LOVE GROWS (WHEREVER YOU TURN)

LOVE GROWS (WHEREVER YOU TURN)

word count: 1,926

read on A03 or read below the cut <3

Lancelot du Lac has never been a man of faith, but the sight of Gwen wearing his clothes and looking so pliant and gentle is something that very nearly brings him to his knees. A pious man at the altar of her body. He can’t find it in himself to hold it against her.

or,

a soft morning with Gwen and a soft evening with Lancelot!

Lancelot du Lac smells like oranges and tastes like sunshine.

The first time Guinevere relayed this observation to Merlin, the other man had nudged her side with his elbow, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, so you’re in love love?”

Gwen flicked him on the arm in retaliation.

“Listen, I had to hear you waxing poetic about Arthur for years before you finally got over yourselves. Let me have this, Merlin.”

“I’m only teasing, Gwen. I’m happy for you, truly. And for Lancelot.”

“Really?”

“You and Lancelot are my best friends,” Merlin squeezed her hand gently as he spoke, blue eyes light and playful. “And I’d like to be the pageboy at your wedding.”

He earned himself two more flicks and a pinch for that.

Now, Gwen considers the simple wedding she and Lancelot had, and the small cottage they love each other in and thinks to herself that Merlin was right. She is in love love. All the time, every day. In the evenings, when they make dinner together, in the nights when he whispers that he loves her against her bare skin. In the mornings, like this one, when they’re only half awake.  Loving Lancelot is a wonderful feeling, Gwen thinks. Being loved by him is even better, and the woman knows she wouldn’t change it for the world.

The sound of Lancelot rousing behind her pulls her out of her head.

“Good morning, my love.”

She turns around and it’s at that moment that Gwen knows she will never get used to how Lancelot looks and sounds in the morning. There, in the comfort of their tiny cottage, eyes honey sticky, warm with sleepiness; looking at Guinevere like she’s heaven-sent. Slightly mussed brown curls, low and easy voice. An angel lying sweetly on the soft mattress next to her.

No, Gwen thinks. She will never get used to this.

Oblivious to her inner musings, Lancelot’s arm wraps around her and pulls her closer so that their fronts are touching. He shifts easily then, keeping one hand sweet and soft on her bare waist whilst the other moves to clasp Gwen’s fingers warmly between their bodies. Tugging her to him so that their intertwined hands rest against the place where his heart is beating.

Words aren’t needed for Gwen to understand what he’s trying to say, and she feels herself go hot under his tender gaze. After a beat, she untangles her hand from his grasp to cover her face with it, blushing.

“It’s too early for you to be looking at me like this, Lancelot.”

“Like what, sweetheart?”

At first, his voice is innocent, curious, like he hasn’t the slightest idea of the effect he has on her. But then he carries on, and Gwen realises that Lancelot is fully aware of what he’s doing.

“Like you’re the best thing to ever happen to me? Like the moment I met you, my whole world rearranged and you became its axis?”  His thumb presses circles into her hip gently before slipping under her shirt to trace the underside of her breast making it hard for her to concentrate on what he’s saying.

“No,” he muses. “It is never too early to look at my wife like she is the light of my life.”

“I am going to leave,” Gwen murmurs sitting up, ignoring the way her body craves his touch the moment it’s gone. It’s a warning, but there is no real threat behind her words.

“That’s okay,” Lancelot sounds light and easy when he replies. “Wherever you turn, I will follow.”

Then, he whispers conspiratorially, “Don’t leave just yet though. It’s warm here.”

Gwen laughs out loud at this. Sinking back into the mattress and curling up against him.

“We’ll need to get ready at some point, you know. We’re supposed to meet the others this afternoon, and I have lots to do at the castle, and- are you listening to me?”

Lancelot shakes his head, tender and sweet and ever so slightly teasing., “I am far too busy admiring my wife.”

Gwen snorts and shuffles closer. “Hm, you’re sappier than usual this morning.”

Lancelot’s fingers trace gentle patterns on her shoulder as he replies. “I am a man in love, Guinevere. Can you blame me?”

They have been married for over a year now, but hearing Lancelot so openly profess his love for her still causes the butterflies to take flight once again in Gwen’s stomach.

“I love you too, Lancelot.”

His eyes light up slightly at this and Gwen feels her heart flutter. Despite the fact that nowadays she’s no stranger to telling Lancelot that she loves him, there was a time when she had said it sparingly - too shy and too worried it would be overstepping her place as a servant. Now, she says it often because she knows that with Lancelot she doesn’t need to be shy, and he knows exactly how to chase her worries away.

“What’s going on up there, my love?” The man taps her temple once, twice.

