The evening air is warm and thick with summer heat and Gwaine feels lazy in it, loose and restful even in the midst of a hunt, and he sprawls on top of his bedroll and smiles when he hears the soft sound of Merlin’s sigh drift up and away. Arthur’s moan is louder, keener, and Gwaine feels his prick start to stir at the sound of them. He turns to Lancelot to share the joke … and finds him staring at the roof of the tent with eyes gone wide and shocked.
“Lancelot?” he says, nudging him with an elbow. “You all right?”
“We should--” Lancelot says. He shakes his head and tries again. “We shouldn’t.”
“We definitely should,” Gwaine says. He rolls to his side and props himself up on one elbow, looks down at Lancelot. “Have you never?”
“It’s the Prince,” he hisses. “It’s Merlin.”
“Exactly. Do you really think they don’t know? You think Arthur is unaware of where he positions his tent, of leaving the flaps tied back?”
“Even so, Merlin is—”
“And do you think he’d use Merlin like that without his consent? They know, Lancelot. They like it. They like to … put on a show.”
“I don’t —” Lancelot says. He squeezes his eyes shut. “They .. they lie together?”
“Lie together,” Gwaine says. “Sit together, stand together, brace themselves against a wall together.”
Lancelot groans and turns away from Gwaine, shaking his head again. Gwaine can't help but grin. He's so damn *pure*, Lance is... despite the fact that he's hot for Merlin, Gwen, and possibly Arthur, and not averse to dallying with Gwaine on the side. But with Lance, of course, it's not mere lust he feels (at least for Gwen and Merlin), it's devotion, and never the twain shall meet.
A burst of laughter from Arthur's tent seizes both men's attention. Lancelot looks almost shocked; no, he's probably never laughed during loveplay, he’s too bloody solemn for that. Merlin says something, indistinct but bubbling with merriment, and Arthur replies in his bluff "I am the Prince, dammit!" tone--and then there's a deep, chesty groan that can only be Arthur, while Merlin remains tellingly silent.
It's too dark to tell, but Gwaine would be willing to bet that Lancelot is sweating right now. The other man's scent rises hot and sharp, with a note in it that isn't just sweat and horse and dust of the day; combined with the perfume of the forest, the sweet evergreen and damp earth scents of a summer night, it’s intoxicating. Gwaine thinks about touching Lance, but not yet; instead, he rolls over on his belly and carefully spreads open the flaps of their tent.
"Gwaine!" Lance's indignation is so loud that all the wood's night singers stop for a moment. "What do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he retorted. "I'm opening the tent flaps a bit so we can--get some fresh air."
Fresh air, indeed. A sudden cool breeze followed by the woodsmoke odor of their campfire drifts in from the night. The clearing outside is pooled with moonlight, like a bubble of the Otherworld, the land where no one ever dies, and Gwaine has a strong urge to go out, strip down, and run through the woods hooting. Likely the Sidhe would grab him and he'd never be seen again--but it looks like he's not the only one who's had the urge.
A silhouette appears in the doorway of the royal tent, and Merlin saunters out into the night, bare as the day he was born. Gwaine stifles a whistle of appreciation, and Lancelot gasps and is suddenly right at his elbow, both of them staring at the view.
Merlin stretches elaborately, arms overhead, chin tipped up, half-bent backward. In the moonlight his skin is almost too pale to be mortal, except where it's shaded with fine black hairs. His shoulders are broader, his legs longer than you might guess, just seeing him run after Arthur in his too-big-too-small peasant's clothes. Why doesn't Arthur dress him better, Gwaine wonders. No need to wonder why Arthur *un*dresses him. The evidence for that is gleaming half-hard between Merlin's lean thighs.
"Christ and St. Mary," Lancelot breathes, but Gwaine doesn't see either of *them* anywhere. He just sees a gorgeous boy in the moonlight, an increasingly heated and sweaty gorgeous man beside him and--yes, here he comes! a gorgeous golden naked prince come out of the tent behind Merlin. All the dice are in Gwaine's favor tonight.
