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limerental · 2 months ago

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ficletvember 2024 - day 4

meve/reynard post-canon gooey fluff with a touch of chivalry/praise kink

A sleepy Reynard misspeaks, inspiring Meve to indulge in sharing a silly girlhood fantasy.

It's a simple slip of the tongue one morning, a misplaced word heavy with sleep. Both the Queen and her consort are slower to rouse these days, loathe to leave a warm bed for their duties in the winter chill of the castle.

Reynard in particular has never slept so deeply, rising slowly to consciousness with little sighs and grumbles rather than snapping alert, and Meve delights in it, rolling to her belly to tuck her face against his sleep-warm shoulder and trail her fingers across the span of his chest as he mumbles nonsense and groggily protests her occasional whispered requests that he wake.

Some mornings, she wakes him more pleasantly, rising to straddle him or slipping beneath the bedcovers, but the hour is already late enough that the servants meant to dress and feed them and prepare them for the day are likely growing antsy waiting outside their shared bedchamber, as they’ve instructed them to do.

In truth, tradition dictates separate bedrooms, which they maintain for the occasional sleepless night, but they’ve gladly shirked tradition and wasted far too much time to sleep apart.

As much as Meve would love to lie here beside him half the morning, to allow Reynard as many moments of peaceful comfort as he deserves after everything, both of them have too many responsibilities looming.

Meve prods him in the ribs and rises on an elbow above him, giving to the impulse to press a brief kiss to his jaw, rough with the previous day’s stubble.

“Reynard,” she says, “it’s time you woke. What ever are you dreaming about?”

“Urgghhff,” he huffs, slack brow tightening as his eyelids flutter, gaze unfocused. “Hmmph?”

Meve prods him more insistently.

“Up,” she says. “No more lazing about.”

“Mmm,” Reynard hums and blinks open his eyes. She knows she’s gotten through at last when he stretches, groggy but conscious, and reaches for her, touching a hand to her cheek as she looms above him. He appears so openly besotted as he looks up at her, that Meve feels her face grow hot. His thumb strokes her cheekbone, as gently as though touching thin-blown glass. His eyes drift shut again.

“Reynard,” she says, her voice hardening into the sharpness of an order. “Wake up. On your feet.”

He’s fully awake at once, stiffening to sit up with covers pushed aside.

“Yes, Sir,” he tells her firmly, realizing only a moment later what he’s called her by mistake. “I mean… Your Grace… err… Meve.”

Meve giggles breathlessly, deeply amused by his mortified expression as much as the slip of the tongue, and she forgets their waiting duties and antsy servants and rises to straddle his lap, planting a hand flat against the ridge of scar tissue at his sternum to tip him backwards against the pillows.

“Call me that again,” she says, laughing. “Sir Meve, hmm?”

“M-my apologies,” stutters Reynard, “if I’d been more awake, I wouldn’t’ve–” Tutting over his embarrassed flush, she catches her fingers in his greying hair to kiss him soundly in apology for the teasing.

“Oh hush. I must confess I like how it sounds,” she says even as she coaxes Reynard’s hands to grip her hips, her own hand stealing between their bodies to cup his morning erection. There’s truly no time for such intimacy, but then again, all of Rivia and Lyria can wait beyond their bedchamber as long as she wishes.

“Meve, we should–”

She shushes him and kisses down his throat and does not hesitate to lift her hips and settle him inside her body, delighting in his quickening breath and pinched brow as much as she had his relaxed slumber.

“D’you know as a child I yearned for th’ day I’d be knighted and all would have to call me sir rather than princess?” She rocks back as she speaks, tangling their fingers together at her hips. “My mother had to inform me of th’ proper title. Unfortunately, Dame doesn’t have quite th’ same appeal.”

Reynard laughs, breathless.

“Call me it again,” she says.

“Sir,” says Reynard, “yes, Sir.”

His hips move up against hers, and she remembers as a girl dreaming of gleaming armor and glorious battle, of earning the respect and adoration of doting tournament crowds. Of being powerful and important, far more than a simple princess destined to be married off into the meek servitude of matrimony and motherhood.

Gripping tight to lean against the leverage of clasp of their hands and Reynard’s raised arms, Meve tells him every foolish fantasy, even as he responds in turn, muttering praise against the skin of her breast, looking up at her through dark lashes as they move together.

The repeated, earnest whispers of sir warm her thoroughly.

They laugh together, sweaty and spent.

Meve knows she has no need of the fanfare of admiring crowds, though these days they wait anywhere she goes. She cares only to have earned the respect and doting adoration of this man beneath her, who would follow her into any battle and indulge her any silly fantasy.

#my fic #ficletvember #thronebreaker #meve x reynard

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limerental · 1 year ago

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ficletvember 2023 - day 19

meve/reynard pegging pwp

Meve and Reynard finally find the time and privacy to test out Barnabas' gifted invention for releasing tension. this follows from day 7's ficlet and contains the promised smut

Meve paused, breath held, as her command was readily obeyed.

The sight alone should not have been so disarming, but though she and her general had fumbled together for months now, it had ever been in the dark or wholly-clothed or with her pressed beneath him. Little time spent simply looking.

