluntarily repeats the words he had earlier demanded, in a whisper so honest that it could only come from Guinevere. It tickles right down and around his heart; it eases the aching throb of his jealousy, this familiar and tender intimacy.
Shame burns his cheeks then, and she laughs, calls him daft, before she declares that she will show him exactly how deeply her love for him goes, using the pressure of her lips on his to persuade him to roll to his back.