((Contains situations of an adult nature.))
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As handsome as Rhys looked in his medieval garb, there were certain things about it that were a little too practical to make it easy getting him out of his new clothing. One such part of his get-up was his boots, which required the effort of both of them to get off. Hence the wonderful scene the pair of them would have presented, had anyone been able to see them - the Priestess of Avalon, her back to the Champion, his leg between her thighs as she heaved on his boot, trying to slide it from his foot without dragging him out of his seat in the same motion. She was also giggling, absolutely aware of how ridiculous they looked. "Stop tensing your foot, it won't come off unless you relax!"
As for Rhys, Nat's giggling was only aggravating an already aggravated Champion. "How am I supposed to relax when it feels like you're trying to pull my leg off"!" he snapped back, holding onto the chair with both hands so that he didn't end up on his *ss on the floor. "What the hell good are boots you can't get off?" Though he knew he looked good in the medieval get-up, he longed for his comfy pair of worn-out blue jeans and a simple t-shirt. "These things are a medieval torture device!" he complained further. Once he got started, it was hard to stop. He scowled, screwing up his face as he tried to tug his foot from the stubborn boot. "I don't know..." He paused as he tugged harder. "...why it has to be so..."
Nat let out a whoop of startled laughter as the boot suddenly shifted, his foot sliding free. Unfortunately, this sent her pitching forward into a rolling flail of limbs that only ended when she came up against the dry stone wall, his boot clutched triumphantly in her hands as she grinned up at him. "You were saying, dusha moya?" she asked sweetly, pushing herself to sit up as her brown eyes twinkled with teasing amusement. "Something about it being ....hard, perhaps?"
As she pitched forward, he went in the opposite direction, the momentum of the struggle to yank his foot from the boot sending him and the chair toppling over backwards to collide with the floor with a hard thump and groan. He laid there for a moment, stunned and annoyed, before climbing to his feet and scowling over at her, hands on his hips, one boot on, one boot off. For a moment, he was worried she was hurt, but his worries were quickly allayed by the teasing grin on her face. "You wish," he teased back, alluding not to the boot, but a particular part of his anatomy, though it could be argued that it was his head that was hard. He frowned down at the feet, wiggling the toes of his freed foot, while the other was still encased in leather. "I'm not wearing those again, just so you know."
She laughed, reaching to drum her fingers against the boot he still wore. "We can take them to a cobbler, have him fit them with buckles, rather than expect you to pull them on and off," she suggested. "But this is your ceremonial wear now. You cannot go without your boots." She leaned up behind him and pulled the chair back into place. "Now sit down, and let us get the other one off before you start sulking."
Too late. He was already sulking. He backed away from her like she was trying to torture him, rather than help him, lifting his hands in the air, palms toward her, to fend her off. "Oh, no, not again. You're not getting anywhere near me. You almost pulled my knee out! I'll do it myself," he announced stubbornly, standing slightly lopsided with one boot on and one off. "Buckles!" he exclaimed, belatedly. "They ever hear of laces" By the way, why no forks" They have modern plumbing, but no forks. It doesn't make sense. It's like living at a Ren Faire. I can take a shower, but I have to eat with my fingers. The hell is that?"
"I do not know, perhaps you should ask the Lady," Nat told him, just as stubborn as he was, rising onto her feet. She tossed the liberated boot underneath the bed, advancing on him as he backed away from her. "Avalon turns to her will, after all. Don't you think she has the right to keep most things as she remembers them?" Her finger poked against his chest as she grinned. "Sit down, Rhys, or I will knock you down."
"Oh, come on! Is she afraid someone is going to put their eye out?" He brushed her hand away from his chest and backed up further, backing himself right into a wall. "I'm warning you. What's the Lady gonna say when I end up on crutches because of those boots?" he asked, blaming the boots, rather than Nat. He leaned against the wall, a strained look on his face as he tried to pry the stubborn boot from his foot.
Pausing where she was, Nat laid her hands on her hips, watching him hop and strain, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. After all, there was a reason why noblemen throughout the ages had always employed someone to help them dress and undress. "You did not start complaining about them until it was time to take them off," she reminded him laughingly. "Now are you going to stand there looking ridiculous, or are you going to let me help you?"
