At the tail end of another uneventful day on patrol, Arthur eats with the knights and turns in early. Merlin follows him into their tent, and Gwaine can’t seem to pull his thoughts away from what might happen between them tonight. He pictures them stripping off their tunics and breeches and pulling on layers of nightclothes, piling the blankets high and lying together beneath them.
Last summer, Gwaine heard Merlin complain that Arthur emits heat like a stove, but since they began their winter patrol, Merlin’s not mentioned it.
“Should be home tomorrow if there isn’t trouble on the road,” Lancelot says, picking up a stick and breaking it inch by inch, tossing the bits into the fire.
Gwaine nods. “I’d give a month’s wages for a hot bath and a warm bed.”
“At least we have the tents.”
Gwaine can’t stop the corner of his mouth quirking up in a grin. “They’re warm enough, no doubt,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of Arthur’s tent.
“No doubt,” Lancelot agrees, nodding and lowering his gaze. His shoulders are stiff, raised against the cold or perhaps the ache of loneliness that weighs heavily on Gwaine, too. They have each other’s friendship, that’s sure, but friendship doesn’t warm a bedroll on a cold night. It doesn’t touch its mouth to yours and chase the trials of the day out of mind.
“Just goes to show that freedom isn’t everything,” he says absently, just letting the words come.
“You’ve lived without rules for a long time, haven’t you? Are you getting restless?”
He’s lived as a knight long enough to be accustomed to the life, to his duty as a knight, though he’s wriggled his way past them often enough not to feel constricted by them.
“It’s not that. Don’t mind me - I’m just a bit preoccupied this evening,” he says, but lets the conversation go. He cannot tell Lancelot the whole truth. He will not force that on him.
He closes his eyes and gives himself one brief moment to imagine Lancelot warm and willing and reaching for him, pulling him into the curve of his lap just as he imagines Merlin and Arthur are doing.
They’re probably lying on their sides by now, Arthur wrapped around Merlin to stop his shivering, breath warm against Merlin’s neck, nose pressed into his hair, Arthur’s warm feet tangled with Merlin’s chilly ones. That’s as far as he gets before he shakes his head, blinking to break the line of thought.
He doesn’t blame them for deserting the frozen party of knights around the campfire. If any of them had someone to warm them, someone to distract them for even a few precious moments, they all would, too. Instead, they find warmth in a bit of ale and distraction in telling stories of their lives before they were knighted.
Elyan, Leon and Percival are across the clearing on the other side of the fire, which has burned low enough Gwaine’s considering feeding it another log. It would mean losing all the built-up heat he’s trapped beneath his cloak and the thick wool blanket he’d thrown across himself.
He stares at the flames, willing them higher. It’s not the first time he wishes he had Merlin’s abilities. He turns his head to toss a resentful glare over his shoulder in the direction of Arthur’s tent. He’d bet Merlin heats it for them every night, and in more ways than one.
Before he can move to get more wood, Percival stands, stretches his long arms to the sky with a groan, then hurries to the wood pile to get a few more logs for the fire. It never ceases to surprise Gwaine how fast Percival can move with the right motivation. Before Gwaine can finish the thought, Percival’s wrapping his own blankets around his shoulders and sitting back down close to Elyan, who leans towards Percival as if drawn to any source of heat.
The fire pops and snaps sparks into the air, the newest logs hissing as the frost burns away. The flames lick higher and higher until Gwaine can feel the heat on his face and the three men across the fire are just indistinct forms through the yellow-orange glow.
That’s when he hears it.
He’s not sure he didn’t imagine it until Lancelot looks up, too. Gwaine catches his gaze, brow furrowed as he nods back toward the tent, his hand going instinctively to the hilt of his dagger. Lancelot shifts his blanket, one hand sneaking out to spread in warning, staying his movements. Gwaine gives a slight nod and inches the edge of his blanket from beneath his rear so he can throw it off quickly if need be.
It’s a long, tense moment and the cold rushes in through the opening he’s made as he and Lancelot hold their breath and listen.
“Come here to me, Merlin.”
The whispered moan is low and secret. Breathy.
Gwaine instantly remembers Merlin’s name on his own lips, breathed out in a moan just like when Gwaine used to imagine Merlin writhing beneath him, but Merlin is Arthur’s and always has been. It’s impossible to imagine Merlin with anyone else. In time, Gwaine’s feelings had transformed into a loyalty that will never be shaken.
Despite the lingering desire for Merlin’s touch, it hadn’t taken long for Gwaine to realize he and Merlin were better suited as friends.
Unfortunately, the same seems to be proving true with Lancelot, although Gwaine still holds out hope.
Merlin is the truest friend Gwaine has ever known, but Lancelot seems to fit him as key to his lock, the pieces of them fitting together sensibly.
They’re opposites in the most basic ways, though as they’ve gotten to know one another, they’ve found they have a lot in common, too. Lancelot feels toward Arthur the way Gwaine does toward Merlin; their intense devotion isn’t understood by many people, but they have never needed to explain it to one another.
Lancelot is the calm to his storm, the level head Gwaine lacks when his emotions are ruling him. Lancelot listens when he needs to be heard, covers his cup with a steady hand when Gwaine is on the verge of indulging too much, clasps a strong, firm hand on Gwaine’s shoulder to hold him back when he would otherwise plunge forward against impossible odds.