“I’m just happy.”  

“Good. Stay like that forever.” Then, Lancelot sits up, and Gwen has to hold back the urge to not laugh at the way his curls stand up at different angles.

“What are you doing?” She makes to sit up too but Lancelot pushes her back down gently.

“I’m going to make my beautiful, wonderful wife some breakfast.” Lancelot leans over her to presses kisses to her temple, then the tip of her nose, and finally her mouth.

“You stay right here, dove,” the words are murmured against her skin. “As pretty as a painting.”

He pulls away then, leaving Gwen with the taste of sunshine on her lips.

_____________________________

Guinevere smells like rosemary and tastes like strawberries and Lancelot tells her this one summer afternoon.

They’re in a meadow on the outskirts of Camelot with their friends, Gwen’s head in his lap as his fingers card through her hair gently. Nearby, Gwaine is talking about his newest conquest - a barmaid at the tavern. Merlin is laughing and Arthur is too. Elyan, Percival, and Leon are sparring good-naturedly in the distance.

Lancelot, however, has eyes only for Gwen. The gentle slope of her jawline. The loose curls that brush over her forehead whenever the wind picks up a little. The pretty pink dress that hugs her figure.

She looks beautiful like this, he thinks. Safe and tender and so lovely that Lancelot is half thinking that he must have made her up.

When he says so, Gwen just shakes her head and laughs, “I’m real, Lance. I’m right here.”

Lancelot brushes a thumb over her cheekbone, smiling down at her. “Sometimes I do not know what I have done to deserve you.”

Then, Lancelot catches the tail end of Gwaine's musings beside him and looks up at his friend who is still rambling about the barmaid.

“She’s so lovely . Her eyes are the warmest brown I’ve ever seen. And her voice, oh it could part the clouds and make sunshine return.”

“And when do you hear her voice, Gwaine?” Merlin’s head is on Arthur's shoulder, hand intertwined with his when he asks.

Gwaine’s reply is lovesick and sappy. “When she’s cutting me off or kicking me out.”

“She kicks you out?” Gwen sits up laughing, pulling herself from Lancelot’s lap and dusting herself off. Lancelot suppressed the urge to protest, missing her already, but Gwen leans her head on his shoulder before he can complain.

“Quite often,” Gwaine smiles dopily in response to Gwen’s question. “It’s how we flirt.”

Arthur looks like he’s about to tell Gwaine that it’s not flirting at all, but Merlin pokes the king in his ribs once and silences him.

It’s a wonderful thing, Lancelot thinks, that they found eachother. He’s about to say so to Gwen, but when he looks down, he finds her eyes shut and her lips slightly parted. Asleep.

Lancelot doesn't have it in him to rouse her, so he stays stock still instead, indulging Gwaine’s antics as his wife sleeps on.

The hours pass and afternoon turns to evening. As the other men begin to pack their belongings, Lancelot nudges Gwen’s cheek gently and the woman opens one bleary eye.

“Time to go?”

“Yes, my love. You fell asleep.”

“Oh,” she lowers her eyes a little - embarrassed. “Sorry, I had a long day.”

Lancelot wishes he could chance away her every insecurity with his sword unsheathed. “You don’t have to apologise for resting, Guinevere.” He helps her up, walking her to their horses as she dusts her skirts off.  “C’mon,” he smiles, stopping in front of his mount, “We can ride together.”

“I can ride on my own, Lancelot. I’m okay.”

But Lancelot can see the way her eyelids droop a little and so he shakes his head resolutely.

“You’re dead on your feet is what you are. Ride with me, it won’t hurt.”

Guinevere is too tired to protest clearly because when he lifts her up onto his horse carefully, sitting behind her and grabbing the reins, she doesn’t say a word.

“You can lean back, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And so Gwen leans back into him. Her body fitting perfectly into the slight curve that his makes.

“Sleep, my love. I’ll wake you up when we reach home.”

By the time they get back, Gwen is asleep again. Pliant and warm against him.

Lancelot pulls her down from the horse and into his arms easily, making his way to the front door. Gwen mumbles softly and Lancelot holds her tighter as he shoulders his way in.  The next time he looks down at her, Lancelot finds Gwen looking up at him. Eyes tired and soft.

“There she is,” he keeps his voice gentle, careful to not speak too loudly.

He sets her down on two feet, moves behind her, and begins to untie her dress as Gwen yawns.

“Tired?”

She hums in agreement and stretches her neck slowly.

“Sore?”

“A little,” she concedes. “I had a lot to do at the castle today.”

