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Lancelot never knew himself to be the relaxing type. Certainly not when there was work to be done, when there were duties to be fulfilled. His responsibilities often carried him deep in the late hours of the night, fighting the oppressing drowsiness that tempted to overwhelm him as though it were a most nefarious enemy.
Many a nights he would crawl into the waiting covers of his bed, a dreary thing tucked in one of the lowly knights’ quarters in the eastern side of the castle. He would fitfully sleep, chasing away the horrific thoughts and visions that haunted him, only to reawaken hours later even more hollow. But ever faithful to his duties, he dragged himself to repeat the many grueling tasks of the day. There were training sessions that needed to be participated in, there were councilmen that needed to be safeguarded and escorted between adjournments, foreign ambassador meetings that for some godforsaken reason, his presence was required. Skirmishes, conferences, with little time to enjoy himself in between.
It was all beginning to grow to be too much for him. Every passing day, he felt less and less rested, less and less alive. He’s depleted all remedies available to him, from brewing his own chamomile tea, to partaking in one last lap around the palace in the cool, midnight breeze. Nothing worked. His ability to sleep, to rest, was entirely compromised.
He supposed it was inevitable then, that it would all come crashing down.
He just didn’t expect it to be so…public.
“But why our borders specifically?” his king questioned, leaning heavily onto one elbow, his eyes scanning the freshly inked parchment in front of him.
Another lengthy, drawn out meeting with a nearby kingdom’s ambassador. Honestly, the matter of the conversation slipped from him the moment he took his place just behind the king’s embellished seat. So did the name of the kingdom, if he was truly being honest.
Last night’s sleep had again eluded him. This time, not in response to disastrous visions of haunted memories. No, it simply would not arrive. Not even for a splitting moment. Instead, he stared drearily up at the vaulted ceilings until he heard the morning rooster’s cry. Not even closing his eyes, he blinked languidly above him for hours upon hours, praying for rest that would never come forth.
“Pardon?” the ambassador squeaked, her feathers ruffling at the question. An avian she was, looking to be an owl of some sorts. Lancelot hadn’t seen much of her kind in his travels, but then again, his mind was full of nothing but static at the moment. He couldn’t recall what he had for dinner last night let alone the status of the nearby kingdoms.
“Your heiress claims the outposts were stationed without consulting maps, but the partially completed builds fall directly upon the borderline. Too close to be a coincidence,” Arthur explained, setting the parchment down and staring down the ambassador from across the large table.
“What exactly are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m merely asking for a clearer picture.”
Lancelot’s eyes, sheltered beneath his faceplate, fluttered closed, the many voices around him sounding muddied. As if he’d been submerged in the lakes beyond the palace walls, dragged asunder into the alluring depths of sleep.
It would be so easy to close them for a few second and attempt to rest. So tempting…
He forced his eyes open again, a little too hasty. His eyes pricked from within his skull, brow furrowing in pain. Lancelot drew in a shaky breath and clenched his fist, but the metal plating surrounding his gloves did little to ground him. This cannot happen here. Stay awake.
His head jerked upwards, his feet began shaking. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be able to support his weight at this rate. But he didn’t dare break his positioning. His king was still conversing with the ambassador, a slightly heated exchange if he was being honest. But the words, regardless of how vividly they hit his ears, did not process in his mind.
To his left, Percival nudged him inquiringly, no doubt concerned over his sudden jolt.
That nudge did him out, he supposed, teetering him completely off balance. There was a fleeting moment that their eyes met from behind their faceplates, but that was all he could focus on before everything grew misty.
The world spun. His head ached something terrible. Dozens of eyes hastily turned to him.
And he crumbled to the floor in a daze.
“-dness! Get him some air!”
Lancelot opened his weary eyes, his vision dancing in mottled hues. He couldn’t make out any distinct colors for a good several seconds until he saw it.
Blue…blue was good. He knew blue. He trusted blue.
“Lance! Hey, eyes on me,” came that heavenly voice from above. His visor had been flipped up without his knowledge, a hand gently tapping his cheek, encouraging him to look to those beautiful, concerned eyes. Blue faded into green dots which then morphed into the face of his beloved king.