And Gwaine is his enabler, too, his safe haven even as he urges Lancelot closer to the edge of control than Lancelot’s ever dared go on his own. Gwaine coaxes more laughter from him than anyone else can manage, convinces him time and again that some indulgence is actually healthy
There are times when Lancelot professes that he would just as soon be alone as surrounded by a group of friends, but Gwaine sees his stoicism for what it truly is: false bravado. Lancelot wants company and companionship every bit as much as Gwaine.
There is a another small noise, almost a whimper, and Gwaine sighs as Lancelot lowers his hand, closes his eyes, breathes out as if both relieved and frustrated. Neither say a word, though Gwaine thinks maybe he should, maybe he should begin a story and let the sound of his own voice drown out anything else Merlin and Arthur might let slip.
But his mind is blank and he can’t say a word because Lancelot is looking at him with his intense brown eyes, the firelight kissing the high points of his face so he glows as if the heat is pushing out through his skin instead of soaking into it.
The next moan from the tent behind them is louder, lower, wordless. Muffled as though Merlin is trying very hard not to make a sound, his lips pressed to Arthur’s shoulder or Arthur’s palm sealed over his mouth.
It’s a wonder that the knights have never heard them before now, he supposes. He can’t imagine things are often quiet and gentle between the two most powerful men in Camelot.
The thought trips into so many others, Merlin and Arthur stripped off and tangled together, bodies flexing and straining against one another. Gwaine blinks at Lancelot and looks away, afraid Lancelot will see into his mind, will see what he’s imagining.
Merlin on his knees before his prince, face turned up, hands on the backs of Arthur’s thighs. Or Arthur’s tongue on Merlin’s pale, cool skin, his soft pink nipples, his long, graceful fingers. Gwaine can see it, can smell their sweat and arousal, feel their mussed hair and imagine the sweet drag of rough fabric along Arthur’s skin, of silk along Merlin’s, both of them shivering at the unfamiliar textures.
He cannot sit here, so close to Lancelot, to everything he wants and cannot have, listening to the pleasure his friends are sharing. The ache in his chest grows and spreads until he wonders if he could draw a full breath if he tried. Gwaine shifts his blankets and clears his throat, intending to bid everyone goodnight. Merlin’s whisper interrupts him, clear and loud enough to make out the words.
“Mmm, Arthur, Gods, you’re so warm. I need you now - I can’t wait another day. Can we...?”
Gwaine stills instantly, eyes locked with Lancelot’s as Merlin moans in response.
Lancelot looks completely undone, his eyes heavy-lidded, head tilted back just a little. For a short, precious moment, Gwaine thinks if he just touched him, just put his hands on him, he could reach right through Lancelot’s honour and draw out the passion he knows lurks just beneath all the piety, but Gwaine knows once he breaks that barrier, there’s no going back.
If Lancelot isn’t ready, he will have ruined everything.
He turns his head away, closing his eyes to gather control. Damn Arthur for awakening this need tonight. It’s freezing and he’s exhausted, smells of the leather of his saddle and the smoke of the fire. He can’t be any kind of temptation like this, can’t even begin to consider seducing Lancelot in this state, in this cold, open clearing. It seems disrespectful, an affront to Lancelot’s dignified approach to.... well, everything.
He looks back to Lancelot, who’s watching him closely, warily. With a forced grin and a shrug, Gwaine swallows hard, reaching to clasp his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, to dispel the awkwardness and say goodnight. Their shared smile slips away as another moan comes from the tent.
He and Lancelot both start when Leon suddenly stands up and steps around the campfire towards them. Gwaine drops his hand away from where it’s laying heavily on Lancelot’s shoulder, smiling and nodding and willing Merlin and Arthur to keep quiet as Leon yawns wide and tells them he’ll take first watch in the morning. He couldn’t stand for Leon to hear and turn the whole thing into fodder for bawdy jokes or teasing.
Gwaine is so hyper-aware of the silence in Arthur’s tent and of Lancelot, tense and still beside him, that he barely hears what Leon is saying. Leon looks between the two of them with a knowing smile and walks away, ducking into his tent.
They don’t speak when he’s gone, but there are whispers inside the tent, then the rustle of fabric.
“Tell me you want it.” Arthur’s voice is hushed, but they can hear every word. “I want to hear you say it.”
Merlin’s whisper is run through with moans, low and desperate as though he wants Arthur to hurry and Arthur’s taking his time. “I want your cock in me... I want you to fuck me...”
The desire is so thick in the air all around them that it could be sliced up and served for pudding. His body is thrumming with need, his cock pressing hard against his laces as it thickens despite his reservations.
Gods, he cannot do this. He’s working himself into a fevered sweat in the freezing air and there’s no outlet, no end to this that’s anything but aching balls or his own hand quick on his cock in the tent - and only that much if he’s lucky and Lancelot doesn’t step in before he’s through.
He watches Lancelot for a long moment, swallowing hard around a question he refuses to ask, then starts to throw off his blankets again when Lancelot stops him, hand closing over Gwaine’s and holding it in a tight grasp.