Reynard's shoulders were broad and lightly-freckled, the dip of his spine and the muscle of his arms accentuated by his lean forward against his elbows. The browned line of a tan stood out on the nape of his neck, meeting skin deeply pale.

Giving to an impulse, Meve leaned to press her mouth there against the nob of his spine, feeling Reynard shudder as her bare breasts pressed to his shoulder.

On the open road, there had always been some reason to be found which made taking their time impractical. There was work to be done. Recruits were too near. The canvas walls were too thin. Anyone could walk into the command tent.

Meve had tried not to take offense at how swiftly Reynard seemed to right himself after their affairs, returning to his uniform neatness and composure before she could even catch her panting breath.

And Barnabas had been right in their conversation several weeks past. He rarely seemed more relaxed during or after their engagements. He tensed for any foot fall and resumed his duties immediately afterward, never lingering.

Once Meve noticed Reynard's tension, she pledged to launch a campaign to ease it. If even for a moment.

It had taken some rigorous planning, including an uncomfortable conversation with Isbel about logistics and a similarly uncomfortable chat with the eavesdropping Gascon, whose vulgar hand gestures had unfortunately proven quite helpful.

Then, there was the matter of a private location. The opportunity arose when a baron whose estate the army travelled past offered her lodging for the night. The poor man had been dumbfounded when his proud queen requested the use of his gardener's cottage.

It was quaint and humble, but at last, there was a door that locked and a bed with a half-decent mattress and little chance of being overheard.

With some coaxing and prodding and promises that Gascon would make the proper excuses for them if any asked, Reynard had agreed to join her.

All that careful planning had prepared her neither for the way his face flushed as she lay out her intentions nor the swiftness with which he agreed.

It was a vulnerable position that she asked him to take. If it were not wholly in pursuit of his pleasure, she may have felt a tug of guilt at asking it of him at all. She was not ignorant of crass camp jests about the demeaning nature of such an act, how a receptive role diminished a man's masculinity.

Reynard had scoffed at her concerns. No touch of her hand could ever be demeaning and any man with such misguided notions must not be secure in his manhood.

And so, after helping one another shed each piece of their armour, sharing slow kisses as their bare skin brushed, Meve had bid Reynard to lie on his belly.

She had been advised to start with careful slowness and would not have considered otherwise.

Candlelight flickered across the muscled plane of his back, and though Meve could not claim to have had many male lovers, she had never seen a man's body so alluring.

Her hand smoothed down the soft curve of his back, her calloused hands feeling small against the breadth of him. His waist was comparatively narrow, and she tightened her grip there a moment, pleased to hear his hitch of breath and feel the shift of muscle beneath her palm. The contrast was delightful, like velvet over steel.

She was surprised to find his backside, though horribly and blindingly pale, to be an ample handful, soft and supple as she dared to cup the flesh in her hand. Gathering from what she enjoyed in such a position, she firmed her touch into a squeeze and murmured her every intention against the span of his shoulder.

Meve wished to see him give to her, to lose the taut stiffness of his shoulders and forget himself. She wanted to hear him call out his pleasure without heeding volume. She wanted him to feel the same care that she felt beneath his hands.

And of course, she assured him that other pleasures could be had if the sensation was not to his liking.

They had all night and nothing to concern themselves with but one another.

Reaching to the table beside the bed, she cracked the lid of the small jar Isbel had given her and pressed her fingers into the oily concoction. Feeling it warm in hand, faintly humming with magic, she fought against further hesitation and slipped her slick fingers down the cleft of his arse.

Rubbing with careful pressure, she let herself look. Reynard's sparse body hair thickened at his tailbone. Though that private part of his body appeared perfectly average and mundane, not particularly arousing, a thrill of excitement went through her as she watched a finger slip past the pink ring of muscle. It required an exquisite sort of trust. That he allowed her to touch there. That he believed do readily in her sworn promise to help him feel good, even though she felt less certain given her lack of experience.

At first, he clenched against her, his unmatched self-control and desire to please her warring with the uptight tension he naturally held in every line of his body.

When at last he managed to relax the appropriate muscles, her finger slipping in easily to the last knuckle, Meve muttered senseless praise as she held there. How warm he was inside, how velvet-soft, how good it was to see the tension loosen from his shoulders.

Determined to see that looseness follow through his whole body, she rubbed with careful pressure and gently crooked her fingers in the ways she had been instructed.

She had been told that some men found the stimulation of the nerve-rich organ to be oversensitive rather than pleasurable, but she learned almost at once that it was not so for Reynard.

He breathed that he'd always wondered what drove a man to buggery and oh, now he understood.

Quietly, he confessed that his attraction to men had only gone so far as the use of hands and mouths, had never trusted another man enough to engage in what he had assumed to be an unpleasant experience for the receptive partner.

Meve pressed a second finger in to join the other, pleased with Reynard's small grunts and whines of sound but desiring to inspire more. At last, he cried out on a firm stroke. He spoke into the mattress that if her fingers alone felt like this, he could only imagine her cock, and Meve felt so wet between her legs she felt she would drip with it.

