Tristan gasps as he’s slammed against his now closed bedroom door.
Lancelot devours the sound immediately, not giving him a chance to speak or make any noise that isn’t now muffled by eager lips that swallow any squeak or squeal that dares slip from his vocal cords.
He moans as Lancelot hikes his leg up his hip, revealing smooth freckled thighs as his blue dress slips past his legs. Lancelot then attaches his lips to the side of his neck, kisses and nips at the skin there as he bites possessive hickies into his skin. He’s relentless, growling underneath his breath as Tristan gasps and whines at the feeling.
Before Tristan and Lancelot married; Tristan had never given sex or carnal pleasure any thoughts. It wasn’t as if it was taboo, his mother and father often expressed to him that it was a normal thing—to want and feel pleasure. As he got older, he started to understand a little bit. Sure, he’d touch himself, feel himself up when he was alone, sneak a hand underneath his underwear when he was in the comforts of his own bed, but with another person? To engage in the pleasures of the body with someone besides himself? He never would’ve done such a thing, never would have imagined himself craving the feeling of someone’s touch.
Lancelot had completely and utterly ruined him for any other, had changed him irreversibly, had perverted his body and made him crave to be filled with only him—and Tristan couldn’t even be mad at him for it.
“Get this—off,” Lancelot grunts as he tugs at Tristan’s dress, nearly tearing it.
“Wait,” Tristan rasps. “Lance—you’ll rip it.”
“So what,” He snaps. “I’ll buy you fifty more just like it—prettier ones.”
Lancelot then does him the courtesy of ripping apart the length of his gown, from the bottom all the way towards the top and Tristan squeals as he does so.
“Lance!” He shrieks and Lancelot laughs boyishly. Tristan whines. “Lance, I really liked that one!”
Lancelot ignores him and tears the rest of his dress off, leaving it tattered on the ground and just like that, Tristan is left only in a thin blouse, and his undergarments. His husband hums at the sight of him and then hauls him into his arms, swinging him over his shoulders and Tristan yelps as he does so, before he’s being thrown onto their mattress; bouncing as he lands.
His crown, a golden halo wrapped around his head, stays there, sparkling and glistening in the lighting of their chambers—a symbol of his divinity.
Tristan lays there, flushing as his insatiable husband crawls over him like a predator about to absolutely devour his prey.
“Been waiting for this all day,” Lancelot rasps and then rips his own dress shirt off, throwing it off somewhere in their room, not even minding where it ends up. Tristan sighs at the sight of his husband’s bare chest. He’s so handsome, Tristan feels dizzy with how much love he has for him sometimes. “Gods, all those lords and ladies look at you as though they wish to feast on your bones. Don’t they know you’re spoken for? Don’t they know you’re mine?”
Tristan yips as Lancelot grabs him by the hips and pulls him until their middles are pressed against one another, hot and flushed.
“I should show them all,” Lancelot keeps murmuring to himself even as he completely shreds Tristan’s undergarments, leaving him almost completely bare and Tristan squirms as Lancelot feels up the inside of his thighs, spreading his legs. “I should show them all how you have no need for anyone else—how I’ve ruined you so perfectly, that you’d never be able to ever even think of looking for someone else to satisfy you—because no one else can, right?”
“Gods,” Tristan breathes and tangles his hands in Lancelot’s hair as his husband sucks marks into the meat of his thighs. “Show them then, husband,” He whispers and Lancelot’s eyes glance up to meet his own. Tristan grins cheekily at him, cheeks flushed red. “Show them how you’ve oh so wonderfully ruined me.”
Lancelot’s eyes bore into his dual colored crystals, his pupils widening and his orbs darkening as his fingers dig into his flesh. Tristan could get lost in them.
Not even a moment later, he’s spreading Tristan’s legs apart and diving to taste what lies between them.
Tristan’s back arches and he keens.
Lancelot doesn’t love softly. His love is an obsession, a desperate desire to keep him close—to make sure he can never be taken. He’s like a dragon that guards his horde of gold, setting ablaze anyone who gets too close to stealing it. It’s a bad habit, one that Tristan has never once tried to diffuse. It’s fueled by a real fear that Lancelot has, that he will be taken again, that he’ll be left with nothing. That he will have to learn how to survive.
The Lady of the Lake, Chaos, Mother to twin halflings, beings that should—theoretically, not exist. They were hers the moment they were born, it was something that would forever tie them together; the fact that they defy fate, the fact that they should have never been conceived as it brings imbalance to the natural world, the fact that The Lady of the Lake loved Lancelot so much that she stole him away. If not him, then Tristan. If not them, then the world. They were two sides of the same coin, Yin and Yang, beings and products of Chaos because of the mixed blood rushing through their veins.
