Title: Lost In Translation
Character/s: Arthur, Gwaine
Summary: All it took was a little misunderstanding, and look where they are now
Word Count: 571
Author's Notes: I went all fluffy and porny again... sorry :P
It all began, Arthur realises, with a simple misunderstanding. Not a big one, you would’ve thought; just a simple problem with the difference in intonation between accents. After all, there is a huge difference from the Etonian that Arthur is used to and Gwaine’s Irish accent. Especially after a few drinks, in a bit of a crowded pub.
It would be a simple misunderstanding, easy to laugh off, no consequences at all, except that the meaning Arthur misunderstands is of the words fuck me.
Because apparently that phrase can be used as an expression of shock after hearing a particularly emotive story. And not just as a request.
Arthur can’t bring himself to wish that his reply of what, now? had been met with anything other than a blink, a grin, and a yes, now, did you think I meant five months in the future? and a drag up to his hotel room. Because after that there’d been Gwaine’s hands on his chest, forcing him up against the wall, and his lips on Arthur’s, and his tongue, god, his tongue…
And Arthur’s hands in his hair, just long enough to pull and cling onto and wrap around his fingers, just soft enough to fall through his hands like liquid. And Gwaine’s chest, when Arthur got his shirt off, defined and fucking rippling with each movement. Arthur took his thumb and dug it in, following each curve. And Gwaine had gasped at that, lost control for just long enough for Arthur to push him across the small room and onto the bed, pulling off his shirt as he followed.
They kissed again like that, shirtless and needy, Arthur firmly placed in Gwaine’s lap. Until the pressure between them as their hips rocked into each other became too great, and Arthur pushed Gwaine back, getting up for just long enough to remove his trousers. Gwaine followed suit, finding his lube and his condoms, and then they were back on the bed again, Gwaine’s legs wide in invitation, the lube cold over Arthur’s fingers.
Soon it was just a wet slide, the pressure of Gwaine’s calves on the small of Arthur’s back, Gwaine’s voice low and sultry in Arthur’s ear; come on, princess, you can fuck me harder than that.
And now. Now it’s Arthur alone in his study staring at a framed picture of them both on a beach, sand in their hair and coated to their skin, fingers laced tight together. And he has a blank piece of paper in front of him, apart from the title, Vows, and he’s clutching a pen like it’s his lifeline, trying to put into words what Gwaine means to him.
Gwaine… loosens him. He opens up parts of Arthur that even he didn’t know he had, long as they’ve been hidden. He makes Arthur forget about things like responsibility and his father, and focus on the things that really matter. Happiness, the care packages of food that Morgana’s girlfriend sends round because neither of them can cook, and the feel of Gwaine on his skin. Holidays in the sunshine and renovating a neglected house. The stray cat they made their own. The thin platinum engagement bands that clink now when they hold hands in bed at night.
Gwaine makes Arthur laugh, makes him live, makes him love. And if not for his stupid accent, it would never have happened. So Arthur can’t love it enough.