[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]

"Mmhmm," kissing his temple. "There is the scent of thy soap, but I mean what is under that."

[timebethine]

"Sweat, skin, and hair are their own heady perfume," Laertes manages; for some inexplicable reason, his clothes feel too tight and his skin is burning.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"That is so," he agrees. He shifts again, and tips Laertes' chin up to kiss him.

[timebethine]

It's so hard not to bear him down onto the sofa--not to gather his hands over his head and hold him pinned, or to let those kisses shade into bites. But for Lancelot, Laertes can be patient. He can be gentle. He can inhale through his nose as he chases the kiss deeper, letting Lancelot answer at his own pace.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot's fingers find their way up under the hem of Laertes' shirt, and he deepens the kiss.

[timebethine]

Laertes can't help a sharp gasp at that--an inhalation that draws the breath from Lancelot's mouth. He turns a little more so that he can get a hand on Lancelot's ribs--over his clothes, but firm, intent.

[lanselos_du_lac]

His touch skims up Laertes' back, along his spine, and he holds the kiss.

[timebethine]

"Please," breathes Laertes, not knowing what he's asking for--just knowing that the feeling of Lancelot's hand on his bare skin is electrifying, and he's a sparking wire.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He encourages Laertes into his lap, so that he can get both hands up under his shirt.

[timebethine]

And maybe it's just that overwhelming force of wanting, and the equal and opposite force of restraint holding him back--once released, he snaps. He swarms up into Lancelot's lap and bears him down to the sofa cushions, kissing his neck urgently, whispering thou sweet man and my knight of promised summer.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot breathes, "Ah, Christ--" His fingers flex against Laertes' back.

[timebethine]

"Good?" Laertes asks, hovering barely more than a breath from Lancelot's throat.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"God, art thou teasing? Of course it's good." He laughs, breathless and flushed.

[timebethine]

"Wouldst have more? Or hast thou reached thy culmination?" A longer kiss right over Lancelot's Adam's apple, where any mark he leaves will certainly be seen.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I can bear more," smiling up at him, flushed and bright-eyed.

[timebethine]

"Couldst thou bear my teeth?" And Laertes presses the gentlest bite into the valley under his jaw.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot gives a little shiver, "Aye. To a degree."

[timebethine]

"Only sweetness, then," says Laertes, and he captures Lancelot's lips for a milk-and-honey kiss.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot returns it with the same sweetness, but as it draws out he considers. What is it that is giving him pause? He does not mind pain, though he doesn't think he finds it thrilling in the way Laertes seems to. Perhaps it's the question of power, though he has no objections to being commanded or to doing as he is asked.

He thinks, briefly, of games of praise or cruelty... of denial and he supposes that's at the core of it. He does not wish to play at cruelty, or denial; he thinks Laertes understands this and knows why he might feel that way. But Laertes wasn't suggesting cruelty, just now -- he was suggesting play, enticement. Once again, Lancelot is being too guarded, he thinks.

Lancelot breaks the kiss, gently, and pulls back a little. His expression, under that persistent blush, is softly sincere. "I think," he says quietly, "I was too careful, just now. Thou'rt sweet in thy care. But-- I can bear up under force, or an edge, an I am certain it is done lovingly... not a first step toward something more hurtful."

[timebethine]

"I want not to make thee bear me, as thou wouldst bear a burden," says Laertes, and he kisses each flushed cheek in turn. "I want to give thee pleasures like a posy, none of them alike, each one in its own way delightsome. I would not hide a thorn amidst the flowers."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He brushes a hand along Laertes' jaw. "I know-- and I trust thee," a pause as he sifts through what he's thinking. "There was always a risk, before, with Guinever. That I would misstep, or displease, or hurt her feelings in some way I had not meant to. It was like being out on a great sheet of ice and never quite knowing if it might give way. This came, sometimes, into bed with us, this feeling. I do not think, really, it was her fault. But it is not this way with thee, and even though I know myself safe with thee, it comes up now and again. It is easy to mistrust safety, even when I know that I am safe."

[timebethine]

"I will not hold thee apart from me, waiting to love thee until thou art perfect," says Laertes softly. His lips find the pad of Lancelot's thumb, the soft crease under his knuckle. "I know that kind of testing love too well. It would drive me mad, never to be sure of where I stand. Always to be proving myself, and never to have proof." In some ways, it has.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye," with a sudden certainty, a kind of relief that Laertes understands him, "aye, that is what I mean."

[timebethine]

Then Laertes works his arms under Lancelot until he can hold him as closely as he longs to, and he lays his cheek against Lancelot's chest. "I love thee," he says. "I've chosen thee. I will not harm thee, in play or in truth--and if I do, I've wronged thee, and thou deservest redress."

[lanselos_du_lac]

It cracks something open in him; this is something he hadn't quite known that he needed.

He thinks, briefly, of Arthur admitting that he had failed him; he thinks, too, that he would never have expected or felt he deserved redress from either Guinever or Arthur.

But these feelings don't distract from what is here and now, from Laertes. From Laertes giving him what he needs, happy to do so, sincere in his words. Lancelot lets out a careful, fragile sigh and wraps both arms around him, burying his face in Laertes' hair, breathing him in.