Work Text:
Inspired by “My Prize is Death”( http://archiveofourown.org/works/8340967 )
[...] Lancelot is shaking. "You're alive, you understand? That's what I came to make sure of. And there's no way I'll let you write yourself off now." He looks over his shoulder with an adulterer's practiced glance. "Come with me."
And perhaps it is because of the half-empty, half-magical atmosphere of Lancelot's castle that he follows. He isn't sure what comes next, but this life is new and strange and he, fool that he is, trusts Lancelot more than he trusts himself .
He follows Lancelot willingly through the deserted corridors and into Lancelot’s own bedchamber. It is a surprisingly lovely room — high in a tower, with windows on three sides, letting in late afternoon sun. Lancelot takes his hand, draws him over to the bed on the far wall. Arthur finds himself sitting on the edge, gazing into Lancelot’s pale grey eyes just a few inches from his own. They are still for a moment, then Lancelot tilts his head a little and lets their foreheads rest against each other. “You’re still alive,” the knight whispers, as if trying to convince himself as much as Arthur, “You’re still alive in all the ways that matter.”
Arthur lets his eyes drift closed, doesn’t want to think about that just now, doesn’t want to think about Britain or Mordred or the Queen or outlawry, what Lancelot had so eloquently termed ‘civil death’. “I don’t feel alive.” The admission startles him perhaps more even than it startles Lancelot, even though it has been true since before this thing with Mordred even began.
The knight draws back then, just a few inches so he can look into Arthur’s eyes, and cradles Arthur’s head in his hands. He doesn’t speak, just looks for a moment, then leans in until their lips meet, as if saying let me show you, let me make you feel again.
They kiss slowly, exploring but not gentle. They may both be well past their prime, but they are powerful warriors as well, and this is a battle for dominance. A battle Arthur knows he will lose since he doesn't know how it is supposed to end. He is, he realizes with a not unpleasant little start, curious to find out though.
Lancelot’s lips wander lower, tracing a meandering line down Arthur’s neck, across his collarbone, between the loose laces of his shirt. The knight knows what he’s doing, and Arthur wonders with a vague flash of jealousy (and really, what right has he to be jealous?) what other men Lancelot has done this with. He is distracted from that thought as Lancelot’s hands slide slowly under the worn fabric, sword-callouses brushing over sensitive skin, and Arthur feels his body awakening to pleasure and desire for the first time in a long time.
Curious now, he begins to touch back, cautious and unsure of himself, but not afraid that Lancelot is going to pull away. This had been his idea, after all, and the knight is clearly very interested in the proceedings. In fact, as if encouraged by the feel of Arthur’s hands, Lancelot gently pulls Arthur's shirt over his head, then quickly removes his own as well, tossing both aside carelessly. They kiss again, one of Lancelot’s hands cupping the back of Arthur’s neck, the other arm sliding around his waist to pull him close, and the (former) king hears himself moan softly.
It feels so different from kissing Guinevere — or any of the other women he has occasionally bedded over the years. Lancelot’s body is all hard muscle and sharp edges and scars. Arthur’s hands explore those marks, and even without looking he knows the story behind most of them. Swords and knives, a skirmish near the Wall, an arrow at Badon meant for Arthur’s back but which found Lancelot's chest instead. (Is this why he is so willing to trust his friend with his body? Because he has already done so for years and never once has Lancelot let him down?) He has never thought about it before but, in this sense at least, he knows Lancelot’s body, the patterns of muscle and scars, nearly as well as his own.
Arthur realizes that this is...nice, being held and kissed by someone he trusts and— his mind shies away from the rest of that thought and he kisses back harder to distract himself, silently urging Lancelot to get on with it already , though Arthur is not yet at all sure what it is. The knight huffs a laugh, not unkind, just pleased by his friend’s enthusiasm.
He lays Arthur back gently on the bed and Arthur lets him, shuddering a little at the feel of being with someone big and powerful enough to do that. Lancelot smiles warmly down at him, propped easily on his elbows, and kisses Arthur’s collarbone almost lovingly, then moves down his body.
Arthur has a vague idea of what Lancelot might intend, so he isn't surprised when he feels the knight’s hands on the laces of his breeches, or a moment later when the garment is peeled off of him. He is most certainly surprised when he feels a hot, wet heat engulf his cock, and a thrill goes through him at the realization that oh God that's Lancelot’s mouth. Without thinking, Arthur reaches down and tangles his fingers in that thick black hair, streaked now with beautiful silver. It earns him a lovely moan that vibrates through him, and Arthur nearly comes then and there.
“O-o-oh. Lance. God .”
Lancelot pulls back and chuckles, laying kisses on the sensitive skin off Arthur's inner thighs. He traces an old scar with his tongue, then asks, “Would you like me to make you come like that? Or do you want...more?”
Arthur isn't entirely sure what “more” means in this case, but he thinks he'd like to find out. Still… “What do you want?”
Lancelot looks vaguely surprised by the question, crawls slowly back up Arthur's body and lays over him, once again holds himself up easily. The soft leather of the breeches that Lancelot still wears rub against Arthur's legs distractingly, but Lancelot catches his gaze and holds it for a long long moment. Finally he says softly, just a whisper of breath over Arthur’s lips, “I want to fuck you.” The words are crude but the way Lancelot says them turns them into something sweet and gentle. Arthur’s mind trips over the idea, stumbles in the act of trying to understand it, to place it in the context of his relationship with his friend — his Champion, his wife’s lover.
It is not that Arthur has never heard of two men lying together. He has. He knows that his soldiers, in the silent times before and after bloody battle, still follow in the footsteps of the Greek and Roman forbearers. But he himself was so damnably young when he became King that that comfort was never open to him; he’s never given it much thought beyond the distant awareness that it happens. And now, here is Lancelot, not just willing but wanting .
