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He’d never had that either. That luscious pleasure. That explosion of freedom.
Only ever with Arthur. Just the once on the hilltop before everything went to hell.
Now that the fight had left them, he began to notice new sensations he’d put aside earlier. Such as—
How tight and hot Arthur’s body was. How tender and slick he was inside.
How their breaths synchronized perfectly, in time with the drumbeats of their hearts.
How soft Arthur’s skin was, over hard, corded muscle, even though their fluids made them sticky, which Lancelot wanted to rectify by licking them both clean.
How delicious and intoxicating Arthur smelled where Lancelot nuzzled him at the nape of his neck.
How fine the hairs were there. How strong yet vulnerable the line of his spine.
Ever since the Lady had dulled his senses and emotions, Lancelot had been like stone. He experienced the world around him by existing in it, but he was always unmoved.
Now, in the aftermath of his and Arthur’s physical release, he felt freed in other ways too. Not entirely, perhaps. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to truly feel again.
But he was beginning to thaw.
Should he apologize for hurting Arthur? Tearing into him like that might have felt worse than a broken nose or a cracked rib. But then, he never apologized for winning. And neither did Arthur, not that the other man had ever bested Lancelot one on one.
Besides, Arthur had wanted it. They’d both been primed for it. And Lancelot’s body felt better in the aftermath than anything he’d experienced in the whole of his life thus far.
So, he mumbled into Arthur’s nape:
“I want to go again.”
The King released a shaky breath, which Lancelot felt more than heard.
He tensed instinctively as he awaited Arthur’s response.
Had he been too rough? Would Arthur deny him?
But then—
“Let me heal first,” was all he said.
Lancelot was willing to be patient and wait for his reward. Now that Arthur shared his life force, he should heal faster than before. And maybe even faster if Lancelot pulled out.
But he selfishly didn’t want to.
It surprised him. That he would protect Arthur from everything else, but the pain that Lancelot wreaked upon the man himself.
He did not examine this conundrum too closely.
Soon, they both fell into an exhausted but satisfying sleep, with Lancelot’s mouth open and slack against the place where Arthur’s neck joined his shoulder, drooling contentedly away.
As if he was devouring the other man even in his dreams…
“It’s about time, Chance-a-lot. I’ve been waiting forever!”
Lancelot found himself at the edge of the magical lake, and a moment later, he was submerged in water, fathoms deep beneath, until he walked upon the stone-paved floor.
The Lady of the Lake whirled around to greet him, dressed in a flowing white dress as always. Her hair floated in a halo around her, pale features exquisite yet sharp.
Except for her eyes.