“Wait.” It’s as soft and careful as the voices inside the tent and Gwaine looks into his eyes, not daring to move.
“Stay.” It’s breathed shakily out, but Lancelot’s warm gaze has turned hot, steady and intense. “Just listen.”
Lancelot’s fingers tighten convulsively around his own and he looks down at their hands, at the way the tendons in Lancelot’s wrist flex, the way Lancelot lets his fringe fall forward without pushing it back. It covers his eyes, his face, as though he’s hiding and Gwaine can’t have that. If Lancelot is finally making this move, taking this step, Gwaine isn’t about to let him do it halfway. He wants to see his eyes, his expression, wants to know what it is Lancelot is truly asking for.
He pushes the blanket to his lap and reaches over, brushing Lancelot’s hair from his face.
“Come here... straddle me. Yeah, like that, let me look at you...Gods, you’re amazing...”
He can’t utter another syllable, doesn’t want to startle Lancelot or himself or ruin whatever is happening between them.
Lancelot leans toward him and pushes their still-joined hands down beneath his blanket to rest on his taut thigh.
“You’re so warm,” Lancelot says, echoing Merlin’s whisper, pressing Gwaine’s open palm across his leg, the gentlest pressure urging it to move higher up his thigh. “I want...”
Those calm, kind eyes turn hazy as they stare into his.
“Tell me,” Gwaine whispers, his words almost a breath between them.
Lancelot blinks long and slow. “More,” he answers. “This, and more than this. Everything. All of you.”
Gwaine swallows hard and nods. This is it, this is where they begin. “Say it again.”
Lancelot smiles softly and guides Gwaine’s hand up so it rubs into the juncture of his leg and groin. Before he takes another breath, Lancelot guides his hand further up, spreading Gwaine's palm open against the hard line of heat that juts up below the laces of Lancelot’s breeches. “I want all of you, Gwaine.”
They start, Lancelot’s hand dropping from Gwaine’s when another sound comes from the tent, the swish and slide of something against the cloth wall and Gwaine doesn’t take his hand away or look back over his shoulder. He imagines it’s just Merlin’s raised knee or Arthur’s shoulder brushing up and back, up and back. Merlin’s tone is low and urgent and if it weren’t so silent between he and Lancelot, they would never be able to make it out.
“-was watching you all day. Wanted this for days. Just... hurry. Hurry.”
Taking a deep breath, Gwaine holds Lancelot’s gaze and shifts over until their shoulders almost touch and their knees do. The contact makes Gwaine shiver, even with the four layers of wool and another of clothing between their skin.
He can only imagine what’s going through Lancelot’s head - how aroused he must be to throw off all the trappings of propriety and be so forward. Gwaine’s not backing out now, not unless Lancelot asks him to. Everyone in the blasted camp could see for all he cares.
Lancelot wants him.
Across the fire, he can hear Elyan’s low murmur and Percival’s answering baritone chuckle. He glances towards them, but the flames have grown, the smoke thickened. For all he knows, the two of them could be doing the same thing.
The soft noises behind him grow louder, just by a degree, but it’s enough that Gwaine closes his eyes and tries very hard not to let his mind run rampant with imaginings of either Merlin and Arthur or Lancelot. He looks up in surprise as Lancelot’s hand closes over his knee.
Lancelot’s eyes are wide and wary as if he can’t read Gwaine’s eagerness at all, though how he’s missing it, Gwaine has no clue. He knows what that’s like, knows how impossible that first touch can be. There’s bravery in the tightness of Lancelot’s jaw, in the strong hand that slips under Gwaine’s cloak and rests warm and tight on his thigh.
Lancelot bites his lip and and Gwaine draws in carefully-steady breath after breath, concentrating on remaining quiet. He rubs firmly up over the laces of Lancelot’s breeches, hand stilling there with his fingers ready to pull the knot, waiting patiently until Lancelot nods his consent.
Gwaine works the cord open by touch, Lancelot staring at the blankets on his lap as though he can see through them, as though he’s watching every pull of each lace as it slips through the grommets.
Elyan’s sharp bark of laughter echos through the clearing and Gwaine glances across the fire. Elyan’s not looking their way and the smoke’s thick enough to mask his view.
Merlin's gasps are uninhibited and obvious now, might as well be right next to them for all the good the tent wall is doing to muffle them. He sobs something and it's cut off, the whimper that follows dampened as though Merlin is biting down on a fist or shoulder. It reaches their ears just as Gwaine’s fingertips touch bare skin. Lancelot's naked flesh is like fire against Gwaine's chilly fingers and he watches intently as Lancelot’s head tips back, his eyes closed and breath ghosting out in panted clouds.
Slipping his fingertips down to press and fondle the soft, thin warmth of his sac, Gwaine dares to dip below and back, two fingertips pushing firmly against the flesh just behind. Lancelot’s incredibly responsive to every touch as if all pretense has been wiped away. His hips roll into Gwaine’s touch, his thighs spreading a little wider, hand clasping hard on Gwaine’s leg.
“Shh relax... so tight, Merlin- you’re always tight for me...”
