Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 161: ’The Begging Prince’

Chapter 161: ’The Begging Prince’

’What the fuck is happening.’

Lancelot dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his gaze locked onto Florian—shaking, breathing heavily, curled in on himself like a wounded animal.

It was unsettling.

The way he trembled. The way his breath hitched unevenly, his pupils wide and glassy, as if he were drowning in something only he could feel.

’It’s as if he’s...’

Lancelot swallowed, forcing the thought away. ’No. Don’t even go there.’

He turned to Lucius, who stood unusually still, his expression taut—tense in a way Lancelot had never seen before.

"He said a stranger got in," Lancelot muttered, keeping his voice low. "You’re in charge of greeting the guests. Did anyone who wasn’t on the list appear?"

Lucius barely hesitated before shaking his head. "No. No one unusual."

"So could it be he was mistaken?"

Another shake of the head.

"His Majesty made sure Prince Florian memorized every guest and servant. If he says someone wasn’t familiar, then it must be true." Lucius’ eyes flickered toward Florian, dark and calculating. "And judging by his state... it is true."

Lancelot exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "Fuck. What do we do now? Do we tell the king?"

Lucius hesitated.

"I... I will tell him," he said carefully. "But right now, I don’t think His Majesty would want this information spreading and causing panic."

Lancelot clenched his jaw. "What about the other guests? If that servant gave His Highness some weird drink, there could be others."

Lucius shook his head. "No. If there were, we’d already see signs. Poison or potions work almost immediately. We passed by plenty of guests—no one else is acting like this."

Lancelot cursed again. "Then shouldn’t we at least bring him to the healer? Or the royal physician?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Florian flinched.

Then—

"N-No! No... don’t... please—I don’t want anyone to touch me."

His voice cracked. He was begging. Again.

Something about it made Lancelot’s stomach twist.

’What the fuck is with this? Not even getting kidnapped fazed him.’

His gaze sharpened.

"Why, Your Highness?" His voice was steady, but pressing. "Is being touched worse for you than staying on the ground like this? What if you die?"

Florian only shuddered harder, his breaths ragged, uneven.

Lancelot let out a sharp breath through his nose, already making up his mind.

’Should I just carry him by force?’

"You’re considering just carrying him, aren’t you?"

Lucius’ voice was barely above a whisper.

Lancelot groaned. "Yes, and before you say anything—"

"No, no. For once, I agree with you."

Lancelot blinked. "...Great."

"I’ll go speak to His Majesty," Lucius continued, his tone careful, measured. "You carry His Highness to the infirmary."

Lancelot exhaled through his nose. His patience was already wearing thin.

"Be quick." Lucius’ voice was urgent now, his usual composure cracking at the edges. "And, Lancelot?"

"What?"

Lucius turned to him fully, his golden eyes sharp—too sharp.

"After you bring him there, honor his wish."

Lancelot raised a brow. "Meaning?"

"Do not touch him any more than necessary."

Something in Lucius’ voice sent an uneasy shiver down Lancelot’s spine.

His brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Just do as I say."

Lancelot’s first instinct was to argue—he hated taking orders—but he bit it back. Florian was the priority. Not whatever cryptic bullshit Lucius was pulling.

So he exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. "Fine."

Still—’It’s obvious he has some idea of what’s going on, and he’s not telling me.’

Lancelot glanced back at Florian, still trembling on the ground, muttering to himself, his fingers digging into his own skin.

’This is going to be a nightmare.’

Lucius straightened. "I’m getting His Majesty," he said. "You be quick."

Then, without another word, he disappeared back into the ballroom.

Lancelot rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. He loosened the top buttons of his outfit, pushing up his sleeves.

He had no idea what he was dealing with, but he could figure it out later. Right now, Florian needed to get the hell off this floor.

"Here goes nothing."

He took a careful step forward—but the moment Florian heard his footsteps, he flinched and scrambled back, his movements weak, desperate.

Lancelot cursed under his breath.

’This is going to be tougher than I thought.’

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

"Hah..."

In the end, this is what I went with.

"No, no! Put me down, Lancelot! Put me down!"

Florian’s voice was breaking, cracked with desperation, yet his fists—weak, trembling—pounded against Lancelot’s back as if he had any real strength left to fight. His body twisted, writhing in his grip, a mess of heat and breathless pleas. But Lancelot held firm.

He had to.

He knew that if he loosened his grip, even for a second, Florian would drop to the floor in a useless heap. His knees had already given out once—he doubted they’d hold him up now.

"I’m taking you to the infirmary, my prince."

His voice was steady, commanding. But Florian wasn’t listening. He kept thrashing, his movements frantic, his breath hitching in sharp little gasps as he struggled in Lancelot’s hold.

"P-Please... Please, Lancelot... please let me down!"

The way he said it—pleading, breathless, breaking—sent something sharp through Lancelot’s chest.

Something that made his grip tighten, his jaw clench.

Florian was begging.

Not just asking, not just resisting—begging.

And something about that made Lancelot’s stomach twist in the worst way.

Florian wasn’t just trembling from fear.

He wasn’t just burning from fever.

His body craved something. Something he did not want. Something he refused to acknowledge.

And yet—it consumed him.

Lancelot felt it in every inch of him.

The way Florian’s fingers clutched at his clothes, not in anger, not in resistance, but something helpless, something raw. The way his thighs pressed together, his body curling in on itself even as he fought.

And his breath.

Warm.

Too warm.

It ghosted across Lancelot’s throat, sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.

Lancelot could smell him.

The faintest trace of perfume, of sweat, of something else, something unfamiliar but unmistakable—arousal.

And then there was his face.

That face.

That expression.

Lancelot had only caught a glimpse, but it was burned into his mind.

Flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted, slick with a sheen of saliva. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, glazed over with something both hazy and shameful. Small, helpless tears clung to his lashes, trembling on the edge of spilling over.

He looked—

Lancelot swallowed hard.

No. No, don’t fucking think about it.

But his body had already recognized it.

That expression. That dazed, needy look.

The trembling lips, the desperate gasps.

He knew it.

He’d seen it before—on lovers beneath him, breathless, writhing, lost in pleasure.

And now, Florian—Prince Florian—wore that exact same look.

Lancelot exhaled sharply, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

It wasn’t just his face.

It was his entire body.

The way he squirmed, panting, shifting restlessly. The way he pressed his thighs together, rubbing them together as if to relieve something unbearable.

And—

’Something’s obviously poking my stomach.’

Lancelot’s hands tightened around Florian’s waist.

’Fuck.’

He didn’t need any more confirmation.

This was not just an aphrodisiac. It was a potent, merciless thing, something that seized the body with overwhelming, unbearable need.

Lucius had known. That was why he had been so damn insistent. That was why he had looked at Lancelot with something close to warning.

Because this wasn’t something any sane man could ignore.

Florian was suffering.

But not in a way that made sense.

Not in a way that Lancelot could just fix.

Not in a way that was safe.

Lancelot inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself.

He needed to focus. He needed to get Florian out of here.

But the problem wasn’t just Florian.

It was himself.

Because despite everything—despite knowing this was wrong, that Florian was in no state to control himself, that this was not something he wanted—Lancelot felt it.

The warmth of his body. The way his breath ghosted over his throat. The helpless, frantic way he clung to him.

It stirred something in him. Something instinctive. Something dangerous.

And that terrified him.

Lancelot clenched his jaw, adjusting his grip, forcing down the slow coil of heat in his gut.

’Hah. As if I’d take advantage of him...’

His grip tightened.

He would not think about this.

He would not let himself feel anything about this.

He just needed to get Florian to safety.