They were always meant to burn together—always meant to fall into one another and fit like two missing puzzle pieces.
For Lancelot; Tristan was divinity.
For Tristan; Lancelot was sanctuary.
Fire blazed in Tristan’s stomach, threatening to consume everything he was and everything he ever would be.
Lancelot consumed him openly, selfishly, damn everything else. His tongue suckled across his labia, lips dragging across his cl*t, and mouth kissing the opening of his c*nt. Lancelot devoured him wholly, refusing to let Tristan hide anything from him. He ripped sounds of ecstasy from his husband, pulled shameful sounds from his throat like he was pulling strings.
Lancelot never half-assed anything—and bringing pleasure to his husband was no different.
“Gonna—” Tristan gasps out and holds onto his hair for dear life. That fire is igniting. “Lance, m’gonna—”
“Not yet,” Lancelot rasps and rips himself from his soaked c*nt, a string of saliva and slick connecting him to his opening. “Not until we’re one. Not until your inside is full of me and we don’t know where one or the other begins, goddess.”
Tristan moans softly at the endearment and his breath hitches as Lancelot frees himself from his slacks.
He’s big, always has been. But, it’s always intimidating at first glance.
Lancelot slides his hot co*ck between his legs, settling in between the lips that lay inside of his thighs. He uses Tristan’s slick and his own spit to lube up his co*ck and he grunts as he jerks himself off a couple of times before he’s satisfied, lining himself up with Tristan’s opening.
“Come on,” Tristan gasps out and hooks his leg around Lancelot’s hip and back, urging him forward. “Lance—I wanna be one again.”
“We will,” Lancelot promises him heatedly as his large hands run up and down his freckled sides. “f*ck, we will, my Divinity,” He leans forward and captures Tristan’s lips in a filthy kiss, one that has lightning shooting up the younger prince’s spine as their tongues dance—and he can taste himself on Lancelot’s teeth. It makes his skin burn.
My Divinity. Lancelot truly believed it too, believed that Tristan was Divinity in mortal flesh come again. He was higher than Goddesses, higher than Chaos, he was totality. He was perfection if it could assume mortality.
Lancelot worshiped him like men worshiped their Gods and in turn, Tristan bestowed upon him his greatest desires and all of the love he would ever hold in this mortal body of his.
Tristan sometimes scared himself with how much affection and love he harborbed for his fated one; overwhelmed him with how much his heart had to give, would forever give to the other half of his soul. After all, they were made this way—made to always come back to one another at some point in time. They’d never be able to fully leave one another; not when Tristan marked Lancelot physically, the scar on his forehead proving that, and not when Lancelot had made a home for himself inside the deepest parts of Tristan. No, they were a stain that neither of them could escape, a stain neither of them ever wanted to escape.
“Please,” Tristan begs, knowing it makes his husband weak and Lancelot groans as he pushes the tip inside. “Lance, f*ck, please.”
Lancelot doesn’t bother wasting anymore time—and presses inside of him.
And, as always, Lancelot can’t be patient, and just shoves in until their hips are pressed together and he’s fully sheathed inside of his c*nt.
Tristan is shaking, always does. He whimpers and whines as Lancelot pulses inside of him, can feel every ridge and edge and everytime Lancelot f*cking breathes. It’s maddening, the peak of ecstasy, the reason his heart keeps beating.
Lancelot was the only one to ever touch this part of him, the only one ever to feel parts that the rest of the world would never dare too.
They don’t have the right. Mere mortals will never be permitted to even gaze upon Divinity.
When Lancelot has Tristan like this, when he gets to be reminded of how this angel has granted him sights and pleasures he’d never even dream of—he always gets so excited, so eager to please, it makes his head dizzy.
Lancelot would kill for Tristan—has. Would raze the world to the ground if Tristan even breathed a word of it; and the part was that Tristan would do the exact same for him.
Lancelot hated their Mother; Lady of the Lake. For she kept them apart; had stolen Lancelot away and kept him from where he was always destined to be—forever to be by Tristan’s side, forever to be intertwined in Light and Dark, in Mortality and Immortality. But, he also loved her dearly; as she had made them this way.
Nothing in his life had brought him satisfaction nor comfort, not after he’d been ripped away from his parents, not after experiencing hell and razing it to the ground just to see the sun again, not after countless betrayals and heartache, not after he nearly lost Tristan to that man playing God.
It wasn’t until passion and desire took over, wasn’t until they became one for the first time did either of them truly understand completion.
Lancelot intertwines their fingers together, rings glinting in light and Tristan’s breath hitches.
He begins to move—and Lancelot knows heaven; it’s an old friend inside of his husband.