The rhythmic rubbing along the canvas tent is so slow it makes Gwaine’s cock ache, but he lets it set the cadence of his strokes as he begins to touch in earnest, closing his fist around Lancelot’s leaking shaft, tight enough to roll his foreskin up and down with every stroke.
Lancelot’s hips rock against the motion of his hand, matching the soft, rhythmic swoosh on the tent wall, his feet pushing hard against the frozen ground, digging his boot-heels in. He pumps Lancelot in the torturously slow rhythm Merlin and Arthur unwittingly provide them and wonders if Arthur does it on purpose, draws out the foreplay to make it special for Merlin or if Merlin really is that tight every. Single. Time.
Lancelot must be the same - impossibly tight. Gwaine’s almost certain Lancelot’s never been with a man before or he would have mentioned it. But then, the man never mentions women, either, has never left the group in the company of either, so maybe not. Gods. Maybe he’s never been with anyone.
Gwaine can’t be that lucky.
That he and Lancelot share a tent is a Gods-damned miracle if this is going to go any further, tonight or any other night. That Lancelot, for whom Gwaine has come to feel so much more than he ever imagined he could, would reach out to him this way – literally – is an indescribable gift, a huge relief.
Gwaine’s spent far too many nights willing down an erection he’d got from watching Lancelot dress or wash or sleep. Or breathe. The man is purity. He’s good and moral and Gwaine doesn’t so much want to be like him as he just wants to touch that, to be near it, to wrap himself in it and see what it feels like. The last thing he wants to do is ruin it, tarnish it, but Gods, he wants it, wants every bit of Lancelot that he’s willing to give.
Right now, that purity feels like velvet filling his fist, like satin over the rounded hilt of his sword only warm, fire in the palm of his hand. Lancelot is long and thick, overflows from the top of his fist, the head slippery and shoving through the top of his fist on every down-stroke.
Merlin’s voice is just a murmur from inside the tent now, a pleading, hungry syllable, over and over.
Arthur’s is less controlled, less careful. “You’re so hot, so tight. Like I’ve never fucked you before... easy now, just breathe. Let me in...please...”
It’s possibly the first time Gwaine’s heard the word on Arthur’s lips and he wonders what’s inspired it, if Arthur saying please in bed is a turn on for Merlin, if Merlin makes him say it. He wonders if Arthur’s head is dipped down between Merlin’s spread legs, lips wrapped around his cock and blonde hair brushing the insides of Merlin’s thighs just before he looks up, fingers slick and eager, opening him gently.
“... want you.... please, please hurry...”
Gwaine rubs down between Lancelot’s legs, sweeping his fingers up along the soft, sensitive skin there, closing his eyes, imagining it’s the brush of his hair as he kneels between Lancelot’s spread thighs, mouth trailing up his legs with the promise of pleasure whispered into Lancelot’s skin.
Lancelot arches as Gwaine takes his cock in hand again. His thumb skitters through the slickness at the tip and Lancelot moans, eyes closing and hips sliding up and back. He’s so gorgeous, so responsive. Gwaine wants to do everything, try everything, just to see Lancelot shiver and arch, just to hear him moan.
“Fuck, Lancelot. You’re so...” he bites down on his tongue to stop himself saying it out loud.
Inside the tent, Merlin is begging in half-whispers, gasping and whining and groaning, all control obviously pared down to nothing but whatever Arthur's doing to him. His gorgeous, needy noises fill Gwaine’s ears and he can't help but imagine what Lancelot will sound like when he comes.
Gwaine’s hand speeds when Merlin and Arthur’s rhythm does, his fist tightening as Lancelot’s cock hardens impossibly further, growing and flexing in his grasp as he strokes.
He knows how he’d take Lancelot, slow and careful the first time, fingers carding through Lancelot’s hair as they kiss. He’s thought of the words Lancelot would need to hear, the reassurances and praise. He’s lain awake, Lancelot so close in the tent that his scent filled Gwaine’s head. He’d imagined Lancelot spreading his thighs, letting him have it all. Gwaine’s pictured coaxing him open with fingers and tongue - Gods, he’d have to show Lancelot the things a tongue could do - touching every inch of that smooth, tanned skin, tasting the salt-sweat flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, hip and thigh, spreading him open until Lancelot is begging for it by the time Gwaine’s tongue pushes inside him.
“Don’t stop... just. I need... I need you to- fuck. Fuck me.”
It’s clear as day and Lancelot gasps, covers Gwaine’s hand with his own and squeezes hard. Gwaine stills his stroking but Lancelot’s cock strains, jumping in his fist as though he’s going to come just from Gwaine’s hand and when Lancelot looks up, he’s breathless and panting and floating in a haze of desire. Gwaine holds his gaze as Lancelot bites his lip and hums low and needy as though he wants, needs to say something and can’t.
For an instant Gwaine thinks that's it, it's over. Gwaine doesn’t resist but can’t fathom this being over before it’s begun or consider how hollow he’s going to feel if Lancelot’s face colours with shame the next morning, if he rides apart from Gwaine on patrol the next day.
”Fuck, yeah... God, Merlin, ride me...”
That’s it, that’s all he can stand, all he thinks Lancelot can stand and he slides his hand from beneath Lancelot’s, looks into his eyes. “In the tent?” His voice is just this side of pleading and he doesn’t even care.
