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Arthur was the most magnificent of all.
They shared their bodies freely now, in private and sometimes in secluded public places during their outings with the others. A few stolen moments here and there, when Lancelot couldn’t resist tasting him or making him come.
It was his favorite thing—making Arthur come apart with ecstasy.
Making him grunt and hiss with pain. Bite his full lip and arch his corded neck, exposing that tantalizing throat. Make his veins stand out in stark relief and his skin pull tight across the blades of his cheeks as they flush with passion.
He wanted to remind his treasure every second of every day to whom he belonged. Wanted to erase every person who came before him from Arthur’s memory. Until he knew only Lancelot’s mouth, tongue and hands. Craved only Lancelot’s body, scent, sounds, and the deep thrusts of his cock.
Lancelot had never owned anything in his life. Never wanted to own anything. Gold and jewels were shiny and pretty, but he didn’t have the need to hoard them. Castles and simple mud brick houses were serviceable shelters from the elements, but so were caves and trees with thick canopies.
His clothes and weapons were all replaceable, despite that the Lady had gifted him with magical threads. He didn’t needthem. He didn’t fear being wounded. He didn’t fear death either, except that it would separate him from Arthur.
Thatwas his only fear.
Arthur washis.
Lancelot searched for him, found him, and he would do everything in his power to keep him. The fake-Lady’s advice be-damned!
Arthur did not complain when Lancelot fucked him hard and kept him sore day after day. Only Lancelot could tell that his strides had a new stiffness to them that hadn’t been there before.
He loved putting that kink in Arthur’s gait. Loved watching his arse and his long, strong legs as the man walked away from him. Verily, Lancelot liked to stay a few steps behind Arthur for this very purpose.
In front of the others, they rarely touched, maintaining the casual distance of two big men who liked their space. But when no one was watching, Lancelot liked to give Arthur little reminders whenever he could.
A hand on his nape. A squeeze of his hip. Especially where Lancelot left bruises from the night before, making Arthur grit his teeth at the pain.
And if Lancelot was particularly possessive, typically when a man or woman made eyes at Arthur, as they tended to do, he always found the opportunity to cup and squeeze Arthur’s crotch beneath a table or insinuate a hand down the back of his trousers to finger his hole.
It was gratifying to note, at least, that Arthur never invited the attention. He even seemed to dim his usual charm around strangers who approached or looked his way.
He took Lancelot’s invasions without comment. If anything, he widened his legs to give Lancelot better access or clenched his hole around the questing fingers.
Otherwise, he acted as though everything was as it should be. That he wasn’t getting finger-fucked in the middle of a pub while Annie chattered on about the next landmark she wanted to see.
They didn’t say much, except to offer a few words here and there into the conversation Annie always started. Lancelot noticed that Merlin and Wolfe were less awkward with each other than when the trip first began. Now, they sometimes finished each other’s sentences, their thoughts often aligned.
Arthur spoke more with Merlin too. He spoke more with everyone except Lancelot. Mostly superfluous things. Lancelot wasn’t interested in the others’ talk, though sometimes they could be amusing.
All he cared about was what Arthur thought. But the man did not share those thoughts with Lancelot.
There was a time,before, when Arthur told him things. Most often, they were small things. Like plans to defend the border or counter-attack a Viking horde.
Or observations and worries about his men. How Gawain would make a superior husband who never strayed if only he could find the right woman. How Bedivere needed a new armor and ointment for his shoulders. How Kay should visit his elderly parents more often, for they missed their only son.
On rare occasions, Arthur spoke about himself. His plans for uniting the realm. His strategy to win warlords to his side. His reservations about marriage, though his court continuously pressured him to get it done.
He was happy with his men, he told Lancelot. Content to travel across the isles and never stay in one place for long. As long as Lancelot was by his side, he needed no one else. And he must not have missed the arms of a woman, for Lancelot never saw him take one during the years they traveled together.
Until Guinevere.
After, Arthur shut himself off from Lancelot. From all of his men who survived the witch. Gawain had died in battle, and Arthur had mourned him in his own way, despite Guinevere’s spell. Kay returned to his ancestral home in the north to rule as the new Duke when his father passed. And Bedivere went off to a faraway land in search of something called “The Grail.”
Tristan…Lancelot did not know what happened to the younger knight, to whom Arthur bequeathed his sword, Excalibur. He and Arthur had been whisked away from their realm when Arthur was mortally wounded, leaving Tristan and Morgan behind.
Now, even though Arthur gave Lancelot free rein with his body, his heart and mind remained unreachable. Unknowable.
It made Lancelot more desperate and obsessive.