“M-My liege…” he managed to whisper. It wasn’t his usual confident voice, it was frail. A mere shadow.
He was so tired.
“What’s the matter? Were you poisoned? Were you hurt?” Arthur turned to someone beyond his view with the most sour expression imaginable. “Did you do this?”
The sudden change in volume made Lancelot wince. His head was throbbing, pulsing violently as waves of a feeling not unlike nausea rolled through him. Saliva had gathered in his mouth, but he felt parched and sated at the same time. The urge to swallow eluded him and Lancelot was almost certain an unbecoming dribble of drool had emerged from behind his lips.
“I assure you, your majesty, I have not poisoned your knights! The very same one searched me walking in!” Lancelot heard the ambassador from before screech out.
“When the medic arrives, we’ll know for certain. Percival, don’t let her leave,” Arthur barked, turning his attention back onto the prone hedgehog before him. “Lance, stay with me now…”
“Ar…thur…” he gasped, closing his eyes as yet another sting of pain blossomed behind his eyes. His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. The dizziness returned with a scorn and the urge to fall back under was beginning to grow far too temping.
“Lance?”
Just a little rest would do him some good. Just a small reprieve.
“-nce!”
Just a moment…
When he opened his eyes once more, he was not strewn about the conference room floor. There wasn’t solid, cool marble beneath him. There was a softness he hadn’t known existed. A bed. A rather soft one…not the cloth covered straw he was used to.
“Complete and utter exhaustion.”
Lancelot jumped at the sound of that voice, turning his head to notice his king sitting beside him with a most exasperated expression, head in his hands.
“Arthur…?” he gasped, shaking himself of the lasting remnants of his headache. He pressed a shaking hand to the source of his discomfort, thankful for the momentary lapse of pain. While it wasn’t exactly gone, the echoes of its presence were faint.
Though he couldn’t lie in that its persistence didn’t frighten him.
“You were in no state to join us at the meeting,” Arthur chided with a frown. “Why didn’t you inform me, or better yet Gawain at the very least? I’m sure the oaf could have spared your presence for a single afternoon.”
The thought of approaching the Head of the Round Table did cross his mind once. But it has been made clear in the past that his duties superseded his comfort. Gawain always insisted on looking superior for other kingdoms. Leaves of absences were not appreciated.
“I...I apologize,” he murmured, staring at the soft blankets above him. His ears flattened against his skull. The thought of disappointing his king burned as bright as his shame. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well and I can’t seem to figure out why.”
As though taking pity on him, Arthur merely sighed, brushing one of the many quills strewn about his face to the side. Such an affectionate gesture nearly made Lancelot bite his tongue.
He’s long since made peace with his feelings for the sovereign. It didn’t come to him as a sudden realization nor marvelous and spontaneous change. It came to him with the gentleness of the rising sun. It was a part of his very life in the way the surrounding forests were — ever constant.
Seldom did Lancelot not long to be fully enveloped in a love that could never be. After all, Arthur was royalty.
Lancelot was merely a lowly knight. For what reason did the king have to pursue him in that manner?
“If you’re fainting in the middle of a meeting, I’d say it’s quite problematic. Have you seen anyone for it?” the king asked.
“I haven’t the time, m’lord,” the darker hedgehog responded demurely, his ears dropping in response to his disappointment. “My duty must come first and I apologize deeply for the grievances I have just caused.”
Arthur, never one for true propriety when it came to their palace’s standards, brushed his words off with ease. Several others have condemned him before for having a soft spot, but the man lived in ignorant bliss. “Oh, hush. You will work yourself into an early grave at this point,” he said with a loud huff. “You must let yourself relax. I insist on it. To hell what anyone thinks.”
Lancelot looked towards the embers burning in the fireplace pensively, then to the windows just barely peeking through the curtains adjacent to it. Instead of seeing morning light or afternoon sun, all he witnessed was dusk.
