The long-promised fic is here
Sep. 23rd, 2004 10:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiespark.
Title: Two Sides of the Triangle (part 1)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosiespark
Disclaimer: Not mine. For fun, not for profit. Etc.
Rating: probably R
Pairing: Lancelot /Arthur
Notes: Because I fell in love with Ioan Gruffud's Lancelot. Takes place between scenes in the recent film, on the night before the mission North of the Wall
Thanks: tofajrdrako for a thorough, thoughtful, generous and confidence-inspiring beta-reading!
Comments: will be cuddled and fed chocolate. In other words, I am a feedback whore. *g*
Arthur’s temporary sleeping quarters are as squalid as any in the garrison and probably more cramped than most. Lancelot is aware that the sensible course of action would have been to have cordially refused Arthur’s invitation and then to have bidden him a civil goodnight before retiring to his own quarters to fume in peace and to snatch whatever rest he could before morning. Instead he is here, not drinking the wine that Arthur has just poured him and being stonewalled at every turn of the conversation by Arthur’s continuing refusal to talk to him about the day’s events.
“You admit that morally those discharge papers already belong to us. Why, then, will you not support us against Bishop Germanus?” Keeping his voice level costs him an effort of will. “We are your men, loyal to you, and you fail us all if you connive with that lying churchman in this way. Do you care so little for your brothers, Arthur?”
“By all that’s holy, Lancelot, I am sick of your eternal questioning!” The edge of fury is shortlived and Arthur continues in a voice that is more than usually clipped. “We have our orders. We leave at dawn.”
“You grow more Roman by the day.” The words have the ring of an accusation, which is, if Lancelot is to be honest with himself, how they are intended.
“You forget, brother. I am Roman.” Arthur’s face is unyielding, rock-hewn.
“Much joy may it give you. And your fellow Romans.” Lancelot spits the words like a curse and turns on his heel, but he has barely taken a step towards the door before Arthur’s full weight slams into his back and pins him against the wall.
“What is it,” Arthur’s breathing is uneven and his voice is like gravel, “what is it that you want me to do?” Arthur has one of his arms immobilised in a savage grip while the other is pushed up against his own back at a well-judged angle just short of breaking it. And Lancelot has no doubt that Arthur would do it. He keeps still, but with all his muscles tensed, waiting for an opening.
And then he feels Arthur’s breath on the back of his neck and he can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his spine. Without slackening his cruel grip, Arthur lowers his head and applies his lips and tongue to the fine skin of Lancelot’s neck, just below the ear. The air leaves Lancelot’s lungs in a gasp that is partly a laugh as a vast wild joy takes hold of him, and the pulse in his neck jumps under Arthur’s hot mouth. His twisted arm is suddenly released and he braces it carefully against the wall in front of his face and waits with a dry mouth and pounding heart for the onslaught he has provoked.
A bite to the neck, hard enough to bruise without breaking the skin, makes him gasp again, and he knows he is being claimed. The mark he will have to pass off as an overenthusiastic farewell from one of the garrison whores. And then a busy hand is pulling impatiently at his clothing and Arthur is pressing up urgently against his lower body, and Lancelot closes his eyes at the dreamlike inevitability of the whole sequence of their actions.
He has both forearms now braced against the wall and Arthur’s hands keep an impersonal grip on one shoulder and on the hipbone on Lancelot’s other side as he thrusts mercilessly into Lancelot’s body. Neither of them speaks, though Arthur is grunting with the sustained effort and Lancelot can hear the breath sobbing in his own throat at each onslaught of Arthur’s driving weight. Although he cannot see Arthur’s face, he knows what he would see if he could - eyes closed, brows drawn together in a heavy frown, and that austere mouth contorted in a struggle for breath. And he knows a fierce exultation at the knowledge that this is his doing, that he is the cause of this brief but complete loss of Arthur’s famous control.
One of his sweat-slick palms loses its purchase on the wall and his face is slammed against the dank stone. He tastes blood from a bitten lip. He doesn’t cry out and neither does Arthur stop his relentless punishing thrusts, not until he comes with a gasping tearing breath and his teeth sunk in Lancelot’s shoulder. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it? Lancelot asks himself silently. He has been painfully hard since the first touch of Arthur’s mouth on his neck, and he would beg if he thought it would do any good.
And then he has no further time for thought because Arthur’s vice-like grip is back and he is being forced away from the wall to face into the room. Arthur uses his advantage of height and weight to keep Lancelot immobilised, with one arm keeping him pinned bodily against Arthur’s mailed chest. Arthur’s other arm, still clad in its vambrace, is wedged under Lancelot’s chin, forcing his head back, a deliberate threat of violence to ensure his submission. He can hear the blood thundering in his ears as Arthur slides a hand down his belly and closes a calloused palm and fingers hard around the aching length of his cock. A hiss escapes him and his whole body jerks involuntarily at the contact. He is answered with a low growl against the side of his head and a painful tightening of the arm across his throat.
