Possession: III
Aug. 17th, 2005 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deawritesTitle: Possession (Link to all chapters)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dea_liberty
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
"...this is Lucius Artorius Castus; he has recently acquired a slave that would do your ludus proud."
Arthur didn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep – not with Lancelot in a room down the corridor, maltreated and angry and a slave. His slave. As soon as the sunlight peaked over the horizon, Arthur was out of his room, dressed to go out. Komosarya was saddled before Jols was even awake – and, by the time the rest of the household stirred, Arthur was already at the market, watching the sellers opening their stalls.
The first place he stopped was at the clothing stall. He picked out a couple of tunics and some breeches and a riding cloak – all slightly smaller than he wore. Really, he had no idea what he was doing; he’d never bought anything for anyone else before in his life – but he wasn’t about to let Lancelot walk around in rags. He paid, hesitated and, with a few more words, had convinced the man (also a tailor) to come by his villa later that evening.
“Wanting new clothing, Commander?” The man had asked before Arthur had walked away. “Just so that I know what material to bring.”
Arthur hadn’t hesitated – even though he knew he, probably, should have. “Only your best.”
Even after that, he knew he wasn’t ready to go back to the house, wasn’t ready to face the accusations, the confusion and the guilt (the memories that he’d been avoiding, personified and walking around his house). He found himself walking in the direction of the blacksmith and, after that, somehow towards the Coliseum – and abruptly changed paths, turning around – and finding himself, unfortunately, face to face with a person he did not want to see.
“Flavius,” Arthur greeted somewhat tersely, arms crossing in front of him; he wasn’t ready to face the man yet.
“Castus.” The Roman gestured to the man next to him – a tall, bulky man whose eyes spoke of battle and a life of harshness. “This is the lanista of Campus Martius, Aquilus. Aquilus, this is Lucius Artorius Castus; he has recently acquired a slave that would do your ludus proud.”
Campus Martius. It was the most successful gladiatorial ludus (gladiatorial training school) of the time, and this man was the head of it, the teacher in the ways of battle. Arthur felt as if his hackles were rising, his lips curling into a growl – which he hardly bothered to disguise; his animosity was clear in his words.
“He is not meant for the arena.” The underlying threat was also clear – and Arthur’s hands itched for Excalibur when the men proceeded to ignore that.
“Contrary to that, Castus, he’s perfect. Tall, lean, well built – train him up specifically for the arena a little more and we have a winner for the Coliseum. He can make you rich – richer than you ever dared dream.”
Arthur forwent manners completely and turned his back on the two men, stalking off, anger almost palpable, towards where he had tied his mare up. The two men seemed to be immune to his lack of etiquette (and seemed to lack the same thing themselves) and continued to follow him.
“See some sense! What is he for if not the arena? Surely you don’t intend to keep him as a regular household slave; you’ve got enough servants and hands as it is.”
Arthur didn’t want to hear this – because he knew he was thinking along the same lines, in some ways. To free Lancelot would be just like sending him out to the arena to die; someone would recapture the knight – he had countless senators and glory-seekers watching his every move (he knew that now – by the way almost everyone’s eyes seemed to follow him). Lancelot would never make it out of Rome.
And he had to admit there was something selfish about that as well; he wasn’t quite ready to let Lancelot go yet. Whether to freedom or to another man, he just wasn’t ready to lose Lancelot once more – and that thought killed him as much as any other.
“Perhaps for another…purpose.” Now the leer was clear in Flavius’ voice – and Arthur knew exactly what that meant; he chose to ignore it. “If that’s the case, I can find you prettier boys, Castus; younger things for your pleasure – for the worn out fighter that your new slave obviously is. I’ll trade you more than you paid for that man – ”
And Arthur had had enough. He wheeled around to settle a glare that made the bravest men flinch (and Flavius was not a brave man) on the annoying man.
“He will never fight in the arena,” Arthur told him, voice hard and cold. “Under my patronage, or yours – or anyone else’s. That will not be his fate.”
Without another word and without waiting for a reply, Arthur pulled himself into his saddle and made his way home, reeling with anger.
What he found there did nothing to ease that flame.
A crowd of people in front of the house and his front door open – which could only mean he had visitors and (from the look of the people around the area) he could tell what kind.
He handed the reins to a stable boy as he dismounted, walking purposefully and deliberately into the house without so much as a glance (without paying attention) to anymore around him, anyone who was trying to catch his attention. Jols made it (somehow) through the crowd to his side.