The knight blanched, attempting to lift the thick duvet off his body, much to Arthur’s surprise.
“I-I’m supposed to be at the square tonight, tell me it’s not yet sunset–”
“Lance,” his king tried to interrupt, but the knight was frantic in attempts to squirm out from under his majesty’s suddenly tantalizing grip.
“Sir, I must-”
“Lancelot!” his king shouted, pushing his shoulders and forcing him back onto the bed. “I’ve already cleared your schedule. You’ve been asleep for several hours now. But rest assured, you’re not to be punished for this.”
“But what of your own?”
“Hm?”
“You have the banquet tonight, I’m supposed to stand guard in place of–”
He quieted at the sight of his majesty’s raised hand. Arthur chortled as though none of the tasks that were etched into his brain were of any importance. “It can easily be rescheduled. I’ve taken my entire evening off as well.”
Lancelot stared bewildered at the man before him. There were several important political figures that were to be in attendance if he recalled correctly. To skirt aside his duties with such ease was foreign to him. A luxury reserved only for the king.
“You did?” He cocked his head to the side inquisitively.
“Well, I can’t just leave my favorite knight to fend for himself now, can I?” Arthur boasted with a smirk. Lancelot’s face erupted into flames and he harshly looked away.
Hell, this…this insidious crush will be his downfall. He’d follow that smile straight into the depths of hell, blinded by infatuation and bound by loyalty.
“I don’t want to impose…” Lancelot muttered quietly, the sound barely peaking atop the gentle hearth.
“It is really no problem.”
It was only then he noticed the severe absence of his usual uniform. No heavy metal plating, no glistening adornments nor the steadfast presence of his blade at his hip. He was completely bare. In the nude. How, for heaven’s sake, had that detail slipped by!
“I-I’m undressed,” he gasped, heat flooding to his cheeks. He was in no state to even be conversing with the man before him!
“So am I,” the king snorted, and it was partially true. The man was adorned only in a cloth tunic, his usual golden armor and regal cloak shed like a second skin. “You think I want your armor in my bed?”
Lancelot blinked. His addled mind processed the environment slowly. This was no mere spare bedroom, certainly not his shabby quarters. These were the royal bedchambers, reserved for the rest of his majesty and his majesty only.
And his majesty’s…partners. For him to be here was no simple implication.
“…why am I in your bed?” he squeaked again.
“You needed a safe spot to rest, did you not?” Arthur chuckled and brushed him off, hopping off the bed and pacing the stone floors in contemplation. Glancing between the many elaborately woven tapestries and tinctures adorned along the walls, Arthur pondered aloud with a finger on his chin, “Let’s see…what can I do to help you relax?”
“I’ve tried everything…”
Or rather what seemed like everything.
“Well, clearly not,” the blue hedgehog affronted. His suddenly perked upwards as an idea took root in his mind. “Why don’t we try something a bit different? Something that always helps me wind down after a long day. It’ll be the first I do it on somebody else, but it’s worth a try if anything.”
Lancelot watched him prance out of the bedroom, a spring in his step. Arthur came back shortly with a small flask in his hands. The knight squinted but was unable to read the engraved label.
“Care for a little massage?” the king prompted.
Lancelot didn’t have it in him to turn the man down. He obliged, easing his way into covers in apprehension. “Turn over for me,” Arthur encouraged, helping Lancelot find the strength to flip onto his stomach. The pillows…they smelled faintly of grass, of morning dew.
Of Arthur.
He was unaware of how successful his attempts to subtly rub that alluring scent over his cheeks were. If Arthur caught sight, it would surely be embarrassing.
“I held it over the fire for a minute, it shouldn’t be too cold,” came the king’s gentle drawl from behind. Leaving his back exposed often made him feel vulnerable, but in Arthur’s presence, there was nothing but reassurance. “Everything is for your comfort.”
The warm liquid dripped in between his dorsal quills, gently working its way through his tightened muscles. Arthur had been right, it wasn’t cool in the slightest. If anything, it was pleasurable in its own right. Seeping between the knots in his back and easing the path for the fingers that would follow.
