Characters: Arthur, Gwen
Summary: You capitulate. Surrender. Cede. Albeit twisting it to your means.
Warnings: Adult relations (mutual sex, not terribly explicit), mild violence: (not between A/G) // 2nd person POV // Medieval AU
Word Count: 1000
Author's Notes: First time posting here. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for an amazing prompt. No beta. Note, this does not follow the show’s storyline, AU, but Medieval time period.
You capitulate. Surrender. Cede.
Albeit twisting it to your means.
Hot dry winds blow over the kingdom he’s been king of for two years.
The vagrant past one used to entice women servants to his bed, wanted you not by force, but by pure capitulation. When you reacted with disgust, even though he was outwardly brutally handsome, he made you toil for hours in the darkest dustiest cellars, coming to you at inopportune moments, pressing his long thin fingers into your backside, salivating for you to change mind. You never ceded.
The king of now found you like that, bruised, not broken. He made fairer rule. You no longer work so long in the cellars that your knees purple and your elbows harden with dark ugly spots. All servants are treated justly now; knights are judged on merit, not bloodline.
However, one thing holds.
The king must marry another noble, per tradition, per reality. In this rough brutal land one king usurps another regularly. If two kingdoms can be joined in peace, there is more insurance of power. As kind as your king is, this is something too he covets.
Outside, brutal sun dampens clothing. A shirt is torn away from a man’s back, whip cracking into the air, creating patches of red, vibrant, ugly. As it raises a sixth time the king raises his hand, stating firmly. “Enough.”
When the ropes are removed the man falls to the ground and per the king’s orders is taken to the physician to keep the wounds from infection. Although he punishes for wrongful deeds, this king acts with civility even toward offenders. It is something he is highly respected for.
No challenge against him has worked. The people don’t just listen, don’t just properly fear when necessary, but love him.
As do you.
The day ends and you have completed your tasks, irritation of perspiration built upon your body. There will be a visiting princess within a few days. It is said the king has his eye on her for a possible marriage in the future. Her father’s land is very bountiful. So you have worked especially hard this day, believing jealousy is a wasted emotion.
You return home, wanton for a bath. No tub, but you do possess a wash pan/cloths. You ensure the window curtains are closed, noticing the guard patrol outside, by order of the king every night throughout the kingdom. Women especially should be safe in their homes. A man defied this chivalrous conduct, hence why he was punished today.
The damp cloth brings cool soothing moisture to your hot dry skin. The door from behind opens. You stand still. Close your eyes. Wait.
Footsteps. The cloth departs your grip. A whisper.
Only he uses your given name. Only he is allowed inside your abode at night.
When the whipped man tried, you hit him with a pot, but still the king seethed for justice. Today he got it.
His callused fingers, intimate more with sword than woman’s body, rub roughly over your breasts, yet still you capitulate to the feral touch. Lips are hot, wet against yours as you reach for his attire, baring his hard chest with impatient fingers. Only when he is naked too, satisfaction curves your lips.
He presses you forward, passionately seeking entry, and your fingers scrabble for the wood. The handles of the cupboard receive your fierce grip as he thrusts within your wet heat. You must fight to stay standing, his swelling hardness and possessive lock of your hips your only anchor.
It is turbulent, rapid. You both desperately surge to crescendo, wildly holding fast to each other to keep from collapse.
Zenith and you shudder.
His fingers tightly weave around your breasts, stomach. His breath blows hard against your cheek. His sex dampened chest drips moisture into your back.
A predatory growl, he states,
“He’ll never bother you again.”
“Mmm…” Culmination is still sweet, trickling hot down your thighs. You’re dripping with the exodus of fornication. This is his coming, one night a week now, before only once a month. You never shut him out.
“Thank you my King.”
Wrapped around your womanly curves he backs up to your bed. Limp, satiated, you allow it, bared feet sliding past the fallen cloth. You lay together atop the blankets, experiencing the delicious friction of intimacy.
Love, too forbidden, is never spoken. The princess will become his wife. Thus keep up pretense. Passion only.
Yet he has stolen your heart. He did that first day when he pulled you out of the dirty dusty cellars and away from the soon dead vagrant king of old.
Hours deepen. More of late he stays, slumbers with you.
Night turns to morning. Lark rises to the dawn. You let out a heavy sigh, hating the commencement of day, moving away before his warm comfort is gone. But he grasps your shoulder. Then looking deeply into your onyx eyes he whispers.
You’re confused, so he strokes your curls of hair. “To you. Guinevere. I surrender…
To love. ”
It makes your eyes widen. He explains.
“You denied the other king. I know he wanted you.”
“I never wanted him.”
“Right. So do you think I could come to you every night without a degree of caring?”
“You are King.”
“Not of your constitution.”
He eyes you meaningfully. “I would never come to you unless you wanted me to. And when I felt it and more, I had to keep coming. “So now I capitulate.”
The twist. But you never realized your success could be so vast.
He caresses the sensitive area between your thighs with his rich liquid loving lips, peering up for a moment. “I have changed much. That too, no matter how long it takes, I will alter.”
To that you smile. So does he, with calescent wet kisses.
May he never leave your bed. Always capitulate.
Always be yours.
In love and carnal ecstasy.