“They want to see the new ‘gladiator’. And the men inside are from various ludi around Rome – ”
“Get them all out of my house.” It was as close to a command as he’d given to anyone since his arrival back in Rome – and he meant it with every bit of himself. He didn’t want to see these people, didn’t want to see their prying eyes or greedy faces staring expectantly at him, watching him as if expecting him to give them money.
Or watching and looking over Lancelot as if he were not human. “All of them.”
And then he turned down the corridors that took him to the private section of the house – and found himself standing doubtfully outside the room he had had prepared for Lancelot.
He hadn’t needed to, however; Lancelot wasn’t there.
He found him in his own bedroom, sitting almost awkwardly on the floor in the corner, watching the door. He was still wearing the old, faded tunic Jols had managed to find for him yesterday.
“Jols told me to stay in here for a bit. There are people outside and around,” Lancelot told him simply, shrugging slightly. That was probably sensible – very few people dared to go even near to the rooms that belonged to the master of the house. “Ignore me.”
Arthur shook his head and divested himself of the riding cloak, throwing it over a chair before he pulled out the items he had bought – and then handed them over to Lancelot.
“They’re just temporary,” he told him, trying (and failing) to catch Lancelot’s eyes. “For a little while, whilst your own get made.”
It seemed as if the only way to make Lancelot meet his eyes was to shock him – because only then did the widened brown gaze meet his, surprise clear in their depths. Surprise that was quickly followed by anger (perhaps the only way Lancelot knew how to deal with the situation).
“I’m a slave. You’re treating me as if I were a friend.” The eyes narrowed, almost piercing Arthur with the glare. “Your feeling of responsibility made you buy me. Does it make you do all this as well?”
“You are a friend,” Arthur snapped back, fists clenching at Lancelot’s words. Always (always, always) Lancelot had been able to rile him up like no other, could make him feel things that no other could – and more intensely than anyone else could ever even try. The frustration and helplessness, as well as guilt – and a myriad of other emotions that had been assaulting him since he’d first seen the knight – were building up to the point of bursting.
And all of that was on top of just the thrill of seeing the man again – the completion he should have felt but didn’t (did – but not – he didn’t understand), the joy-tinged-sorrow of the situation.
“You owe me nothing, Arthur. I’m not your responsibility anymore!”
Arthur ignored the words, simply shaking his head – not knowing what to say to them – and not knowing how to say what he wanted to say to the other man, what he’d not said all those months (years) ago.
“Send me to the damned arena and get your money’s worth, damn it Arthur! I know what they’re saying. I know who are out there. You – ”
“I what, Lancelot? What do you think I am?” Arthur demanded, unable to hold back the fury any longer – especially when Lancelot was accusing him of even contemplating such a vile idea. “Fifteen years. You spent fifteen years under my command, fighting for the right to live – and you expect me…you think I would….”
He ran out of words and gestured roughly with his hands, eyes bright with emotion, voice almost cracking with strain. “I thought you knew me.”
“I thought I knew you too, Arthur,” Lancelot only snapped back. It was as if the dams were open and there was no way to stop the water from flooding the plains. “But you stayed behind and fought for that godforsaken country. You stayed under the lull of that manipulative bitch – and you spare no more than thoughts of responsibility for me. You bought me, Arthur. What the hell do you want in return?”
“I’ve never asked for anything in return,” Arthur shouted back, raking a hand roughly through his hair. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out of that door – he wasn’t ready for this conversation either. He wasn’t ready for the almost familiarity of the young knight questioning his decisions, aggravating him, baiting him. He wasn’t ready to see that familiar burning in Lancelot’s eyes – and yet so, very different.
“Then, I gave you my loyalty.” The voice dropped, like a fire almost settling in the absence of the breeze but just as hot and destructive and deadly – and Lancelot’s words bit, conveyed more of what he was feeling (anger, frustration, betrayal) than his former shouting had done. “Back then, I gave you everything I had to give whether you asked for it or not. Now, I do not even have those things to give.”
Lancelot pushed himself off the wall, standing up. The faded tunic did nothing to hide the raw grace he’d always possessed from Arthur – that untameable wildness that had first drawn the Roman-raised boy to his dark-haired companion. Lancelot had always been everything Arthur was not – and now was no different at all.
And Arthur watched him, transfixed.
“What is it you bought me to do?” A few more steps forwards, matching Arthur’s one step back. Arthur was only too familiar with this – and (obviously) Lancelot was still testing – almost aware – of the hold he still held over his ex-commander. “You will not let them take me and yet you will not let me go; I know that much.”