He waits for Lancelot to blink, to nod, and pulls his cloak all the way around himself as he gets to his feet. He takes one step around the side of the campfire, hears the crunch of deadfall beneath Lancelot’s boots as he walks away. “We’re for bed. You two have first watch.”
Percival’s brow furrows but he elbows Elyan hard in the ribs so that Elyan stops mid-gesture, mid-protest.
“Right,” Percival says and Gwaine sees Elyan scowl and shove Percival’s shoulder in false-annoyance as he turns away. Gwaine adds Percival to the list of people getting kisses in the morning.
He reaches their shared tent, holding his breath as he passes Merlin and Arthur’s and distinctly hears the soft, wet sound of flesh against flesh. He pauses for a moment, sending the two of them silent thanks, and ducks beneath the tent flap just as Lancelot is sitting down on his spread-out bedroll, the blankets open wide enough for two instead of folded over as usual and it answers every lingering doubt Gwaine has before he can form the questions to ask.
Lancelot pushes up as Gwaine falls to his knees, blanket and cloak thrown to the side. Hands fisting in his jacket, Lancelot hauls him close, their breath puffing out in quick, harsh gasps between them. Gwaine slides his hands in between all the layers to rest on Lancelot’s hip and side, his body warm even through his tunic. He waits, pauses, though it takes an insane amount of control not to take what he thinks Lancelot wants to give.
He can’t ask, is so afraid the spell will be broken if he speaks one word. He wets his lips and Lancelot stares at his mouth, then looks up, his eyes black with desire.
Lancelot nods, once, sharp and with a deep breath, and slides a possessive hand around the back of Gwaine’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s bruising, hard in their eagerness, lips crushed together until Gwaine urges Lancelot’s mouth open and licks inside. The kiss transforms from desperate to passionate in the space of a breath, Lancelot’s hand squeezing his neck, lips working against Gwaine’s until Gwaine’s the one trying to keep up, trying to gentle him.
He pushes a hand beneath Lancelot’s tunic, fingers teasing his nipple as he pushes Lancelot down onto his back, their legs getting tangled. Lancelot ends up on his back, legs spread open on either side of Gwaine’s knees, panting, reaching for him and it’s a brilliant, fucking beautiful sight.
Gwaine’s boots dig into his arse and he’s sick of clothes, so damned sick of anything but Lancelot’s hands on him. The tent is steamy that fast - a tight, hot cave for the two of them to be completely alone, apart from the rest of the world. He pushes to his feet, crouching beneath the low ceiling, yanking off his boots and pulling his tunic off over his head. He kneels back down and pauses with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his open breeches, eyes still on Lancelot’s breathtaking pose and waits for a sign.
As if they never need another word between them, Lancelot reaches down and pushes his own breeches down his thighs, tearing his eyes away and looking down in frustration as his open legs stop the progress of his breeches. He kicks his leg up and over so he can shove his breeches off, but Gwaine reaches for his hands, pushes him gently back down with a palm to Lancelot’s chest.
He pulls off Lancelot’s boots, then slips his breeches down and off, taking his socks with them. Before they’re off his ankles, Lancelot’s arching and twisting, pulling his tunic off over his head, his body trembling as Gwaine stares down at the bare expanse of Lancelot’s naked body. He wants to feel every gods-damned perfect inch of it against his lips, his cock, his fingertips.
Shoving his breeches down his hips, Gwaine lays a hand on Lancelot’s upraised, bare knee, urging his thighs to part again. His gentle pull meets resistance though, and he stills, wondering if Lancelot’s reached his limit, if so much naked flesh has poured ice over his desire.
Lancelot sits up, one hand closing hard on the back of Gwaine’s neck, his brow furrowed and eyes downcast. “I want to be inside you.”
It’s not what he expected, not what he usually imagines when he thinks about making love with Lancelot, but the strength of the hand on his neck inspires far too many new fantasies for Gwaine to deny that he wants it, that he’s more than willing to take Lancelot into him. There’s always been something undeniably erotic about being fucked by someone of equal strength.
He urges Lancelot back down with a hand spread wide on his chest, throwing his leg across to straddle Lancelot’s thighs.
He rocks back and then down, sliding his dripping cock up the tight crease between Lancelot’s thighs, slipping up over his balls and flush along his arousal, up and up until Gwaine is shivering with the slow drag.
Lancelot’s eyes flutter closed, his chin lifting as his head tilts back and his spine bows, the twin, hard peaks of his nipples brushing up against Gwaine’s chest. He moans low, a whimper at the end as if he’s in pain, and Gwaine balances on one hand so he can slide the other over Lancelot’s stubble-rough cheek and into his hair to hold him still as he takes his mouth, fast and hard and deep. He kisses him with all of the desire he’s been holding back for months, swallowing Lancelot's moan as he rocks his hips back and up, painting Lancelot’s cock and stomach with slickness.
Lancelot’s hands close on his hips, urging him to move faster, fingernails digging in just enough to spur Gwaine on. The grip releases and Lancelot's hands sweep up his sides, over his back and around to his stomach, the warmth of his fingers brilliant on Gwaine’s hard nipples.