Arthur begins to fist him, hard and too fast, and it’s too much, he can’t bear it. He can feel a howl building in his chest, and maybe Arthur feels it too, for he claps his free hand roughly over Lancelot’s mouth so that he is fighting to breathe, his back arched and head flung back and desperate hands trying to break Arthur’s iron hold on his face, until release finds him in a sudden shuddering drowning wave, and the stifling hand has gone, and he is aware of Arthur supporting his weight and half carrying him the two or three paces to the narrow cot.
He lies back until the room steadies around him and he can sit up. Arthur is by the door, making a neat pile of sword, helmet and breastplate, with his back to Lancelot and the pair of guttering candles beside the bed. And when he turns back towards the light and the bed, and speaks for what feels like the first time in hours, the words are low and almost hesitant.
“There’s blood on your face.”
“It’s nothing.” Lancelot’s answer is like the crack of a whip, but whether the contempt he feels is for Arthur or for himself, he finds he can’t tell. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it? The reply has a familiar ring. No. No, it isn’t. It never is. But it’s better than nothing. Far better.
Arthur sits down beside him, and he has to grip the edge of the cot with both hands so as not to knock the proffered beaker of wine to the floor in an attempt to shatter the guarded calm of those impassive features.
“Let me see your mouth,” and Arthur is dipping the corner of a blanket in the wine and has taken hold of Lancelot’s jaw between a careful forefinger and thumb, tilting his face into the light.
“Leave it,” Lancelot says brusquely, but Arthur ignores him and he doesn’t pull away.
“There,” Arthur says, and runs his thumb gently over Lancelot’s parted lips. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture is like a blow to the heart, and Lancelot has to lower his gaze to hide the despair in his eyes.
“Drink this,” and Arthur has pushed the beaker with the remains of the wine into Lancelot’s unresisting hand and is gone again to the other side of the room, where he shrugs off the rest of his outer garments. This is the sign for Lancelot to leave – there is time for no more than a few short hours of rest before dawn and their departure for the North.
Arthur speaks from the doorway. “Lance. Stay.”
Lancelot stares at him wordlessly, eyes wide and unblinking. Arthur aligns his boots neatly by the door and re-crosses the room to place a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Stay till morning. There’s a heavy frost, and two will keep warmer than one.”
Lancelot cannot speak. Taking his assent for granted, Arthur is quietly pinching out the candles. Lancelot sucks in a shaky breath and tries to quell the hammerstrokes of his heart. Fool! To think, even for a moment, that he would ask you that. And bitter as gall is the dark secret knowledge of what his answer might have been. Would you stay with him, brother, if he asked it of you?
Arthur’s voice is quiet in the dark. “Will you not stay?” And Lancelot realises that Arthur does after all expect a reply.
“I’ll stay.” If the words grate and if his throat closes as he speaks, it can surely be put down to the bruising violence with which Arthur has just used him. He smiles into the darkness, the practised impenetrable smile that brings no answering warmth to his eyes.
___________ _____________ ___________
Lying sleepless under the blankets with Arthur’s solid warmth pressed close along the length of his body, he is grateful for the comfort of the shared warmth and the sound of Arthur’s measured breathing.
Worse than a fool, he thinks wearily, I am a traitor. For whichever road I choose, I will never be free of the guilt. And what is home now but a word that has lost its meaning? He is bound by a fifteen-year-old promise made by the boy he once was. Yet no promise can outweigh the fact that Arthur needs him, a watchful presence always there at his leader’s shoulder, guarding his back in battle and out of it. And when Arthur chooses to make use of his body in other ways, he is there for that too. He tongues his bitten lip and shivers at the memory.
It is the same every time with Arthur, a savage blaze of searing need and sudden violence, bruising to both body and spirit. And yet he cannot stay away. Afterwards, Arthur will sometimes talk to him with the easy companionship that is so rare between them, sharing tales of his days in Rome and rarely, a scarce handful of times, of even earlier days: of his childhood in Britain and his memories of his father. Arthur never asks about his own memories of home and kin. Never.
Yet he is more alone even than I am. Without me, he would have no one. How could I leave him?
Arthur shifts uneasily beside him without waking and Lancelot turns towards him, closing the gap between their bodies and turning his back on the chill and empty night.
I am bound to his fate, as he is to mine. That much I know. Let us put this last mission behind us, and then we will see.