The accusation was clear – and Lancelot knew (for the wrong reasons) that Arthur wasn’t intending to free him, not yet – and Arthur knew he was resented for it, but also knew Lancelot didn’t understand (and wouldn’t) understand his reasoning.
“What is it you bought me for?”
“I couldn’t let you end up fighting again when you’ve already fought for freedom once,” Arthur replied, anger almost drained for his voice – and fading with each step Lancelot took.
“That’s why, Arthur – because you still feel responsible. But what – that’s my question now. What for?”
Arthur didn’t answer – couldn’t answer. Lancelot was standing right in front of him and, slowly (almost hesitantly but then again, not at all) raising a hand to rest on his cheek – and closing the distance between them.
“Lancelot.” The name was only a breath. It was supposed to be a warning, a caution to watch what he was doing – and came out more wanting than its intended effect. Having the man this close was heady, to say the least – he’d spent so many nights dreaming, so much time wanting and this was…it was definitely not a good or right thing to do; it was worse than the knight being under his command –
“What for?”
And then those lips sealed over his and he was completely overcome by the way the familiar taste flooded his mouth as the memories he’d tried so hard to keep at bay came back to him. He remembered the way Lancelot reacted to his touches, remembered the quiet noise that only he could make and only when Arthur’s fingers or lips brushed over him a certain way – and it was intoxicating because Lancelot was yielding, a small moan making its way past his lips as –
No.
Arthur pulled away as abruptly as Lancelot had kissed him, meeting the slightly dazed but determined triumphant eyes of the man in his arms (he hadn’t even realised he’d wrapped his arms around him) – before letting go as if he’d been burnt.
“That’s why?” Came the soft whisper as Lancelot (apart from his eyes – they’d never been able to hide anything from Arthur) seemed completely unaffected by the fact that it had been two years since they’d last been so close. Two tortured, painful years when Arthur was without his soul.
And here it stood, bound to him by law in a way that sickened him, and caged in a way he’d never wanted Lancelot (his soul) to ever be.
One of Lancelot’s hand seemed to reach up – and the man stripped himself slowly of the tunic that had left very little (but more than Arthur had thought) to the imagination. He stood there, bare, unashamedly (he’d never been shy about his body) in front of Arthur, letting Arthur’s eyes wander over the almost-familiar curves and muscles and scars – well-worn and well-loved features of the man he loved (although Lancelot never knew) more than life itself.
“Take it then.” For a moment, Arthur didn’t understand. He could hardly pull his eyes away from the body he thought he’d never see again, pull his mind from the memories it was digging up (he wanted to know if Lancelot still arched and whimpered to the slightly touch to his spine, or if Lancelot’s skin still tasted the same). And then Lancelot’s hand wrapped around his own, pulling it up to run over his skin, and letting it curl the way it used to around Lancelot’s waist.
“Once, I repaid you with everything I had – but I had a lot more to offer. This time….” There was something barely disguised in that voice that Arthur couldn’t quite figure out yet – his mind was too busy just feeling to think about anything at all. “Even my body is no longer mine – but I know you. At least, I know what you try to be.”
Accusation. That came through his hazed mind – before his mind reeled, bring him back to the moment, back to focus on the words and the tone and the everything. Lancelot’s body language, his features, the way he was reacting to touch – it was all wrong. Even though desire was there in his eyes, it was drowned out by everything else.
Disgust. Mistrust. Pain. Humiliation. Defeat. Animosity.
“Take what you bought then, Arthur; use me as you will.”
Arthur gave a small cry and pushed Lancelot away, eyes widening at the realisation of what Lancelot was saying, what Lancelot was accusing him of, of what he knew he wanted to do – what he wanted. Self-hatred bubbled up faster than ever before, than he’d ever imagined it could – and guilt raced through him at the look in Lancelot’s eyes.
Wrong. It was all so, so wrong that Arthur could hardly even fathom how he’d….
He broke the eye contact, unable to meet Lancelot’s gaze any longer (unable to see those emotions from the eyes of one he loved so much) – and then fled, door slamming with an air of finality behind him.
“Take what you bought then, Arthur; use me as you will.”
There were no words to describe how he felt – and nothing that could ease that (self-inflicted) pain. There was only one thing to do – and, whatever his thoughts on the matter, it was the only thing that could be done.