He wants those hands to spread over his arse and squeeze, to pull him hard down onto Lancelot’s cock, to insist on something because he suspects Lancelot isn’t passive when it comes to desire and Gwaine wants to see it, to feel it on his skin and his cock and everywhere.
He reaches up and takes Lancelot’s hand in his own, guiding it down low on his side. When Lancelot’s warm fingers curve into the flesh at the small of his back, Gwaine moans and pushes his cock hard into the slick heat beside Lancelot’s. “Please,” he begs against Lancelot’s mouth, “touch me.”
Lancelot’s hand moves lower, fingertips curling into Gwaine’s skin, cupping his arse, almost touching the crevice where Gwaine wants them most. “Tell me what to do,” Lancelot whispers.
Gwaine bites his own lip, then Lancelot’s, groaning at the words. Gods, how can he teach him anything when his every touch feels perfect already? The fingers on his arse flex and he jerks his hips up and back, willing them to dip down and rub across his aching hole. He reaches back again, pulling away just a little so he can look at Lancelot as he says it. “Open me with your fingers. I’ll show you.”
“Hurry.” It’s breathed out, fast and hard against Gwaine’s lips and he kisses him again, the soft slide of their bodies as sensual as the heat that’s building between them.
Gwaine has oil, keeps a vial of it secreted away in the lining of his pack. There are nights when he needs to be taken, if only by his own fingers, or he’ll go insane with the desire he has to keep in check all day long around Lancelot.
He sits up, scooting higher so his weight rests over Lancelot’s straining cock, eliciting a groan. Lancelot pulls in a deep breath, eyes closed, as Gwaine reaches for his pack, reaches in blindly for the oil.
Lancelot is moving beneath, writhing as though he can’t keep still, can’t stop himself from moving against Gwaine, his fingers gripping Gwaine’s flesh, both hands on his arse now, stilling him with a gasp and Lancelot’s eyes are wide and dark as he stares up at him.
Gwaine raises up on his knees, pulls the cork from the vial and slicks his fingers, setting the oil aside and reaching behind himself. He holds Lancelot’s gaze as he slips a fingertip inside, his wrist brushing against Lancelot’s knuckles. He circles the finger inside his body, stroking it in and out, rubbing the slick heat of the oil over his entrance, head tilting back, eyes closed as he pushes a second finger in alongside the first. He moans and rocks back, driving them deep. Before he can even adjust, Lancelot’s hand closes on his wrist and pulls his fingers slowly, gently free.
“Let me… I want to...,” Lancelot whispers, his fingertips already brushing over his clenching hole, already starting to push inside.
There’s just enough oil to make it burn deliciously, Lancelot’s fingers are thicker, longer than his own, stretching him open as they wriggle and twist inside. He gasps and clutches at Lancelot’s arm and Lancelot draws in a shaky breath, holding still and looking for all the world as if he’s not going to last another second.
Gwaine nods, rocking back and forth, reaching up to tease his own nipple, already tight with the intensity of his arousal. He shivers on Lancelot’s stroking fingers and pushes back, hard, his cock sliding against Lancelot’s as he looks down and sees it lying flushed and thick and dripping against Lancelot’s stomach.
“That’s good, that’s enough,” he whispers, lying down so they’re chest-to-chest, the heat of Lancelot’s skin against his hard nipples like fire. He slides forward, Lancelot’s fingers slipping free of his body and groans in frustration. He reaches down and guides Lancelot’s cock, presses the head against his entrance, gritting his teeth with the effort not to fuck down onto it. He holds very still, looking into Lancelot’s eyes, biting his tongue so he doesn’t beg, fingers clutching the blanket on beside of Lancelot’s body.
The hands on his hips tighten and Gwaine is panting, sweating with the desperate ache, every fibre of his being screaming for Lancelot. Lancelot who rolls his hips in the slowest, gentlest motion, the head of his cock pushing just inside and then withdrawing. Lancelot’s hands are trembling where they’re clutching Gwaine’s hips, his breaths coming in quick, panting gasps.
“Shh… just. Just go slow,” Gwaine whispers, leaning down to kiss him gently, slowly, his tongue slipping in and gently fucking Lancelot’s mouth, his needy moan humming through the kiss as Lancelot pushes into him, slow but steady, rocking into him a little more and a little more until he’s buried to the hilt and Gwaine’s arse presses against his lap.
Slowly, Gwaine pulls away from the kiss, sits back on Lancelot’s straining cock, the movement pushing him deeper than Gwaine’s ever had anyone. He throws his head back and breathes out, hips moving in short, hard rolls so he never loses much of the gorgeous cock filling him.
“Gods, I can’t- Gwaine, please, I’ve wanted this - wanted you too long. I have to- please-“ Lancelot’s voice thick with desire but shot through with a fear Gwaine won’t allow. If Lancelot’s that close that fast, Gwaine takes it as nothing but the best kind of compliment.
He lays down on Lancelot’s chest, kissing him quickly. “Come for me,” he whispers against Lancelot’s lips, rubbing his beard up the smooth skin of Lancelot’s jaw so he can breathe against his ear. “Inside me…”
Lancelot arches up, takes Gwaine’s mouth in a kiss and closes his hands tight on Gwaine’s arse, pulling him down into every short, jerking thrust, holding him tight. He grinds up into him as he comes and comes, teeth gritted against Gwaine’s lips, his groan so low and deep Gwaine feels it from the inside out.