The first touch of Arthur’s ungloved hands against him made him shudder. Feeling the man he’s adored for so long being so close to him was enchanting. The intimacy of it all had Lancelot screaming internally.
The first sharp press of the man’s thumbs against his aching muscles, however, made him gasp.
“O-Oh…” he purred, quills bristling ever so slightly. Sharp though the pain may be, it was grand in the way it relieved the pressure that had long since been built up.
“Tight,” grunted the man from behind, panting ever so slightly as if the exertion of the massage was enough to leave him breathless.
The double entendre made Lancelot internally stammer and burn. Biting his lip to force his mouth shut, all he could do was sit there and take it. Back and forth did Arthur roll his palms over the knots in his back, in his neck, on his lower spine.
Arthur took this opportunity to straddle atop the lower half of his legs, granting him a better vantage point to reach his aching limbs.
To his horror, his infernal tail wagged. The knight cringed into the covers, squinting his eyes firmly shut.
“You’re tensing up again, my knight,” came Arthur’s voice, full of breathless mirth. “Just relax, it will be nice.”
Lancelot whined low, an utterly embarrassing noise. He felt ashamed at the way he completely unraveled under this man’s touch. Never before had someone touched him with this much care and attention. Never before has an individual softened the taut muscles of his body with utter devotion.
Arthur pushed and pushed and pushed and Lancelot’s body responded in turn. Folding and bending beneath those hands, gliding with the aided slickness of the oil, Lancelot couldn’t help the sharp gasps and ushered cries from the euphoric state he was forcefully brought into. Nothing but Arthur’s ragged breathing and the echoed choir of his groans filled the air of the room.
It sounded obscene. And he hardly had the chance to process it before it turned into something else entirely.
A foreign intrusion decided to announce itself. A rather hard and solid entity pressed against his lower behind. His nude lower behind.
The knight was utterly frozen, eyes wide like a hare moments before being ensnared by a cunning fox’s jaw.
“Lancelot…” Arthur panted behind him.
Somehow, he miraculously gained the courage to look back.
The king was aroused. Painfully and unabashedly so. It peeked from under the brim of the man’s tunic, awaiting his attention. The tip dripped precariously onto his backside, oozing with all the likeness of the oil surrounding it.
Lancelot’s breath hitched but he said nothing as the man he adored stared heatedly back at him. He said nothing as those fingers itched ever closer to his hole as if asking for permission.
Wordlessly, his legs spread, granting that permission. As if he would ever deny his majesty what he desired! Selfishly and inwardly relishing in the fact it was himself that was the object of the man’s desires, Lancelot’s heart raced.
Arthur’s fingers circled once, twice — before sliding right on in. Exploring his insides with trepidation, continuing the massage even further than he could have ever imagined.
“M-My lord,” Lancelot gasped, pressing his flushed face into the soft pillow. His mouth bit hard into the soft material, attempting to shelter the utter infernos present on his face. Oh, heavens it was wonderful. It was sinful.
“Do I make you nervous?” the king’s warm chuckle rolled from his lips. “If this will help you relax, I am more than willing to provide my services. Anything for my favorite knight.”
“S-Sire…” the darker hedgehog squawked unbecomingly. His normal prudent demeanor was entirely gone. No longer was he the noble night in battle, no longer was he the chivalrous and respectful gentleman in the halls.
Tonight, he was playing the part of King Arthur’s lover.
“My knight…there’s no need to be so chaste with me,” the blue hedgehog snarked with bated breath, reaching his spare hand down to grasp himself. The smallest of sighs escaped his lips as his hand curled with practiced ease.
“Arthur,” Lancelot keened, allowing his knees to spread further and his back to arch ever so slightly. “More…”
His words were muffled by the satin pillows nestled in between his lips. Heavens, his want should be obvious at this point.
“Is this what your body desires? Tell me, Lancelot. Clearly, this time.”
“Mn, get on with it, my lord!”