"I don't....look....ridiculous!" he argued between stubborn hops and tugs, his face flushing as he fought a losing battle against the boot. Giving up at last and slightly out of breath, he finally dropped onto the chair with an annoyed huff and a few muttered expletives beneath his breath. He pouted up at her like a child. "It won't come off," he told her defeatedly. "It's like they're cursed or something."
She watched this performance with a lurking smile, obviously deeply amused by his stubbornness and just as deeply certain he was going to fail in the end. "Not cursed, love," she promised him. "Made perfectly for your feet." Leaning down, she curled her hands to his cheeks and brushed a soft kiss to his lips. "Just relax. Trust me." She let her fingers trail down over the leather of his jerkin, across his thighs, and finally turned her back to him again, lifting one leg over his to bend forward and raise his booted foot into the air. One hand curled beneath his heel, and she began to pull slowly, inexorably, daring the rebellious bit of footwear to fight back this time.
"I do trust you. It's the boot I don't trust," he pouted up at her even as she kissed his lips, gaze following her as her finger traveled down his chest and across his thighs. "You're trying to distract me," he accused, feeling the effects of her distraction, but one piece of tight clothing was enough to deal with at the moment. He cringed as she lifted his foot in the air and commenced to play tug of war with the stubborn piece of leather once again, grabbing hold of her hips this time so that neither of them went *ss over teakettle.
"Of course I'm trying to distract you," she admitted cheerfully, unable to quite deny the ripple of tension that flowed out through her from his grip on her hips. Even the most innocent of touches from Rhys could do interesting things to her insides. She gritted her teeth, slowly increasing the strength of her pull on his boot. "You're not ....exactly ....trying not to be ....distracted - oh!" With a swish of leather, the boot came free, and this time her momentum was already redirected, dropping her back into Rhys' lap with a triumphant laugh. "We won!"
He wiggled his foot this time, relaxing and moving with the leather as Nat loosened its hold on his foot and it seemed to come sliding off much easier this time. His gaze was focused on the view of her backside as she wiggled this way and that, his hands gripping her hips firmly, distracted by the view. "It's not my fault you're distracting," he replied, defensively. "Umph," he grunted, as she unexpectedly dropped into his lap, right onto the proof of his distraction, causing him a different kind of discomfort, catching her too late.
As handsome as Rhys looked in his medieval garb, there were certain things about it that were a little too practical to make it easy getting him out of his new clothing. One such part of his get-up was his boots, which required the effort of both of them to get off. Hence the wonderful scene the pair of them would have presented, had anyone been able to see them - the Priestess of Avalon, her back to the Champion, his leg between her thighs as she heaved on his boot, trying to slide it from his foot without dragging him out of his seat in the same motion. She was also giggling, absolutely aware of how ridiculous they looked. "Stop tensing your foot, it won't come off unless you relax!"
As for Rhys, Nat's giggling was only aggravating an already aggravated Champion. "How am I supposed to relax when it feels like you're trying to pull my leg off"!" he snapped back, holding onto the chair with both hands so that he didn't end up on his *ss on the floor. "What the hell good are boots you can't get off?" Though he knew he looked good in the medieval get-up, he longed for his comfy pair of worn-out blue jeans and a simple t-shirt. "These things are a medieval torture device!" he complained further. Once he got started, it was hard to stop. He scowled, screwing up his face as he tried to tug his foot from the stubborn boot. "I don't know..." He paused as he tugged harder. "...why it has to be so..."
Nat let out a whoop of startled laughter as the boot suddenly shifted, his foot sliding free. Unfortunately, this sent her pitching forward into a rolling flail of limbs that only ended when she came up against the dry stone wall, his boot clutched triumphantly in her hands as she grinned up at him. "You were saying, dusha moya?" she asked sweetly, pushing herself to sit up as her brown eyes twinkled with teasing amusement. "Something about it being ....hard, perhaps?"
As she pitched forward, he went in the opposite direction, the momentum of the struggle to yank his foot from the boot sending him and the chair toppling over backwards to collide with the floor with a hard thump and groan. He laid there for a moment, stunned and annoyed, before climbing to his feet and scowling over at her, hands on his hips, one boot on, one boot off. For a moment, he was worried she was hurt, but his worries were quickly allayed by the teasing grin on her face. "You wish," he teased back, alluding not to the boot, but a particular part of his anatomy, though it could be argued that it was his head that was hard. He frowned down at the feet, wiggling the toes of his freed foot, while the other was still encased in leather. "I'm not wearing those again, just so you know."