As soon as Lancelot stills and relaxes beneath him, Gwaine sits up, his cock nothing but an aching, white-hot need where it lays against Lancelot’s stomach. He stares down at the gorgeous, sated look on Lancelot’s face.
“I couldn’t stop,” Lancelot whispers, face flushing. “It’s been too long - I've wanted you for so long.”
“No, shh. It was perfect,” Gwaine says, smoothing his thumb across Lancelot’s lips and leaning down to take another kiss. He doesn’t want it to be over yet, but it felt amazing, feels amazing to finally be so close to Lancelot, to finally touch and kiss him. “We have all the time in the world.”
Lancelot nods, slipping a hand between their bodies, taking Gwaine’s cock in his fist. Gwaine shivers at the touch; he’s so hard it hurts, but it’s so good he just wants it to go on forever.
“Gwaine, I want- can you…” Lancelot takes a deep breath and guides Gwaine off of him. He rolls onto his side, facing away, hand seeking along the edge of the bedroll and Gwaine doesn’t get it, can’t imagine that Lancelot would leave him like this.
But Lancelot looks over his shoulder, reaching back to draw Gwaine flush against him. He hooks his leg back over Gwaine’s, spreading his thighs wide, and presses the tiny vial of oil into Gwaine’s palm. “Please?”
Gwaine’s fist closes around the vial. He wants this, wants it badly, but this is Lancelot, this is everything. He can’t hold back, won’t be able to make it last. “Are you sure? I’m not going to last, Lancelot. Gods, I’m going to get inside you and I won’t be able to last.” The words stoke his arousal even higher, his cock brushing against the hot flesh of Lancelot’s arse.
“I want to feel you,” Lancelot whispers, canting his hips back to rub along Gwaine’s cock. “I want you inside me.”
Groaning, Gwaine presses his forehead to Lancelot’s shoulder and pours the oil over his fingers, hissing as he closes his fist over his cock and draws it from base to tip, slicking himself. He rubs a little more oil over his fingers and smoothes them up between Lancelot’s parted thighs, caressing his tight entrance.
Lancelot arches into the touch, presses back against Gwaine’s fingertips as they push against him, rubbing with more and more pressure until Lancelot’s body clenches and he’s moaning, begging for Gwaine. “I need you, please.”
“Just relax - let me take care of you,” Gwaine whispers and when Lancelot nods, Gwaine begins easing him open with one finger first, in and out so his body craves the touch. Lancelot moves counterpoint to his gentle strokes inside, his arse so tight Gwaine trembles in anticipation.
“More... more.” It’s moaned out and Lancelot arches his back, pushing down on his finger.
Gwaine pulls out, rubs two fingers over his hole and then slips them past the ring of resistance and in, up. Gwaine holds his breath against the tight, hot sheath of Lancelot’s body as he opens and closes his fingers, pulls them gently out and then twists them up and in, faster, harder, willing his erection to hold off, to hold on until he can just. Get. Inside.
He slips his fingers out and pushes another in, three, close and tight and slow, so slow. He expecting a wince of pain or a panicked moan, but Lancelot gasps and grinds back on the bundle of them, head thrown back onto Gwaine’s shoulder.
Gwaine stills his stroking fingers, massaging deep inside Lancelot, turning his wrist, seeking the cluster of nerves. When he finds it, Lancelot’s fingernails dig into Gwaine’s thigh and every muscle in Lancelot’s body seems to tighten and vibrate.
He trembles against Gwaine, eyes squeezed closed, then breathes out like a bellows, begging, “Please, I need you... I need you inside me.”
Gwaine presses against that place again and Lancelot cries out. Gwaine pulls his fingers free and presses his lips to Lancelot's neck, just below his ear. “Shh... I’ll go slow.”
Gwaine lines his cock up and pushes against his hole in short strokes until he’s through, he’s in, and he sinks all the way inside in one long, slow, deep thrust, Lancelot holding his breath but pushing against him, taking him in, tight and scalding and clinging around Gwaine’s cock.
When he’s as deep as he can go, Gwaine pauses. He’s inside Lancelot, their bodies as close as they can be, skin touching everywhere, Lancelot’s body holding him so tightly.
Lancelot lifts his head for a kiss and Gwaine takes his mouth, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he begins to move, the slow, slick drag out turning into something else entirely. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever felt, the most amazingly tight, hot, slick slide and then the gentle glide is shattered.
Lancelot arches, pushing against him, and reaches back to grasp Gwaine’s hip. He pulls Gwaine forward in a fierce thrust that has them both groaning into the kiss.
Gwaine pulls his mouth away, hand twining in Lancelot’s hair, urging him down to the makeshift pillow, exposing the long line of his throat. Gwaine inhales deeply as he slips almost all the way out again and bites down as he pumps back in, hard and unapologetic with Lancelot’s fingernails digging into his arse, spurring him on.