Lancelot wishes Gwen wouldn’t work herself so hard, but it’s late and she’s sleepy, and he doesn’t have it in him to risk upsetting her over something like that. He promises himself that he’ll bring it up tomorrow, but for now, he focuses on his wife. Moving back so he’s facing her again, Lancelot rubs Gwen’s cheek gently.

“Arms up for me?”

Guinevere obliges, raising her arms so he can pull her second layer off, a light pink shirt that matches the darker tones of the dress. Then she’s bare before him, and Lancelot has to force his legs not to buckle underneath him.

“Here,” he murmurs, passing her one of his shirts. “Before you kill me.”

Gwen just laughs, pulling it on as she leans into him ever so slightly.

“I would never kill you, Lancelot. I like you too much.” She walks over to the bed and flops onto it, eyes blissfully shut.

(Lancelot du Lac has never been a man of faith, but the sight of Gwen wearing his clothes and looking so pliant and gentle is something that brings him to his knees. He can’t find it in himself to hold it against her).

Rapidly, he changes out of his own clothes before joining her, pulling the covers around them both before tugging Gwen into his chest.  His wife burrows into him with a sleepy smile, a hand moving up to find his.

Lancelot falls asleep to the smell of rosemary and the sound of Guinevere’s gentle breathing.

does anyone know what Foxface’s real name was? wikia says it was finch but i dont remember that in the books? 

Half serious/half joking: though not totally perfect, I like how the main PotC trio's bird names can reflect aspects of their personalities or stories.

Sparrows: The biggest stretch of the three, because it's a very communal land bird and such... but still some interesting things. Highly adaptable--can survive in a wide variety of environments; scavenger and opportunist; takes what it can from humans, gives (almost) nothing back; considered a nuisance by a lot of people, and there are laws in some places to get rid of them; will poach other birds' nests when it can; can actually swim when it needs to; super horny--literally traditionally associated with lust 'cause they do like rabbits; if it can find a mate it's mostly monogamous--they may find sidepieces they mate with away from their nest, and they might end up being a third-wheel 'helper' of a monogamous pair, waiting to be a back-up mate in case the current mate dies or whatever...

Swans: Water and land birds; have a reputation for appearing 'elegant' but can give geese a run for their money as the most aggressive assholes in their environment (don't mess with their families); mate for life, and are symbols of long-lasting love; many choose their mate before they're adults--they just bond and wait things out together until they're old enough for mating etc.; depending on species, mated pairs even migrate long distances together

Terns: The only true seabird of the three; beak pointy and stabby--and some species will throw down; artic terns are extremely aggressive ala Australian magpies, and will swoop or fight even humans, raptor birds or polar bears to protect its family--and they will draw blood; dives for fish--but knows how to use more powerful allies to make fish easier to catch (following dolphins, boats etc. that bring the fish to the surface for easier diving); mostly monogamous, with some noted instances of throuples; also noted for 'lesbian' pairings in a small number of species; doesn't have much of a nest a lot of the time--some have sparse nests on cliffs, BUT some species build cool floating boat-nests and live on the water with their families; artic terns in specific make the longest known migration in the animal kingdom, flying pole to pole bi-annually--enough to literally travel to the moon and back three times in the course of its lifetime

that damned lake

Post mockingjay drabble prompt if you're not too busy 😜😜 I've read so may fics where katniss is insecure about her scars and peeta helps her overcome that insecurity, but I've only come across maybe one or two fanfics where peeta is insecure about his prosthetic etc- and I really wanna read about that. Who better to ask than the Fandom's top drabble author

It's easily the hottest day of the summer by far. The sun is setting as I leave the house, and somehow the air is still liquid.

I'm on my way to town to get Peeta from where he's working on building the new bakery. He said he would be home late, that it was a big and physically taxing day, but I don't want to wait any longer. I miss him.

I pick flowers as I go, and by the time the square comes into view, I'm holding a handful of wildflowers and daffodils.

Peeta is lost in what he's doing and still working hard when I get there. He has his back turned and his shirt is soaked with sweat, which is no wonder - he's got long pants on when, guaranteed, the rest of the District wore shorts today. It's the only way to survive heat like this.

"Hi," I say, making my footsteps extra loud so I don't spook him.

He turns around and his eyes light up when he sees me. "Oh," he says. "Hey." He wipes the sweat from his brow and stands up straight, placing his hands on his hips as he looks around. "Wow. It got late."

"Come home," I say. He's alone here, the rest of his team has left for the night, and there's no reason to stay any longer.

"Alright," he says, then clears the area, locks up the tools, and walks with me down the path that leads back to our house.

"For you," I say, handing him my homemade bouquet after we've been walking for a few minutes.