Patience had never been one of Meve's virtues, but she did not wish to cause the man beneath her any discomfort in her haste. She took great and thorough care with her ministrations and was rewarded with the sight of Reynard's back arched below her, the meat of her hand cupping his arse as he breathed open-mouthed against the bed linens.

Straining her own self-control, she waited until his began to fray at the edges, trembling through his shoulders as his reassurances that he could handle more took on a desperate edge.

Unfortunately, readying herself required leaving the bed to fetch Barnabas’ gifted invention and recall how the contraption was meant to be worn.

Reynard rose beside her. He held the harness out for her to step into with hands on his shoulders, made clumsy in her haste. The brush of his fingers as he helped adjust the buckles at her hips and test their tightness like one would a horse's bridle nearly drove her to madness with their gentle attention.

Without being asked, he lay back down on his belly, propped on his elbows with neck dropped forward in quiet submission.

She nearly wept with the feeling that struck her then. How satisfying it felt to be trusted so completely, to be respected equally.

When Reynard had first confessed his years of yearning for her, she had feared that her reality would not live up to his ideal of her, that he had made her more grand in his mind as his Queen than the woman she was when stripped bare before him.

She had worried also that her station would make him feel unfairly compelled to obey, forgetting his own needs to appease hers. That even asking him to relent to his own pleasure would be something he did out of honour-bound duty rather than earnestly enjoyed.

Her hesitance led him to look back over his shoulder, a flush of anticipation colouring his cheekbones. His expression was as softened as she had ever seen it, and Meve knew she need not have worried.

He had told her plainly that he wanted her in any way that she desired and expressed a hope that she felt the same.

Meve certainly wanted him. She wanted with a crushing depth and intensity that surprised her.

With that desire quickening her heartbeat, she lay her body over his, her pelvis flush to his backside, knowing he would keenly feel the solid firmness of the phallus.

Sneaking a hand between their bodies, she found him loose and open for her. The slick sound of her oiled hand warmed through her belly, and Reynard breathed in measured huffs, more cracks showing in his collection.

Fearing that further delay would drive both of them mad, Meve pressed a kiss to the bone of Reynard's shoulderblade and guided the weight of the phallus inside him.

Barnabas had explained that there was a touch of ancient gnomish magic woven into the device, and she understood his meaning now as tingles of sensation crept up her spine. It was not quite as tangible as she imagined her own flesh and blood would be, but there was clear sensation. A heat and a pressure. It spread to her own core in an echo of feeling.

When she asked if Reynard was well, sweeping her hand up through his sweat-damp hair in a soothing gesture, he cursed aloud with a vulgarity that she had never heard from him and bid her to move her hips.

Clumsy at first and unsure of the proper angle, Meve steadied his hips with both hands, brow furrowed in concentration. She drove forward in even thrusts as he visibly willed his muscles to bear down and welcome her.

Praise fell from her lips, sweet and earnestly filthy in ways she hadn't thought herself capable. The words had the desired effect on Reynard, soon looking overwhelmed and deeply flustered.

Leaning across his broad back, she snuck a hand beneath him, not able to do much more in the limited space than to hold her palm against the overheated firmness of his cock and feel him rut against his belly and the ridges of her fingers.

Time seemed to stretch. Their bodies grew slippery with the sweat of exertion. Meve was glad for the strength of her thighs. The pace required to inspire deepening groans and curses would have been difficult to maintain if her legs and back were not well-muscled and used to strain.

Were she a man, no muscle would have helped her. She would have embarrassed herself within a few, short thrusts inside him.

To their joint surprise, the phallus began to hum and vibrate as their pleasure crested, driving them both to their peaks, and together, they were lost.

Meve had barely regained her breath when the sight before her fluttering eyes took it again. This time with a deep swell of affection. Collapsed forward on the mattress, his body loose and pliant, pinched brow finally relaxed, Reynard half-dozed beneath her.

As she withdrew the phallus, he shifted to look at her, but she shushed him with a long stroke of both hands down his back, lest he tense again. She hurried to release herself from the harness, kicking it free of her legs, and lay down beside him with an arm slung across his shoulders.

She rested their foreheads together and neither moved for a long while.

Later, when she lay on her back with his body moving above and within her, curled down with consuming heat around her, she snuck her hand behind him to delve two searching fingers into his entrance still loose with oil. His helpless cry and the stutter of his thrusts as he spent almost at once surprised them both, and she laughed against the slump of his shoulder as he moaned in embarrassment at his failure to contain himself.

With whispered reassurance, he laughed as well, quiet huffs into her hair that felt more precious than any sound she had ever heard.

She had never heard him laugh.

When she told him how dearly she liked that sound and should like to hear more of it, he drew back to look at her, eyes brimming with tenderness. She was sorry to have sobered him, apology forgotten when he leaned close for a deep kiss full of words unspoken.

If they survived this war unscathed and victorious, she knew there would be many years of laughter and released tension to come.

#my fic #ficletvember #this is SOOOOOOOO gooey tender i swear 2 god #meve x reynard #thronebreaker #i know i just wrote meve yesterday but i'm possessed #november? more like Mevember

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