He pulls a bruise to the surface of Lancelot’s sweat-salty skin as he thrusts, long, quick strokes deep inside and out again, Lancelot’s whimpering moans nothing but encouragement. Gwaine’s close that fast, pumping in a smooth, even rhythm, Lancelot writhing against him, his moans humming through his body. Gwaine closes his eyes and thinks of how badly he wanted this, how many times he imagine this, how he never thought Lancelot would let him get this close. The hand on his hip falls away, Lancelot reaching up, pulling Gwaine’s hand down to his cock, lacing their fingers together. Lancelot’s full cock slips through the ring of their entwined fingers and Lancelot trembles, stills and arches, groaning and coming and Gods, it’s beautiful. His body is taut and flexing, chest out as his back arches in a long curved line. Gwaine feels the rush of come over his knuckles and he can’t hold back anymore, can’t stop the waves of pleasure washing over him and he comes, thrusting hard and sharp, deep as he can, hips flush against Lancelot’s arse, panting into the skin of his neck, tongue laving over the bruised flesh.
Eyes closed, he presses his forehead against Lancelot’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of them together, his body thrumming with the dizzying rush of pleasure, the closeness, the knowledge that Lancelot wants him like this every bit as badly as Gwaine. He’s spent, his cock softening inside the slick sheath of Lancelot’s body, but Gwaine can’t let go, can’t stop the gentle roll of his hips, the tingle of his fingers against Lancelot’s smooth skin, the shiver as Lancelot brushes his ankle along Gwaine’s leg.
He feels like he could stay there forever, wrapped around Lancelot, wrapped up inside him, holding him, feeling him so completely it’s as if they’re one person and not two.
Lancelot reaches back for him, hand closing on Gwaine’s hip and pulling him flush against his body. “Stay there. It feels so good.” he whispers.
“Shh. This is the only place I want to be.” Gwaine curls in against him so they’re pressed tightly together from shoulders to toes, his arm wrapping around Lancelot’s waist.
Their bodies fit together perfectly, Lancelot’s round arse tucked into the curve of Gwaine’s lap, his back smooth and slick with sweat against Gwaine’s chest. He soaks up the warmth, listening as Lancelot’s breaths calm and drop into a soothing, slow cadence and the body against his own relaxes into sleep.
Gwaine’s exhausted, too, but the cold air is cooling his sweat and he shivers. Lancelot draws their thin travel blanket over them and with their legs twined together and bodies as close as they can be, they’re plenty warm.
As Gwaine drifts off, he spares a thought for Merlin and Arthur, hoping their night finished as good as his did.
They wake beneath their cocoon of covers, bodies pressed tightly together, Gwaine’s arousal pressed eagerly against Lancelot’s body. Lancelot turns in the circle of Gwaine’s arms, kissing him good-morning and rubbing his own hard cock along Gwaine’s. He takes them both in one tight, strong hand and strokes them off, his free hand closing hard and fast over Gwaine’s mouth as he comes.
When the dizzy haze of orgasm melts away, Gwaine hears the reason: the camp is stirring outside their tent, the fire crackling, Arthur’s voice unmistakable even in a quiet murmur.
They dress quickly, pulling their clothes beneath the covers and doing their level best not to let all the heat escape. They bump elbows and hips, shoulders and hands as they lace up their breeches and pull their tunics over their heads.
Gwaine can’t resist stopping Lancelot just as they’re about to go out and join the knights and Merlin for breakfast. He stays him with a hand on his shoulder, pulls him back down to kneel on the floor with him.
“Now that I have you, I won’t let go,” he whispers, fingers drifting up to twine in the ends of Lancelot’s hair. He pulls Lancelot forward for a slow, deep kiss, then presses their foreheads together. There’s already a lump in his throat, a hard knot that he swallows around before he whispers, “Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Lancelot whispers back, smiling into their next kiss, this one slower, lingering as if Lancelot can’t bring himself to pull away either.
It’s impossible, feels like he’s leaving half of himself behind as he lets go of Lancelot and they step out into the clearing, step apart to get food and drink.
When he sees the rest of the camp, already nearly through with breakfast, he realizes no one ever woke them for watch. He steps close to Merlin, leaning in to quietly as him, “Who do we have to thank for the lie-in?”
Merlin’s grin does little to wash away the ache until he bumps his shoulder into Gwaine’s and waggles his eyebrows and leans in to stage-whisper. “They split your watch - figured you could use the sleep.”
Arthur barked a laugh and raised his mug in Lancelot’s direction. “You took long enough, didn’t you? We thought poor Gwaine was losing his touch.”
Lancelot gapes at Arthur and then at Merlin as the others chuckle, his face as crimson as Gwaine guesses his own must be.
Gwaine takes the warm mug Merlin offers him, fighting not to mirror Merlin’s wide grin.
“You may want to be a bit more quiet tonight,” Merlin says, winking at him.
Arthur raises his drink in Lancelot’s direction. “Here, here! You kept us up half the night!”
“Your tent isn’t exactly made of stone, either,” Gwaine says, smiling ruefully and sitting down across from Lancelot, who’s smiling softly back at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks incredulously, but Merlin’s face is as red as Gwaine and Lancelot’s now.
“It means,” Lancelot says, not looking away from Gwaine, “we had inspiration.”
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