Pairing: L/G, A/G implied
Summary: Lancelot's reflections on his hidden desires for Guinevere. Just a short little one-shot.
She teased him. She tormented him. Those hidden glances she gave when no one else was looking but him. He was always looking, watching, staring. She of course knew, and he was so certain she would wait for him to arrive before displaying her affections to her husband. He was convinced. She enjoyed tormenting him, fueling his overwhelming desires and guilty passions.
Sometimes she would kiss her husband and stare at him, causing his heart to burn in his chest. Jealousy, envy, rage. For all the things he desperately craved but would never be his. He would go to his bed and touch his hard sensitive flesh, fantasizing of her, of ravaging her body with his. While she was undoubtedly fucking his best friend, laughing at him alone in his cold bed.
He lusted at the sight of her. Ached when her tongue darted out to lick at the rim of her glass at dinner. Or when she laughed and let her fingers fall to caress her soft red lips. And especially when she wore that dress. That cream colored dress that was far too thin a material, for far too cold a weather. He would unabashedly stare at her hard nipples poking through the sheer fabric, while biting his bottom lip until it bled a copper taste in his mouth. She wore that dress for him, of this he was without doubt. Just to torment him.
Sometimes it got too much, and his hand was not enough. He would find a willing woman to unleash his desire upon. To quench his aching thirst. Eyes closed tight, he imagined it was her writhing beneath him, which only added to his torment. For when he opened his eyes, it was never her face staring back at him, but some nameless woman.
One such night, he returned with his chosen whore, but before he could reach his room, he found her in the hallway. Guilt. Why should he feel guilt? But he did. They stood staring at each other for far too long. He saw it in her eyes. Betrayal. It was so foolish; she was not his, how could he ever betray her? But he had. He made the woman leave; he could not have anyone tonight and went to his room alone.
He lay on the bed with his hand tucked into his pants, angry. Too angry to come. The door silently opened and there she was aside his bed, an angel in the darkness. They did not speak. She reached down to crush her lips against his, and he pulled her down atop him, her body smothering his. She was hot and tight and wet and far better than even his most lurid fantasies. He wanted to savour her, but there was no time. It was fast and hard and intense and over far too quickly. She left him the instant the deed was done.
How would she look at him now? Would her forbidden glances linger or cease? Would her endless teasing and tormenting continue? Would she come to him the same the next night? Or the night after that? Or ever again at all? He did not know. But at last his torment had finally subsided. At least, until tomorrow ...