He grins and thanks me, then slips a purple cleome behind my ear. I do the same for him, tucking a black-eyed Susan behind his left, and a pink butterbur behind his right.

We walk hand-in-hand the rest of the way home, and when we get there I put the remainder of the flowers in a mason jar with water.

Before he can even get upstairs, Peeta strips off his soaked shirt and hangs it over the railing. I turn to look at him, pause my flower arranging, and say, "Weren't you hot today?"

"Boiling," he says, standing there with a sweaty, gleaming chest.

I scan his body slowly, not because of the way it ignites everything within me - although, it does - but because I'm studying his attire. "Shorts would help," I say.

A strange look crosses his face and he shrugs, offering no verbal reply. Then, he tells me he's going upstairs to take a shower.

I linger in the kitchen for a moment after he leaves, wondering what that expression was about, his quiet discomfort. It only takes a moment until it dawns on me - he's self-conscious about his leg.

I set the mason jar down and think of how he never wears anything other than long pants - not ever. Not to bed, not to work, not to relax around the house. I can't remember the last time I saw bare skin lower than his waist, not even on his feet. He wears socks at all times, no matter what.

I furrow my eyebrows as a lump appears in my throat. I don't know how I didn't notice this sooner.

There was a time not that long ago when I did everything I could to hide my burn scars and skin grafts, but the way Peeta loves me through them chased that phase away. Now, I can wear shorts to town like I did tonight without thinking twice, even though my legs are mottled and jagged still.

Resolute, I ascend the stairs and change clothes while Peeta is still in the shower. I put on a light and airy t-shirt of his that I wear to bed often; it hangs to my mid-thighs and smells just like him. I have my nose pressed to the shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent, when he comes into the room.

He's already wearing pajama pants, like I guessed he would be, but no shirt. I can't help but notice the way he's scratching his left leg, near the knee. The skin is probably irritated - it needs to breathe. It's needed to breathe for a long time.

He smiles when he sees me. "Hey, pretty," he say, then kisses the top of my head before sitting beside me.

I don't lean into him like I normally would, though. Instead, I get up as soon as he sits down and kneel in front of him, and he gives me a flustered look.

"Katniss-"

"Please, let me," I say, both hands poised at the bottom hem of his pajama pants. I make firm eye contact and say it again. "Please."

Ever-so-slightly, he nods, so I move forward. First, I take his socks off and fold them, placing them back in the drawer he got them from before his shower. Then, I take my time in rolling up his left pant leg.

Inch by inch, the titanium is exposed. It's cool to the touch, which is soothing under my fingers, but his skin around the knee where the leg connects is hot and chafed.

"Oh, Peeta," I say, then reach for the lotion on the dresser behind me.

"You don't have to do this," he says. I look up and his expression is muddy and unsure. "I know it's not pleasant. I don't like looking at it, either. I can do this myself."

"I'm not bothered by it," I say honestly. "I'm not bothered by anything of yours."

He swallows hard and says, "You're sure?"

"It's a part of you," I say, then press my lips to the round of his knee. I look up at him and smooth my hand over the seam between his skin and the artificial leg. "Your skin is all dry. Can I take care of it?"

He nods and bends forward, his fingers working expertly to release the hold that the titanium has on what's left of his leg. After he removes it and sets it to the side, he can't look at me - he turns his head and closes his eyes, and when I touch him, he actually flinches.

So, I go slow. I rub the lotion between my hands and coat his stump with it, which seems to bring him a considerable amount of relief. I was right - the skin was parched, but the lotion helps almost right away.

After the first layer is on, I blow a stream of cool air onto his skin, and he flinches again.

"Katniss," he says quietly. "Why are you doing this?"

I take his hand and lace our fingers together, which is what finally gets him to look at me. When he does, I see that his eyes are glistening with tears.

"You would do it for me," I say. "You have done it for me."

In the low light, I watch a tear roll down his cheek and quickly disappear. I stay down by his legs and put another layer of lotion on, then help it dry again by blowing on it.

"Keep it off tonight," I suggest softly.

"You don't mind seeing - feeling..." he begins, but loses his words.

"I don't mind anything," I assure him. "It's you, Peeta. I love every part of you."

He chews the inside of his cheek and nods, then agrees when I suggest he take off the suffocating pajama pants too. When he lies next to me, his body can breathe and soak in the weak breeze coming in from the perpetually open window. It must feel nice.

I pull him into my arms before I close my eyes and, unlike how he usually does, he doesn't direct the lower half of his body away from me. For the first time, we fall asleep with not only our top halves pressed together, but our legs tangled up under the sheets too.