Author:
dea_libertyPairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Rating: 16+
A/N: Post-movie AU where Lancelot survives Badon Hill and returns to Sarmatia.
Feedback: Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.
Summary: Arthur wanted Lancelot to know freedom; instead, he finds himself forced to teach him what it truly means to be a slave to Rome.
"...this is Lucius Artorius Castus; he has recently acquired a slave that would do your ludus proud."
Arthur didn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep – not with Lancelot in a room down the corridor, maltreated and angry and a slave. His slave. As soon as the sunlight peaked over the horizon, Arthur was out of his room, dressed to go out. Komosarya was saddled before Jols was even awake – and, by the time the rest of the household stirred, Arthur was already at the market, watching the sellers opening their stalls.
The first place he stopped was at the clothing stall. He picked out a couple of tunics and some breeches and a riding cloak – all slightly smaller than he wore. Really, he had no idea what he was doing; he’d never bought anything for anyone else before in his life – but he wasn’t about to let Lancelot walk around in rags. He paid, hesitated and, with a few more words, had convinced the man (also a tailor) to come by his villa later that evening.
“Wanting new clothing, Commander?” The man had asked before Arthur had walked away. “Just so that I know what material to bring.”
Arthur hadn’t hesitated – even though he knew he, probably, should have. “Only your best.”
Even after that, he knew he wasn’t ready to go back to the house, wasn’t ready to face the accusations, the confusion and the guilt (the memories that he’d been avoiding, personified and walking around his house). He found himself walking in the direction of the blacksmith and, after that, somehow towards the Coliseum – and abruptly changed paths, turning around – and finding himself, unfortunately, face to face with a person he did not want to see.
“Flavius,” Arthur greeted somewhat tersely, arms crossing in front of him; he wasn’t ready to face the man yet.
“Castus.” The Roman gestured to the man next to him – a tall, bulky man whose eyes spoke of battle and a life of harshness. “This is the lanista of Campus Martius, Aquilus. Aquilus, this is Lucius Artorius Castus; he has recently acquired a slave that would do your ludus proud.”
Campus Martius. It was the most successful gladiatorial ludus (gladiatorial training school) of the time, and this man was the head of it, the teacher in the ways of battle. Arthur felt as if his hackles were rising, his lips curling into a growl – which he hardly bothered to disguise; his animosity was clear in his words.
“He is not meant for the arena.” The underlying threat was also clear – and Arthur’s hands itched for Excalibur when the men proceeded to ignore that.
“Contrary to that, Castus, he’s perfect. Tall, lean, well built – train him up specifically for the arena a little more and we have a winner for the Coliseum. He can make you rich – richer than you ever dared dream.”
Arthur forwent manners completely and turned his back on the two men, stalking off, anger almost palpable, towards where he had tied his mare up. The two men seemed to be immune to his lack of etiquette (and seemed to lack the same thing themselves) and continued to follow him.
“See some sense! What is he for if not the arena? Surely you don’t intend to keep him as a regular household slave; you’ve got enough servants and hands as it is.”
Arthur didn’t want to hear this – because he knew he was thinking along the same lines, in some ways. To free Lancelot would be just like sending him out to the arena to die; someone would recapture the knight – he had countless senators and glory-seekers watching his every move (he knew that now – by the way almost everyone’s eyes seemed to follow him). Lancelot would never make it out of Rome.
And he had to admit there was something selfish about that as well; he wasn’t quite ready to let Lancelot go yet. Whether to freedom or to another man, he just wasn’t ready to lose Lancelot once more – and that thought killed him as much as any other.
“Perhaps for another…purpose.” Now the leer was clear in Flavius’ voice – and Arthur knew exactly what that meant; he chose to ignore it. “If that’s the case, I can find you prettier boys, Castus; younger things for your pleasure – for the worn out fighter that your new slave obviously is. I’ll trade you more than you paid for that man – ”
And Arthur had had enough. He wheeled around to settle a glare that made the bravest men flinch (and Flavius was not a brave man) on the annoying man.
“He will never fight in the arena,” Arthur told him, voice hard and cold. “Under my patronage, or yours – or anyone else’s. That will not be his fate.”
Without another word and without waiting for a reply, Arthur pulled himself into his saddle and made his way home, reeling with anger.
What he found there did nothing to ease that flame.
A crowd of people in front of the house and his front door open – which could only mean he had visitors and (from the look of the people around the area) he could tell what kind.
