I chose image #3 as my inspiration. ~2100 words
It’s true. Nobody wants this gig. Sure, I don’t have to wear the heavy armor around the ren faire, and most of the time I sit on a cushy throne until it’s time for the afternoon parade, but then you have to be seen and in character pretty much all day. It’s “m’lord” and “m’lady” and waving a scepter while cribbing lines from Shrek’s Lord Farquad. Hell, I’m only 5′ 4″. You kind of have to hate me.
It was mid-morning when Josh the court jester / events organizer jingled his way up the stage and whispered in my ear. “We’ve got a problem. Wes and Ben called out sick.”
“Both of them?” They were part of the afternoon skirmish show, where a half a dozen men attempt to siege our ersatz castle while the crowd cheers at the sound of steel on platemail. It’s a bit like A Knight’s Tale meets your worst bush-league professional wrestling event. And the crowd goes nuts for it.
“Yeah, they gave the flu to each other.”
“Fuck, how does that even happen?”
Josh shrugged his shoulders. “We could still do the show, but we’d need a ringer. Can you ask-“
“No. No fucking way,” I said flatly. He didn’t have to say his name and I knew who he was talking about. Hunter the blacksmith. Long before he’d swung a hammer, Hunter was just like me: some college freshman who liked RPGs. Then he joined the Society for Creative Anachronism. And when I moved more into softer fantasy roleplaying, Hunter went hardcore. Sword camps, Latin study groups, and grueling “medieval” workouts which mostly amounted to threshing hay in the Agricultural heritage farm. By senior year he looked like he’d been carved out of stone.
I shook my head. “You know he only wants to do the smithing shit now.”
“Aw come on. Everyone knows why he doesn’t want to do the show, and it’s not cuz the anvil calls to him. WIll you at least ask him? Otherwise we’ll have to put on plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“Regicide. Death by a thousand cream pies, and not the fun kind.”
Josh knew me too well. We’d fucked around before, nothing serious. Nothing like what I’d had with Hunter. I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine. I’ll ask.”
Unlike the afternoon parade, I had no retinue behind me as I walked to the crafts corner. The rennies I encountered bowed or courtised as I passed, keeping up the illusion that we weren’t just on some rented farmland on a weekend, but we’d been transported back in time. Or maybe it was the other way around and we were in the wrong timeline, thrust into the future like Brigadoon.
A festival attendee ran up. A regular. Last week he’d dressed a time-travelling Vulcan, replete with a yellow engineering shirt and tricorder, but today he approached in simple britches and a rough tunic. He held out his food, a cup of hummus with a pretzel rod sticking in the middle of it. We called it pretz-calibur.
“Prithee, if you are the true king, then you must pull the, uh, sword from the stone!” he shouted.
I looked up at him with a withering stare. “Peasant, you dare COMMAND YOUR KING? I shall have you locked in the pillory!” I snatched the pretzel and a dollop of hummus flicked onto his tunic, but that didn’t bother him. If anything, he looked elated.
“Death to the tyrant king,” he said goofishly as he backed away.
I needed that show, and I needed Hunter. I heard the clanking of his hammer strikes grow louder as I approached the blacksmith’s booth. A small crowd watched him shape hot iron into a horse shoe. Under his leather apron, Hunter’s linen shirt stuck to his sweaty arms and sides. Every blow hit with a marksman’s precision, sending sparks and slag onto the dirt floor. He didn’t even notice me until he dunked the piece in water and steam enveloped his face.
“Your majesty,” he grunted.
He used to call me something else, back in our bedroom, when it was dark and there were only beads of sweat separating our skin. But I put that thought aside. The crowd was watching. “Blacksmith, your skills are needed on the battlefield at the Nones. Your sovereign demands it.”
Hunter stabbed the business end of a metal rod into the coal forge and worked the bellows until it roared but never took his steely eyes off of me. I felt like he was roasting me alive. “Aye,” he said. “You’ll have my blade.”
I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until then. Letting out a soft sigh, I gestured for him to follow. “Come. We should discuss terms in private.”
I sauntered out of public view and moved into the alley behind the rows of tents. Hunter was right behind me and he looked livid.
“What the hell, Dale? I told you. I’m not doing any of that fake LARP bullshit.”
“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice, but I don’t. You don’t like it, I don’t like it-“
“Let hell you don’t. I saw the smirk on your face, bossing me around.”
I took off my crown and tapped the glass jewels. “You know I have to, out there. It’s part of the show. It’s part of what keeps them coming back, right?” Straightening the crown back on my head, I searched his face for something that looked like the guy who used to love me. “Look, can we just pretend, at least for this afternoon? You can go back to the booth, hating me for the rest of the weekend, okay?”
“I never said I hated you. I was mad, hell, I’m still mad about you dumping me, but don’t get me wrong, Dale. I don’t hate you.”
Now I felt like a shit king. We’d been growing in different directions and at some point, it felt easier to break it off. It wasn’t. “So, will you do it?” I asked, palms upturned.
He held them and they looked absolutely dwarfed in his mighty hands. Pulling them against his chest, I could feel his heart racing. He stepped closer, leaning into my ear. “You know my price.”