She laughed, reaching to drum her fingers against the boot he still wore. "We can take them to a cobbler, have him fit them with buckles, rather than expect you to pull them on and off," she suggested. "But this is your ceremonial wear now. You cannot go without your boots." She leaned up behind him and pulled the chair back into place. "Now sit down, and let us get the other one off before you start sulking."
Too late. He was already sulking. He backed away from her like she was trying to torture him, rather than help him, lifting his hands in the air, palms toward her, to fend her off. "Oh, no, not again. You're not getting anywhere near me. You almost pulled my knee out! I'll do it myself," he announced stubbornly, standing slightly lopsided with one boot on and one off. "Buckles!" he exclaimed, belatedly. "They ever hear of laces" By the way, why no forks" They have modern plumbing, but no forks. It doesn't make sense. It's like living at a Ren Faire. I can take a shower, but I have to eat with my fingers. The hell is that?"
"I do not know, perhaps you should ask the Lady," Nat told him, just as stubborn as he was, rising onto her feet. She tossed the liberated boot underneath the bed, advancing on him as he backed away from her. "Avalon turns to her will, after all. Don't you think she has the right to keep most things as she remembers them?" Her finger poked against his chest as she grinned. "Sit down, Rhys, or I will knock you down."
"Oh, come on! Is she afraid someone is going to put their eye out?" He brushed her hand away from his chest and backed up further, backing himself right into a wall. "I'm warning you. What's the Lady gonna say when I end up on crutches because of those boots?" he asked, blaming the boots, rather than Nat. He leaned against the wall, a strained look on his face as he tried to pry the stubborn boot from his foot.
Pausing where she was, Nat laid her hands on her hips, watching him hop and strain, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. After all, there was a reason why noblemen throughout the ages had always employed someone to help them dress and undress. "You did not start complaining about them until it was time to take them off," she reminded him laughingly. "Now are you going to stand there looking ridiculous, or are you going to let me help you?"
"I don't....look....ridiculous!" he argued between stubborn hops and tugs, his face flushing as he fought a losing battle against the boot. Giving up at last and slightly out of breath, he finally dropped onto the chair with an annoyed huff and a few muttered expletives beneath his breath. He pouted up at her like a child. "It won't come off," he told her defeatedly. "It's like they're cursed or something."
She watched this performance with a lurking smile, obviously deeply amused by his stubbornness and just as deeply certain he was going to fail in the end. "Not cursed, love," she promised him. "Made perfectly for your feet." Leaning down, she curled her hands to his cheeks and brushed a soft kiss to his lips. "Just relax. Trust me." She let her fingers trail down over the leather of his jerkin, across his thighs, and finally turned her back to him again, lifting one leg over his to bend forward and raise his booted foot into the air. One hand curled beneath his heel, and she began to pull slowly, inexorably, daring the rebellious bit of footwear to fight back this time.
"I do trust you. It's the boot I don't trust," he pouted up at her even as she kissed his lips, gaze following her as her finger traveled down his chest and across his thighs. "You're trying to distract me," he accused, feeling the effects of her distraction, but one piece of tight clothing was enough to deal with at the moment. He cringed as she lifted his foot in the air and commenced to play tug of war with the stubborn piece of leather once again, grabbing hold of her hips this time so that neither of them went *ss over teakettle.
"Of course I'm trying to distract you," she admitted cheerfully, unable to quite deny the ripple of tension that flowed out through her from his grip on her hips. Even the most innocent of touches from Rhys could do interesting things to her insides. She gritted her teeth, slowly increasing the strength of her pull on his boot. "You're not ....exactly ....trying not to be ....distracted - oh!" With a swish of leather, the boot came free, and this time her momentum was already redirected, dropping her back into Rhys' lap with a triumphant laugh. "We won!"
He wiggled his foot this time, relaxing and moving with the leather as Nat loosened its hold on his foot and it seemed to come sliding off much easier this time. His gaze was focused on the view of her backside as she wiggled this way and that, his hands gripping her hips firmly, distracted by the view. "It's not my fault you're distracting," he replied, defensively. "Umph," he grunted, as she unexpectedly dropped into his lap, right onto the proof of his distraction, causing him a different kind of discomfort, catching her too late.