Title: Two Sides of the Triangle (part 1)
Author:
rosiespark Disclaimer: Not mine. For fun, not for profit. Etc.
Rating: probably R
Pairing: Lancelot /Arthur
Notes: Because I fell in love with Ioan Gruffud's Lancelot. Takes place between scenes in the recent film, on the night before the mission North of the Wall
Thanks: to
fajrdrako for a thorough, thoughtful, generous and confidence-inspiring beta-reading!Comments: will be cuddled and fed chocolate. In other words, I am a feedback whore. *g*
Arthur’s temporary sleeping quarters are as squalid as any in the garrison and probably more cramped than most. Lancelot is aware that the sensible course of action would have been to have cordially refused Arthur’s invitation and then to have bidden him a civil goodnight before retiring to his own quarters to fume in peace and to snatch whatever rest he could before morning. Instead he is here, not drinking the wine that Arthur has just poured him and being stonewalled at every turn of the conversation by Arthur’s continuing refusal to talk to him about the day’s events.
“You admit that morally those discharge papers already belong to us. Why, then, will you not support us against Bishop Germanus?” Keeping his voice level costs him an effort of will. “We are your men, loyal to you, and you fail us all if you connive with that lying churchman in this way. Do you care so little for your brothers, Arthur?”
“By all that’s holy, Lancelot, I am sick of your eternal questioning!” The edge of fury is shortlived and Arthur continues in a voice that is more than usually clipped. “We have our orders. We leave at dawn.”
“You grow more Roman by the day.” The words have the ring of an accusation, which is, if Lancelot is to be honest with himself, how they are intended.
“You forget, brother. I am Roman.” Arthur’s face is unyielding, rock-hewn.
“Much joy may it give you. And your fellow Romans.” Lancelot spits the words like a curse and turns on his heel, but he has barely taken a step towards the door before Arthur’s full weight slams into his back and pins him against the wall.
“What is it,” Arthur’s breathing is uneven and his voice is like gravel, “what is it that you want me to do?” Arthur has one of his arms immobilised in a savage grip while the other is pushed up against his own back at a well-judged angle just short of breaking it. And Lancelot has no doubt that Arthur would do it. He keeps still, but with all his muscles tensed, waiting for an opening.
And then he feels Arthur’s breath on the back of his neck and he can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his spine. Without slackening his cruel grip, Arthur lowers his head and applies his lips and tongue to the fine skin of Lancelot’s neck, just below the ear. The air leaves Lancelot’s lungs in a gasp that is partly a laugh as a vast wild joy takes hold of him, and the pulse in his neck jumps under Arthur’s hot mouth. His twisted arm is suddenly released and he braces it carefully against the wall in front of his face and waits with a dry mouth and pounding heart for the onslaught he has provoked.
A bite to the neck, hard enough to bruise without breaking the skin, makes him gasp again, and he knows he is being claimed. The mark he will have to pass off as an overenthusiastic farewell from one of the garrison whores. And then a busy hand is pulling impatiently at his clothing and Arthur is pressing up urgently against his lower body, and Lancelot closes his eyes at the dreamlike inevitability of the whole sequence of their actions.
He has both forearms now braced against the wall and Arthur’s hands keep an impersonal grip on one shoulder and on the hipbone on Lancelot’s other side as he thrusts mercilessly into Lancelot’s body. Neither of them speaks, though Arthur is grunting with the sustained effort and Lancelot can hear the breath sobbing in his own throat at each onslaught of Arthur’s driving weight. Although he cannot see Arthur’s face, he knows what he would see if he could - eyes closed, brows drawn together in a heavy frown, and that austere mouth contorted in a struggle for breath. And he knows a fierce exultation at the knowledge that this is his doing, that he is the cause of this brief but complete loss of Arthur’s famous control.
One of his sweat-slick palms loses its purchase on the wall and his face is slammed against the dank stone. He tastes blood from a bitten lip. He doesn’t cry out and neither does Arthur stop his relentless punishing thrusts, not until he comes with a gasping tearing breath and his teeth sunk in Lancelot’s shoulder. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it? Lancelot asks himself silently. He has been painfully hard since the first touch of Arthur’s mouth on his neck, and he would beg if he thought it would do any good.
And then he has no further time for thought because Arthur’s vice-like grip is back and he is being forced away from the wall to face into the room. Arthur uses his advantage of height and weight to keep Lancelot immobilised, with one arm keeping him pinned bodily against Arthur’s mailed chest. Arthur’s other arm, still clad in its vambrace, is wedged under Lancelot’s chin, forcing his head back, a deliberate threat of violence to ensure his submission. He can hear the blood thundering in his ears as Arthur slides a hand down his belly and closes a calloused palm and fingers hard around the aching length of his cock. A hiss escapes him and his whole body jerks involuntarily at the contact. He is answered with a low growl against the side of his head and a painful tightening of the arm across his throat.