It was steep, but fuck it, I was willing to pay. I swallowed my courage and cupped his face. His skin, still warm from the forge, felt familiar under my fingers. Eyes locked, he leaned in. His lips found mine. Soft, then firm, and then the pressing of his tongue. I knew we shouldn’t, but pulled him closer. His hand slipped under my waist band and I gasped, my cock growing with his touch. It woke me up and I pushed away. “Stop. Just stop.”
“Don’t you want-“
He made my heart hurt, and I choked on it. “I do, Hunter, I really really do. But we’re in it for different reasons now. I… I love the play. The goofy pageantry and Punch and Judy shows and fighting the temptation to scream MAGIC MISSILE in the middle of a foam sword battle. I love my friends. I don’t care that my tunic is dyed in a color that didn’t exist in the 1200’s. That’s not what’s important to me.” When his face drooped, I held his hand. “You deserve to find someone that loves what you love.”
He was silent, like he was processing the end of us. He broke the quiet with a soft chuckle. “So you need me to defend your crown?”
“The fate of the kingdom is in your hands, blacksmith,” I said, tapping his shoulder.
Three hours later, true to his word, Hunter showed up in the campaign tent to get dressed in chainmail and light armor. The other knights had already left to start the pre-show, basically loitering around the fairgrounds like drunk assholes to make their coup attempt more compelling. As he shed his leather apron and heavy shirt, I stared a little too long at his broad chest. “Swinging a hammer has kept you in shape.”
“It’s the bellows,” he replied, raising an arm. “You have to reach high and pull down hard.” His muscles rippled as he simulated the motion. Was he thrusting?
“Now you’re just flexing. Get dressed.” Hunter walked over and pulled something from a pouch. It looked small and smooth. “What’s that?” I asked, before I noticed the flared base. “Really?”
“My price. I’ve been working on it for weeks, hoping you’d wear it for me.” He paired it with a small glass bottle.
“Is that lube period-accurate?” I smirked.
“Ah, I may have seen it in an illuminated manuscript.”
I hefted butt plug in my hand. It wasn’t ridiculously huge, but the weight felt impressive. “And you want this in my inner sanctum?”
“Your Highness deserves to be protected on all sides, front and back.”
I walked to the tent entrance and closed the flap, hooking it to a toggle. Every player knew to respect the hooked toggle. Bending over a table, I peeled down my pants and waited. Hunter poured a drizzle of oil on my ass and massaged it slowly, pressing a finger in my crack. I spread my legs.
“Are you ready, my Lord?” he asked, gently pressing the tip of the plug on my entrance.
“I am prepared- fuuuck,” I moaned as the widest part entered my asshole. I stood up and faced him, my cock fully erect. I may be short, but what God kept from me vertically, he gave in other places. “I can’t go out like this.”
He dropped to his knees. “I serve at your pleasure.” Hunter took my tip in his mouth, licking it in slow circles. He knew my weaknesses. As he took in my shaft, he feather-stroked my balls until I moaned.
My ass ached, clenching against the hard metal. He tapped the base with his fingertip and the plug bumped into my prostate, sending shivers through my core. The pleasure made me weak, and I gripped the table for dear life.
“I’m close,” I murmured, running my fingers through his hair. Hunter sucked my cock and stroked it faster, holding me against the table with his other hand. I reached the point of no return. “Fuck,” I whimpered, blowing my load into his mouth. My hips jerked but his hand held me down as he sucked every last drop of cum.
Hunter stood up and wiped my seed from his lips. He smiled and started to get dressed for real. I straightened my crown and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “See you on the battlefield.”
Later, he joined me on stage next to the throne just as the three foes clanked towards us. Swords were drawn. Hunter stepped forward and drew his. “There’s supposed to be four,” he said. Where the hell was Lenny? The fight choreography hadn’t changed in years, we all knew the steps. A sudden change up could go bad. Really bad.
But Hunter really sold it. The trio charged but he parried their attacks with grace and strength. While they clashed and circled each other, the crowd gathered and cheered. Hunter knocked one face down in the dirt before kicking his sword out of play. The other two tried to take advantage but Hunter was faster. As he cut one down, he let out a blood-curdling yell and I felt it reverberate in my plugged ass. I loved it.
He stood between me and his foe, both of their shoulders heaving. As they raised their swords once more, I noticed a commotion from the side. Lenny was charging through the crowd twirling a mace over his head. He was heading straight for me. What the hell? This wasn’t in the script.
The crowd separated. Lenny looked uninterested in fighting Hunter. He was closing the distance. I stood up.
Ten feet.
I heard Hunter shout something but it wasn’t clear. I could have sworn he’d said magic missile.
Five feet. He did say it.
I did my best Ken-from-Street-Fighter-2 pose and shouted, “MAGIC MISSILE!”
Lenny was on stage, stopped a foot from me. He looked around for a moment before throwing himself backwards off stage. The crowd erupted. As he slowly sat up from the ground, Hunter grabbed him by the collar and whipped him over to the other knights.
“Lords and ladies,” I shouted, raising Hunter’s arm, “Your champion!” More cheers filled the air as we walked off stage. I gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”
“Any time. That was fun. Even the, uh-“
“Deux ex fireball?”
Hunter laughed. “Yeah. Hey, about your inner sanctum. You don’t have to keep that if it’s too weird.”
“No, I like it. It feels good. But it’s getting hard to keep it in. Maybe you can help me take it out.”
We stopped in the empty campaign tent. “Okay…”
I hooked the flap to the toggle and smiled. “And then put something else in there.”
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