[Closed Post] ..shining through the hollow..

[lanselos_du_lac]

Once Lancelot has left Magnus and Galahad in the greenhouse, he goes looking for Laertes. He can admit he has had the urge to check in on everyone, in the wake of Magnus' incident, but he has realized that it's been some days and he misses Laertes' company.

So he goes seeking, checking in on the places he thinks Laertes might be, and eventually finding him in that same parlor they'd sat together in before. Lancelot pauses in the doorway, and then clears his throat and says, "I do hope I'm not interrupting."

Despite the clear fact that he intends to interrupt. He is grinning.

Comments

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot makes an expressive face of annoyance (mildly fond). "He asked me about my saying that I was bound to the Queen. Whether that meant bound by rope, tied, as if one cannot be bound by words or love. And asked would I like for one of thee to do so-- and I said I was not sure how it appealed. Which was true. It is hard for me to picture. Hast any knowledge of that?"

[timebethine]

Laertes can't help laughing, a deep rib-shaking laugh that Lancelot will be able to feel in his bones. "Ay, I do. Some of my lovers like to see me decked in ropes, and some, I prefer to see bound."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He smiles at the laugh, clear affection in his eyes. "Explain, please?"

[timebethine]

"Ay--there are many things to like in it," says Laertes. "There's an art to tying knots well, so that they'll bind without sapping the blood or chafing the skin. But more than that, there's an art of adornment in it, too; one lover likes to wind ropes as though they're the finest of jewelry, and the patterns that they make across the skin are beautiful in themselves, in a way that need not heat the blood. That skill alone is worth admiring, and it's one I've yet to master." His smile shades warmer, fonder, as he moves from abstraction to specific memories. "And there is a kind of joy--a release, I should say--in being bound. Nothing can be expected of thee but thy pleasure and thine endurance. There is no escape from thy lover's affections; there can be no room for doubt. Thou canst only be, and yet thou art enough."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I see," he is rolling all of this over in his mind. "I think I understand, now, how it may appeal."

[timebethine]

"Wouldst try it for thyself?" His tone is all calm curiosity, without the slightest lilt of titillation.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I think I might," tentatively, "If I knew well what to expect."

[timebethine]

He would be so beautiful in ropes--kneeling, beatific and sanctified, tilting his face up to receive the praises that are his due. A shudder of want goes through Laertes, but he swiftly quells it. Lancelot would not thank him for the distraction. Once he's mastered himself again, he asks, "Didst thou have other questions?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"No," slowly, "no, I think not now. Hast given me much to consider."

[timebethine]

A long pause. Laertes is keenly aware of the sound of their breathing. "Wouldst thou have more to consider?" he asks, low.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He laughs again, low and soft, and turns a little towards him. "Hast something to offer me?"

[timebethine]

"A few other games, much of a kind with that one." He unlaces their fingers, only to sneak his fingertips into the cuff of Lancelot's sleeve and trace the veins of his wrist.

[lanselos_du_lac]

That sends gooseflesh chasing across his skin. It's very pleasant.

"Tell me, and I shall decide."

[timebethine]

"There are games of power, too, where one might play at being king and vassal with one's lover, or master and man, or master and hound," says Laertes. He lets his thumb come to rest over Lancelot's pulse as his fingertips slide deeper, grazing the soft hairs on the back of his forearm. "And there are games of praise or of cruelty. Games of denial, and games of pain. Do any of these make thee curious?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot has one of those moments in which he simply stops thinking, feels his awareness of himself step sideways. Laertes may feel it as a shuddering in Lancelot's pulse. King and vassal robs him of his breath for a moment, and by the time he's wrangled his focus back to what Laertes is saying, his brain is tumbling along the idea of praise or cruelty.

He has just enough space to think that what he would like most is loving care. Sweetness without worry. Enjoyment without guilt. He thinks that some of what Laertes describes sounds to him like punishment -- he has had enough of punishment, for now.

He gives himself a little shake; he tries to look as if nothing has affected him. "Nay," he says softly, "no, I think I would most like to simply feel thee."

[timebethine]

"Of course." Laertes lets his hand slide back to gather up Lancelot's again, then brings it to his lips to kiss. "Canst have anything thou wouldst. I'm thine."

[lanselos_du_lac]

And after a breath, a moment to take that in, Lancelot falls on him, kissing him sweetly, looping an arm around his neck.

[timebethine]

And Laertes lets it be sweet--lets himself ask nothing of it but that he might bask a while in the slow, unspooling joy of being kissed; lets himself be held and tasted and known. He folds his hands over Lancelot's back, crossed at the wrists, gently caressing through his clothes.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He draws the kiss out. There is a faintly heated, frantic edge to it; as it winds down a little, Lancelot cups Laertes' face in his hands and says, "I know I am simple. But I crave thee-- my heart longs for thee."

[timebethine]

"Then have me," says Laertes. His breath gusts over Lancelot's lips; his pulse throbs against Lancelot's, throat to wrist. "Let it be simple."

[lanselos_du_lac]

At this, Lancelot moves, shifting to straddle his waist, kissing him more forcefully. One hand is still in Laertes' hair and the other settles just over Laertes' heart, firm on his chest.

[timebethine]

It would be too much to seize him by the hair and reel him in. It would be far too much to take his hips in both hands and rock up into the solid weight of him. But even so, held suspended over the pit of his desires, Laertes can't help a low and feeling groan that's nearly swallowed up in Lancelot's hungry mouth.

He wants this with every inch of him. He feels ablaze with wanting. His grip tightens, turning sharp and clutching, and he drinks Lancelot down.

[lanselos_du_lac]

For all that he feels for Laertes, all his desire, there is still that coiled tension of anxiety somewhere deep within him. At the sound Laertes makes, though, Lancelot feels that tension loosen.

He lets himself relax, let himself feel and revel in the heat that courses through him. He lets go of the anxiety, the inclination to watch himself, to monitor, and instead pours all of his attention, his focus, into Laertes -- how Laertes feels under him, the heat of his mouth and the warmth of his skin.

[timebethine]

Time seems to flow slowly, without bounds, like a spill of oil across the water or a sunrise nudging over the horizon. Laertes only lets go when he's dizzy and breathless; his eyes are half-closed, his smile huge and soft and utterly smitten.

[lanselos_du_lac]

That look is terribly appealing, and Lancelot can't stop himself from kissing the corner of that smile.