Arthur begins to fist him, hard and too fast, and it’s too much, he can’t bear it. He can feel a howl building in his chest, and maybe Arthur feels it too, for he claps his free hand roughly over Lancelot’s mouth so that he is fighting to breathe, his back arched and head flung back and desperate hands trying to break Arthur’s iron hold on his face, until release finds him in a sudden shuddering drowning wave, and the stifling hand has gone, and he is aware of Arthur supporting his weight and half carrying him the two or three paces to the narrow cot.
He lies back until the room steadies around him and he can sit up. Arthur is by the door, making a neat pile of sword, helmet and breastplate, with his back to Lancelot and the pair of guttering candles beside the bed. And when he turns back towards the light and the bed, and speaks for what feels like the first time in hours, the words are low and almost hesitant.
“There’s blood on your face.”
“It’s nothing.” Lancelot’s answer is like the crack of a whip, but whether the contempt he feels is for Arthur or for himself, he finds he can’t tell. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it? The reply has a familiar ring. No. No, it isn’t. It never is. But it’s better than nothing. Far better.
Arthur sits down beside him, and he has to grip the edge of the cot with both hands so as not to knock the proffered beaker of wine to the floor in an attempt to shatter the guarded calm of those impassive features.
“Let me see your mouth,” and Arthur is dipping the corner of a blanket in the wine and has taken hold of Lancelot’s jaw between a careful forefinger and thumb, tilting his face into the light.
“Leave it,” Lancelot says brusquely, but Arthur ignores him and he doesn’t pull away.
“There,” Arthur says, and runs his thumb gently over Lancelot’s parted lips. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture is like a blow to the heart, and Lancelot has to lower his gaze to hide the despair in his eyes.
“Drink this,” and Arthur has pushed the beaker with the remains of the wine into Lancelot’s unresisting hand and is gone again to the other side of the room, where he shrugs off the rest of his outer garments. This is the sign for Lancelot to leave – there is time for no more than a few short hours of rest before dawn and their departure for the North.
Arthur speaks from the doorway. “Lance. Stay.”
Lancelot stares at him wordlessly, eyes wide and unblinking. Arthur aligns his boots neatly by the door and re-crosses the room to place a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Stay till morning. There’s a heavy frost, and two will keep warmer than one.”
Lancelot cannot speak. Taking his assent for granted, Arthur is quietly pinching out the candles. Lancelot sucks in a shaky breath and tries to quell the hammerstrokes of his heart. Fool! To think, even for a moment, that he would ask you that. And bitter as gall is the dark secret knowledge of what his answer might have been. Would you stay with him, brother, if he asked it of you?
Arthur’s voice is quiet in the dark. “Will you not stay?” And Lancelot realises that Arthur does after all expect a reply.
“I’ll stay.” If the words grate and if his throat closes as he speaks, it can surely be put down to the bruising violence with which Arthur has just used him. He smiles into the darkness, the practised impenetrable smile that brings no answering warmth to his eyes.
___________ _____________ ___________
Lying sleepless under the blankets with Arthur’s solid warmth pressed close along the length of his body, he is grateful for the comfort of the shared warmth and the sound of Arthur’s measured breathing.
Worse than a fool, he thinks wearily, I am a traitor. For whichever road I choose, I will never be free of the guilt. And what is home now but a word that has lost its meaning? He is bound by a fifteen-year-old promise made by the boy he once was. Yet no promise can outweigh the fact that Arthur needs him, a watchful presence always there at his leader’s shoulder, guarding his back in battle and out of it. And when Arthur chooses to make use of his body in other ways, he is there for that too. He tongues his bitten lip and shivers at the memory.
It is the same every time with Arthur, a savage blaze of searing need and sudden violence, bruising to both body and spirit. And yet he cannot stay away. Afterwards, Arthur will sometimes talk to him with the easy companionship that is so rare between them, sharing tales of his days in Rome and rarely, a scarce handful of times, of even earlier days: of his childhood in Britain and his memories of his father. Arthur never asks about his own memories of home and kin. Never.
Yet he is more alone even than I am. Without me, he would have no one. How could I leave him?
Arthur shifts uneasily beside him without waking and Lancelot turns towards him, closing the gap between their bodies and turning his back on the chill and empty night.
I am bound to his fate, as he is to mine. That much I know. Let us put this last mission behind us, and then we will see.