Last time he had been alone in the throne room save for one other soul, Gwaine had spent his time scrubbing the boots of the entire Camelot army while preaching the importance of inward character over given titles. After all, in his mind, nobility was defined by what someone did, not who they were.
But now, all he can think about how funny it is that he is currently ‘doing’ nobility, and he lets out a little snigger at his crude joke.
Arthur doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care, his kingly brow furrowed in concentration as he continues to thrust upwards into Gwaine, the obscene squelching sound as he slides in and out provided by generous use of the bottle of oil that has probably rolled off somewhere under the foot of the throne. Even with his blond hair matted with sweat and a heated flush to his skin, he still looks so damn royal and reserved that Gwaine can’t help but tease as he grinds his hips down on top of Arthur’s. “Not having too much trouble, are you princess?”
The action elicits a gasp from Arthur’s darkened red lips, still swollen from when Gwaine had assaulted his mouth with kisses earlier. “…Gwaine, do you ever shut up?” he growls, recovering quickly as his hands scramble to grip Gwaine while he increases the fervor of his thrusting. His fingertips run almost possessively over skin, pressing hard enough to leave bruises, as if to claim the body riding him for his own.
Gwaine doesn’t tell him that there’s no need, for Arthur is his king, and always has been, even before the official succession to the throne took place, even before he recognized the truth himself. Arthur is his one and only king, and the only man Gwaine will show his appreciation to in this manner.
It doesn’t hurt that he is always looking for a way to get a rise out of Arthur, to see the other man drop that cool façade of sovereignty, and Gwaine thinks he might’ve found the perfect thing. As he feels Arthur grow closer to his release, gone is the controlled pace of movement, replaced by something that is more instinctual and primitive, something that proves Arthur is just flesh and blood like everyone else. But in the same stroke, he knows that’s not true at all; Arthur is Arthur, a godly driven force wrapped in the coils of a mortal body.
Grabbing the sides of the throne for support as he matches Arthur’s actions the best way he can, Gwaine hears the ancient wood creak and groan and wonders if it could handle the stress, wonders if it’s ever been used in such a way before. Belatedly he realizes that’s a thought process he doesn’t want at the moment, doesn’t want to think of the recreational activities of dusty monarchs of days gone by, especially when there was an exceptional, breathing, very-much-still-alive king squirming underneath him.
A heady groan escapes Arthur’s throat, and he presses the balls of his feet against the floor as leverage as he pushes up into Gwaine one last time with all his might, his eyelids fluttering shut with the pleasure rolling through him while he shudders then stills. Gwaine wants to take time to remember this, to remember the look of Arthur being completely done and spent, but his own hardened cock is still pressed between them, begging for attention. Reaching down through the heat their bodies have generated, he strokes himself quickly and roughly, releasing a groan similar to Arthur’s before he comes as well, the pearly liquid shooting over his fingers and on the front of Arthur’s bunched up tunic.
There’s something significant about this, but he can’t be half-assed to figure out what it is, not when they’re in various stages of undress, gulping in breaths of air as if they’ve been underwater the entire time. Yet the significance makes him laugh nevertheless, a bubbly sound that runs over his lips, muffled as he leans forward to bury his flushed face against the side of Arthur’s neck.
“Now, your majesty,” he purrs, nipping at the tender skin just below his king’s ear, “I think this calls for you to buy me a drink.”