“Yes,” Tristan moans and his head falls back against the mattress. His hair is tangled, already untangling from the detailed, delicate, and careful braids that Tristan has them in for the duration of the day. They’re now messy, improper, but he’s the most beautiful f*cking thing Lancelot’s ever seen.
His freckled cheeks are stained red, sweat lays along his brow, and his dual colored emerald and sapphire glowing eyes are alight with desire.
f*ck. He’s the most gorgeous creature to ever be conceived on this mortal plane.
Lancelot would raze the world to ash if Tristan were taken from him.
“Feels so good,” Tristan whines as Lancelot starts to thrust harder; faster; better; stronger. He doesn’t stop to slow down, doesn’t bother to let Tristan get used to the feeling of being inside of him once again—his c*nt is familiar with Lancelot’s co*ck, they were puzzle pieces fitting together, after all; meant to be one. “Yes, yes, f*ck, Lance, I love you so much.”
Lancelot’s skin tingles and he burns alive.
“Love you more than you’ll ever comprehend,” Lancelot whispers against his ear, knows Tristan loves it when he talks. “I’d burn the world for you—I’d turn it back to ash and remake it in the image of you.”
Tristan sobs because—Lancelot would. If Tristan asked for it, he’d do it. It scares him, but excites him all the more.
That spot inside of him comes to life with an explosion of a blaze and he cries with it.
“Lance—”
“Mine,” Lancelot rasps out as he thrusts harder, never stopping. “She made you mine, don’t you know? She made you mine, and I yours.”
How could Tristan ever forget?
“Yes,” Tristan gasps, blinking back his tears. He squeezes their fingers together and Lancelot groans. “My soulmate, my other half, my—my—”
“f*ck,” Lancelot hisses suddenly, hips stuttering and his head falls between his shoulder blades.
He’s close, so close—and Tristan wishes to fall from grace together, as always.
“Inside,” He yelps and Lancelot curses again. “Lance—inside of me. Don’t pull out. f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, Lance don’t you f*cking pull out—”
Lancelot pulls one hand from Tristan’s grip and the younger prince makes a confused, whining noise before his thumb is circling and swiping over Tristan’s cl*t and he howls with it, not expecting the intense pleasure that is suddenly crashing over him like an all powerful tidal wave that refuses to relent. His legs hitch up and he tenses all over. Gods, he’s almost there, he’s almost f*cking there—
“Now,” Lancelot whispers in his ear. “Cum for me now.”
Tristan can’t disobey.
He nearly screams as an impossibly all powerful org*sm completely engulfs him like a forest fire, consuming all he is and all he ever would be. He shakes uncontrollably, unable to control himself as he moans and he can feel the way his c*nt spasms over Lancelot’s co*ck over and over again, practically milking him for all he was worth.
He’s spent, f*cking exhausted, but Lancelot’s so close—he can’t tap out now.
“Inside me,” Tristan breathes raggedly and drags their faces close together. He kisses all over Lancelot’s parted lips, groaning against his skin. “Fill me. Complete me.”
Lancelot has never denied him.
He c*ms inside of him with a shout and a scary amount of grip strength as he clenches his tiny hips in his large palms. For a moment, Tristan thinks he’s going to break with the hold Lancelot has on him, until his husband curses one final time and falls against him.
He can feel it when his cum paints his insides, filling him up from the inside and perfectly, oh so wonderfully completing him.
Tristan sighs with satisfaction and Lancelot groans against his shoulder.
They lay there for several moments, catching their breaths as they share kisses, mouthing along one another’s cheeks, nose, collarbone, and neck; anywhere they can reach.
After a while, Tristan whines.
“M’kay,” He rasps out. “Off. You’re heavy.”
Lancelot chuckles roughly but does as he’s told and sits up. But, before he can move away from him, Tristan grabs ahold of his wrist and Lancelot stills.
“Lay down,” Tristan whispers. “But, stay in me.”
The elder prince’s lips part before he smiles softly in understanding and manuavers them until they’re in a comfortable position, laying on their shared mattress and they both relax into the sheets.
It’s sticky inside of him, uncomfortably so, but Tristan doesn’t care. He pets Lancelot’s head of hair and Lancelot rebraids his tangled silver locks that fell out during their consumption.
Tristan exhales softly as his eyes grow sleepy and he leans his head on his husband’s.
“I love you,” Tristan breathes as he yawns and Lancelot hums, intertwining their fingers as the younger prince’s eyes fall shut and his body completely relaxes.
“Always,” Lancelot returns and presses a kiss to each of his soft, small hands.
After all, Divinity was forever—and Lancelot’s love for Tristan matched that of the divine.
And, he’d never be rid of it.
