#grimarthur

[lafiametta]

Original Sin (King Arthur/Lucien Grimaud) 

by @arcticelves and @lafiametta

The Frenchman had managed to capture his attention from the moment he had been brought before Arthur, arrogant even after being forced onto his knees, and even though he embodied all that Arthur despised—a mercenary heart fueled by cruelty and immorality—Arthur could not deny that he was drawn to Grimaud, compelled by dark, forbidden desires within himself that he did not understand.

Rated E

[read on AO3]

[lafiametta]

Pas de deux (Grimaud/Arthur AU)

(A small gift for @arcticelves, just to fuel her fire! And credit to @rubysharkruby and @jamyfitzjamy for the gifs!)

The dark-haired stranger had strolled boldly into camp, as if he possessed no fear at all, and even after he was brought to Arthur’s tent and shoved onto his knees, his gaze displayed little but a flicker of bored amusement and irritation.

“Do you have a name, sirrah?” Arthur asked, as he stood from his seat at the temporary command table.

“Grimaud,” the man replied, his mouth curling to a mirthless sneer. “Lucien Grimaud.”

“A Frenchman?” Arthur paused, letting a dry laugh escape his lips, mostly for the benefit of his knights, who looked wary, their fingers itching towards the hilts of their swords, and also in the hopes of wiping that maddening expression from off of Grimaud’s face. “I see. And what is your business here? Have you lost your way somehow?”

Grimaud’s dark eyes betrayed nothing. “I wish to fight.”

“With us?” Arthur asked in surprise. 

“As long as you are fighting, yes.”

Arthur turned his back to the kneeling man and began to pace along the tent floor. The Frenchman’s effrontery seemed to know no boundaries. “You think yourself good enough to fight alongside King Arthur Pendragon and his band of loyal knights?” 

Grimaud shrugged, a mere uptick of the shoulders. “I possess some skill with the blade.”

Arthur laughed again, this time out of genuine disbelief. Grimaud’s sword — now safely in the hands of one of his knights — was thin and flimsy, and the man himself wore no armor, but only a threadbare leather jerkin that seemed barely able to protect him from the wind. He stopped to stand just a few feet in front of the Frenchman, leaning down so that their gazes were nearly level.

“We shall see.”

As their king and leader, Arthur’s knights were accustomed to obeying his commands, no matter what they might be, and so they did not hesitate when he ordered that their captive be hauled to his feet and escorted to their makeshift training ground just beyond the edge of camp. Yet Arthur could sense their surprise when, instead of directing one of them to test Grimaud’s self-proclaimed prowess, he unfastened the fur cloak from off his shoulders and unsheathed Excalibur from its scabbard. 

Grimaud, for his part, appeared entirely unconcerned with this turn of events.

At first, the Frenchman fought conventionally, stepping and parrying just as Arthur expected him to, in the ways that Arthur himself had been taught in household of his foster family, first as a squire and then a young knight. There was some skill in the way that Grimaud moved, in his anticipation of Arthur’s practiced shifts and turns, but he could not equal Arthur in strength. It was only a matter of time, Arthur thought, before a well-placed blow would land this arrogant Frenchman on his back, his neck bare to Excalibur’s bright blade. 

Still, Grimaud held his ground for longer than Arthur had thought possible, his dark eyes gleaming with every thunderous clash of their swords. Twice Arthur had managed to draw blood, pinking him in the shoulder and the left thigh, but even so, the man seemed to be enjoying this. 

Enough, Arthur thought, shaking his head. It was time for the test to be over and for the Frenchman to be on his way, defeated but having acquitted himself with honor. He took a step in retreat and shifted onto his back foot, anticipating the next moment when he would pivot along his heel, fast enough to catch Grimaud off-guard, the tip of his blade pointed directly at the man’s throat. 

And yet, when he pivoted, Grimaud’s throat was not there to meet his sword. Grimaud was not there at all. Somehow, in a movement Arthur had not been able to foresee, he had slipped past him, slithering like a snake into tall grass. 

Then, pain: a line of fire along his cheek as the point of Grimaud’s thin blade caressed it. 