Arthur nods his assent, unable to find words, and the smile Lancelot gives him is at once both dazzling and vaguely predatory. The knight presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips, this one hot and demanding, then climbs off the bed and begins undoing the laces on his own breeches. Arthur wonders if he should be ashamed of his own nakedness, but the thought is fleeting, carried away like his worries by the powerful current of building desire that is surging between him and Lancelot. The knight doesn’t ask if Arthur has done this before, but does say, “It is easiest if you lie face down.”
So Arthur does, stretching out on the soft coverlet, folding his hands beneath his head, and watches from this new vantage as Lancelot retrieves a small clay jar from the drawer of the bedside table. When Lancelot removes the cork from the top, a pleasant smell fills the room. It is scented oil, Arthur realizes somewhat belatedly as Lancelot dips two fingers into it, coating them. Then, leaving the open jar on the table, he crawls back onto the bed. Arthur feels the knight shift to kneel between his legs, pressing his thighs apart, and he knows he should be humiliated to find himself — to willingly put himself — in this position, but instead there is just excitement. He can’t remember the last time an emotion has broken through the heavy grayness shrouding his every waking moment, but it is now, and it makes Arthur lo- want Lance all the more.
Arthur lets his eyes close, focuses on the feel of Lancelot's hand stroking lightly over his lower back, coming to rest on his hip. A moment later, oil-slick fingers press against his entrance and he tenses unconsciously. Lance leans down and kisses his lower back, murmurs, “Just relax.” And Arthur tries to, but the feeling, the pressure in that intimate place, is entirely foreign. Lancelot’s other thumb traces gentle circles on Arthur’s skin, and Arthur focuses on the dual sensations until all at once he feels Lancelot’s fingers inside of him, and all of his breath leaves his body in a rush.
Lancelot’s motions are confident and gentle and there is an insistence to his actions that sweeps Arthur along, lets him forget that he shouldn’t be doing this (except he’s not a king anymore, he’s a dead man, so really, what is there to stop him?) and frees him to enjoy it. A few moments later, Lancelot crooks his fingers just so and touches a place that makes pleasure, hot and overwhelming, shoot through his body. Arthur hears himself gasp and hears Lancelot’s answering chuckle as the man does it again, causing Arthur to writhe in pleasure. After that, though, Lancelot carefully avoids that place, but adds another finger and Arthur loses the ability to breathe all over again.
They are silent nearly all the while, not speaking a word, which should perhaps be unnerving except it isn’t. There is comfort in the companionable quiet — the fact that they don’t need words between them — until Lancelot’s fingers are suddenly gone and Arthur finds himself oddly bereft. He pries his eyes open and watches blearily as Lancelot reaches for the oil again, coats his own cock with it, and then returns to his place between Arthur’s knees. He doesn’t ask if Arthur is ready, just lays strong, calloused hands on Arthur’s hips and presses in steadily. (Arthur is glad he doesn’t ask; he is so wonderfully overwhelmed that he is not sure if he could muster the words to respond.) His heart pounds in his chest, blood surging, gut twisting in exquisite anticipation.
And then Lancelot is fucking him, steadily, undeniably. He isn’t gentle, and Arthur adores it, lets the sensation wash over him, through him. He moans and gasps and doesn’t care if it makes him sound desperate. It has been so long since anyone made him feel this good, and far, far longer since he did not have the responsibility of being the dominant partner.
In fact, the last time Arthur hadn't been in control while having sex with someone was… His mind shies away from the memory of a woman (years older than him, whom he did not yet know was his sister) and the feel of drugs and magic weighing down his limbs. With a surge of frustration — anger almost — pushes it all away, locking it in a place in the back of his mind, and refuses to allow that terrible moment to cloud this exquisite one. Besides, in every other sense, this could not feel more different.
Arthur feels like he is floating. His body remains his own, he is viscerally aware of every inch of skin that Lancelot touches, and his awareness of the having the knight inside him is perfectly inescapable, and yet the rest of the world falls away and he floats on the inexorable wash of pleasure that Lancelot controls so perfectly.
One advantage, perhaps, of neither of them being young anymore is that they can take their time and enjoy this as thoroughly as it deserves to be enjoyed; both have ample self control. So Lancelot fucks him until they are both covered in sweat, and Arthur no longer knows up from down, then the knight reaches around and takes Arthur’s hardness in his hand, and they come at the same moment. Arthur feels, distantly, Lancelot’s body above him convulse with pleasure before slumping over his back.
They separate gently, slowly, and Lancelot collapses on the bed beside him, one hand moving to stroke Arthur’s hair tiredly. The king, for his part, does not move an inch, merely sighs blissfully and lets his exhaustion — a good exhaustion this time, for the first time in a long time — pull him under.
Arthur isn’t sure how long he sleeps, but when he wakes Lancelot is still beside him, watching him with those unnerving grey eyes that always seem to know too much, and an expression that is painfully tender as his fingers twine through Arthur’s once-gold hair. Arthur blinks sleepily, trying to assess why he feels different — is it because he gave his body to another man, or because while they were having sex he (briefly) felt love and joy for the first time in longer than he would like to remember? Then Lancelot speaks, catching Arthur somewhat off-guard, still hazy from sleep and sex and this new thing that he can feel twisting between the two of them.
[...] "Well?"
The first thing that slips out is, "Better than my sister Morgause."
Lancelot takes it in stride. "But not better than Guenevere, I'm sure.”
"She sets a high standard." And they fall into ridiculous squire laughter, the years having fallen away sometime in the night .