Arthur says something in a mock-reproving tone, curling one hand round the base of Merlin’s neck. Merlin gives him an impish grin, his eyes crinkling up to mere slits, and turns toward Arthur to take hold of his cock just as Arthur reaches for Merlin's.
"*Now* do you believe that they don't care if we see them?" Gwaine turns to Lancelot, who's just about humping the mossy forest floor. Lance doesn't do more than groan in response, so Gwaine coils around him and grabs a kiss.
Lancelot's response is instant; his mouth goes slack, and he rolls onto his back, submissive as a pup. Gwaine slithers atop him, deepening the kiss, then grabs a glance at Merlin and Arthur while catching a breath.
By the old gods and all the holy wells, Merlin is on his knees sucking Arthur's cock, and even across the clearing in the tricksy moonlight, Gwaine can see the hollows under Merlin's cheekbones, the way he's working his mouth. Lance whimpers and twists and Gwaine drags his attention back to the man beneath him. "Worth looking at even upside down," he says, and points to the other two men with his chin.
Lance tips his head back, eyes rolling away, and with his attention elsewhere, Gwaine goes for the laces of Lance's trousers. He's got Lance's cock out, springing up like a faery mushroom, before Lance even notices, then realizes the chivalrous fool settled down with his boots on. Oh, well, Gwaine's always been good at doing two things at once. He hauls up Lance's knees so he can grab hold of one boot, then starts tugging at it while catching Lance's cock in his mouth.
Lance makes one feeble incoherent noise before his head drops back with a thud and his fingers thread their way into Gwaine's hair. Good boy, Gwaine thinks, and licks approvingly while his fingers fumble at the boots.
Lick, suck, fumble, steal a peek at Arthur and Merlin (they've retreated inside), and finally Gwaine has Lance bare from belly to toe and moaning loudly enough to silence the night callers again. The saddle bag is close enough that he can reach it without abandoning his post between Lance's splendid thighs, and the little pot of grease falls neatly into his hand. He slips a hand behind Lancelot's balls before he can protest that they're right in the doorway of the tent, practically outside themselves.
"Oh, Arthur, oh, fuck, fuck!" comes Merlin's voice, clear as a bell, and Lance grunts softly as Gwaine presses a slick finger inside him. For all his shyness and modesty and high ideals, Lance has an arse as soft and yielding as a whore's quim, and Gwaine loves him for it.
"I'll bet Arthur's fucking Merlin right now," he whispers to Lancelot, twisting his fingers back and forth. "I'll bet he's up to his balls in Merlin's fine arse, maybe with Merlin on top of him, riding him like a yearling stallion." He crooks his fingers and curls them forward to hear Lancelot groan. "He'll have scratches on his chest in the morning, Merlin'll have bruises on his hips...."
Lance rolls his head from side to side, lost to anything like conversation. Gwaine shimmies out of his trousers like a snake out of its old skin, coats himself with a handful of sweet grease, and sinks the head of his cock into Lance's arse.
A long, low quivering moan from the other tent makes him pause. "Jesus, that's sweet," he murmurs, and lets himself slide all the way to the hilt, pulls Lance's legs over his shoulders.
It doesn't take long for Gwaine to find a rhythm that has Lancelot thrusting up against him, grunting in time. Gwaine wraps his hand around Lance's cock and squeezes, breaking the beat for a moment. Lancelot reaches up and drags Gwaine down by the arms, into a smothering kiss that makes Gwaine's grip tighten again, makes him buck savagely against Lance's arse. With a broken cry into Gwaine's mouth, Lance comes, spurting everywhere, pulling Gwaine along with him in a spending that seems to take all night.
When he can finally open his eyes again, Gwaine lifts his head from Lance's chest and looks across the clearing. There in the doorway of the red and gold tent is Merlin's impish face, his eyes gleaming. He gives a Gwaine a thumbs-up and a nod. Grinning back, Gwaine returns the gesture and starts to draw away from Lance, before the spilt come hardens into something like glue. They pulled it off; maybe tomorrow night he and Merlin will succeed in swapping partners.