“Demanding little thing!” Arthur straddled him further, positioning his cock to be just faintly hovering over his gaping and awaiting entrance. “Can’t even take my time with it? I figure you’d be the type to be serenaded but alas I stand corrected.”
The tip of the king’s length dipped beneath his puckered hole. The oil soothing and warming its way deeper and deeper.
“Fret not. This is more my speed anyways.”
With a forceful shove it was inside. Woven together they were. Breathing as one. A fullness he’d never quite experienced had taken root in his lower stomach and sprouted into the most flourishing pleasure.
Lancelot could feel every last inch. Every throbbing, twitching inch. He wanted more. He needed more!
The first movements, while occasionally leaving him wincing, felt like breathing the freshest mountain air. He felt home, he felt completed.
He had no words left to describe it. Quite literally, as his speech became babbled, short bursts of lithe moans and sharp whimpers. The man’s pace could rival that of a stallion, so potent and aggressive and yet ever still prompting him to crave more.
Lancelot, as he would soon discover, was not immune to the thralls of greed and lust. His needy cries were evident of that fact. These stone hallways did not keep the sound of their coupling discrete. Anyone senseless enough to waltz past the king’s door would have full access to his quite frankly shameful noises.
To ease the chances of that occurring, Lancelot wormed one of his hands and clasped it around his mouth.
But Arthur took notice at once. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and snatched the infernal hand hiding away his precious reward, continuing the ever present oscillations of his hips as if nothing had ever been amiss.
“Let my castle hear how well I bed my most loyal knight!” he exclaimed, emphasizing his words with a severe thrust upwards that left Lancelot gasping for air. Even the pillow couldn’t hold back Lancelot’s whines. And at this point, the knight had accepted his fate.
Rational thought had all but escaped his mind. His thoughts were occupied solely by the cock pistoning inside of him.
“Goodness, how you belong in these sheets, Lance. I've waited so long to have you…I fear my overzealousness will get the better of me. I’m not going to last at this rate.”
His own peak was readily approaching and Lancelot could do nothing to stop it.
“So close,” Lancelot drooled out, eyes blissfully out of focus. “‘m so close.”
“Heavens above, you feel magnificent. Keep squeezing me like that!” Arthur bellowed, picking up what seemed to be an inhuman pace.
It was hardly a conscious choice. With little fanfare, warmth blossomed beneath him and spilled into sheets, announcing the arrival of his hasty orgasm. His high pitched whines and frequent groans faded into overstimulated gasps. The pillow became his lifeline to wait out his lover’s sexual wrath.
The king followed soon after, pumping him graciously full of warm seed with a mighty roar. It soothed his abused walls, pressing warm kisses to his chafed insides, filling him to the absolute brim.
It was filthy. It was obscene.
It was everything he needed and more.
Like an infant to the cradle, Lancelot was perfectly sated. His mind put at ease, his body soothed.
“We got a little sidetracked, didn’t we?” Arthur chuckled breathlessly, flopping next to his prone body, practically glowing with endorphins.
“Perhaps we did, sire,” Lancelot panted in turn, stifling another yawn with his shaking fingers. The king clicked his tongue at the sight, pulling his knight closer and tucking him beneath his chin. The moon outside was low but at no point did Lancelot feel any desire to escape his grasp.
“Sleep, dear,” came the gentle rumble of Arthur’s purr, muffled slightly in the act of grooming the out of place quills with adoration. “Allow me to care for you.”
Lancelot, as always, obeyed without question.
There was no restlessness. There was no pain. No aching fatigue dragging him down. No stifling cloud surrounding his head.
None of that existed in his majesty’s arms when he awoke.
He felt as fresh as a daisy, as soft as the wind.
“How was your rest?” Arthur croaked, his voice ten octaves lower than usual. It was a sound Lancelot couldn’t have dreamed of ever having the chance to hear, so delightfully intimate and unapologetically his.
If only Lancelot knew of this remedy before. It would have certainly spared him several months of heartache and trouble.
“Blissfully uneventful,” he smiled, leaning back into the king’s touch beneath the covers and intending to take full advantage of this new restorative endeavor.