From that moment on, the Frenchman fought as a man possessed. He darted and weaved, unencumbered by the heavy armor that Arthur knew was slowing his own steps, and every time Arthur thought the man was within his reach, he was gone, moving as both the hunter and the prey. He had not only begun to fight in a way that Arthur could not anticipate, he was fighting dirty, using fists and elbows and knees, a mockery of the chivalrous exchange that governed Arthur’s world.

After a time, Arthur could feel his strength fading, and yet he knew he could not let the Frenchman win. In a final effort, he raised his sword and charged, hoping he would be quick enough to throw Grimaud off-balance and Excalibur sure enough to find its rightful place against the man’s pale neck. 

But just before Arthur could strike, Grimaud lifted his sword to parry, the blades crossing mere inches from his face. With the metallic note still echoing in their ears, they held firm in their positions, facing each other and close enough, were they divested of weapons, to embrace. The only noise that could be heard was the combined rhythm of their labored breathing. Neither of them possessed the advantage and yet neither of them, it seemed, would yield. 

Their eyes met, something passing wordlessly between them that Arthur could not fully name. It was only for a moment, but long enough to allow Arthur to make some study of the Frenchman, of the fire roiling deep within those night-dark eyes, of the beads of sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, of the press of his lips as he ran the wet tip of his tongue along them. Arthur breathed in deeply, not from need, but curiosity, and under the sweat and leather he caught the hint of something sweet and smoky and undeniably male. Within his veins, his blood began to quicken, although for what reason he did not understand. The man facing him was a cheat and a blackguard and Arthur should not have wanted to have him anywhere near his band of brave and courtly knights. 

“You do possess some skill with the blade, Grimaud,” he conceded. “I will grant you that honor.”

The Frenchman squinted, his lips curling upward, in a way that could — in a certain light — almost resemble a smile. 

“I possess a great number of skills, sire. Perhaps in time we will find good use for them.”

[lafiametta]

I'd like to request #5 "Angry kiss" for Arthur/Lucien please. :)

Someone’s in the mood for a follow-up, I see! Very well — enjoy! :)

“They were prisoners of war, Grimaud,” Arthur seethed. “Under my protection!”

The Frenchman’s face was an impassive mask, impervious to Arthur’s righteous fury. Faced with their liege’s wrath, other men — perhaps even some within Arthur’s own company of knights — would have cowered, begged forgiveness, but not Grimaud. Instead, he continued to stand in the middle of Arthur’s tent, still covered in the blood and mud of the day’s battle, silent as the grave. 

Arthur found himself face-to-face with the man, wanting nothing more than to strike some visible fear into those dark eyes. 

“You offer no defense for your actions?”

Grimaud shrugged. “You’re not pleased to have a few less enemies to fight?”

Rage burned hot in Arthur’s veins, threatening to spill out uncontrollably. How did this Frenchman not understand? Did he have so little honor that he could not conceive of a world where it was all that a man could say he truly had?

“No knight of mine will be a butcher!” he bellowed, thrusting his face only a few inches away from the Frenchman’s.

Those dark hunter’s eyes — obsidian, fathomless — watched him, took all of him in, offering few secrets in return. The corners of the Frenchman’s mouth ticked up, a cruel and mocking smile set in that devilishly handsome face. His anger had not served to frighten Grimaud, Arthur realized. The man fed upon it, reveled in it, like the villain he truly was. Revulsion — mixed with something just as powerful — surged through Arthur, and he reached out to grasp Grimaud’s leather jerkin, for a moment wondering if the heart that beat just underneath it was as black as his gaze. 

The man smelled of churned earth and death, a walking charnel house, yet it only served to inflame Arthur as he pulled him close and quickly covered his mouth with his own. He might have thought to catch the Frenchman by surprise, to finally shatter some of that iron self-composure, but it was as if Grimaud had somehow known, all along, that this was what Arthur had desired. He offered no resistance, parting his lips without hesitation to allow Arthur to plunder those warm and willing depths. 

[send me a kissing prompt]