He handed the reins to a stable boy as he dismounted, walking purposefully and deliberately into the house without so much as a glance (without paying attention) to anymore around him, anyone who was trying to catch his attention. Jols made it (somehow) through the crowd to his side.
“They want to see the new ‘gladiator’. And the men inside are from various ludi around Rome – ”
“Get them all out of my house.” It was as close to a command as he’d given to anyone since his arrival back in Rome – and he meant it with every bit of himself. He didn’t want to see these people, didn’t want to see their prying eyes or greedy faces staring expectantly at him, watching him as if expecting him to give them money.
Or watching and looking over Lancelot as if he were not human. “All of them.”
And then he turned down the corridors that took him to the private section of the house – and found himself standing doubtfully outside the room he had had prepared for Lancelot.
He hadn’t needed to, however; Lancelot wasn’t there.
He found him in his own bedroom, sitting almost awkwardly on the floor in the corner, watching the door. He was still wearing the old, faded tunic Jols had managed to find for him yesterday.
“Jols told me to stay in here for a bit. There are people outside and around,” Lancelot told him simply, shrugging slightly. That was probably sensible – very few people dared to go even near to the rooms that belonged to the master of the house. “Ignore me.”
Arthur shook his head and divested himself of the riding cloak, throwing it over a chair before he pulled out the items he had bought – and then handed them over to Lancelot.
“They’re just temporary,” he told him, trying (and failing) to catch Lancelot’s eyes. “For a little while, whilst your own get made.”
It seemed as if the only way to make Lancelot meet his eyes was to shock him – because only then did the widened brown gaze meet his, surprise clear in their depths. Surprise that was quickly followed by anger (perhaps the only way Lancelot knew how to deal with the situation).
“I’m a slave. You’re treating me as if I were a friend.” The eyes narrowed, almost piercing Arthur with the glare. “Your feeling of responsibility made you buy me. Does it make you do all this as well?”
“You are a friend,” Arthur snapped back, fists clenching at Lancelot’s words. Always (always, always) Lancelot had been able to rile him up like no other, could make him feel things that no other could – and more intensely than anyone else could ever even try. The frustration and helplessness, as well as guilt – and a myriad of other emotions that had been assaulting him since he’d first seen the knight – were building up to the point of bursting.
And all of that was on top of just the thrill of seeing the man again – the completion he should have felt but didn’t (did – but not – he didn’t understand), the joy-tinged-sorrow of the situation.
“You owe me nothing, Arthur. I’m not your responsibility anymore!”
Arthur ignored the words, simply shaking his head – not knowing what to say to them – and not knowing how to say what he wanted to say to the other man, what he’d not said all those months (years) ago.
“Send me to the damned arena and get your money’s worth, damn it Arthur! I know what they’re saying. I know who are out there. You – ”
“I what, Lancelot? What do you think I am?” Arthur demanded, unable to hold back the fury any longer – especially when Lancelot was accusing him of even contemplating such a vile idea. “Fifteen years. You spent fifteen years under my command, fighting for the right to live – and you expect me…you think I would….”
He ran out of words and gestured roughly with his hands, eyes bright with emotion, voice almost cracking with strain. “I thought you knew me.”
“I thought I knew you too, Arthur,” Lancelot only snapped back. It was as if the dams were open and there was no way to stop the water from flooding the plains. “But you stayed behind and fought for that godforsaken country. You stayed under the lull of that manipulative bitch – and you spare no more than thoughts of responsibility for me. You bought me, Arthur. What the hell do you want in return?”
“I’ve never asked for anything in return,” Arthur shouted back, raking a hand roughly through his hair. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out of that door – he wasn’t ready for this conversation either. He wasn’t ready for the almost familiarity of the young knight questioning his decisions, aggravating him, baiting him. He wasn’t ready to see that familiar burning in Lancelot’s eyes – and yet so, very different.
“Then, I gave you my loyalty.” The voice dropped, like a fire almost settling in the absence of the breeze but just as hot and destructive and deadly – and Lancelot’s words bit, conveyed more of what he was feeling (anger, frustration, betrayal) than his former shouting had done. “Back then, I gave you everything I had to give whether you asked for it or not. Now, I do not even have those things to give.”
Lancelot pushed himself off the wall, standing up. The faded tunic did nothing to hide the raw grace he’d always possessed from Arthur – that untameable wildness that had first drawn the Roman-raised boy to his dark-haired companion. Lancelot had always been everything Arthur was not – and now was no different at all.
And Arthur watched him, transfixed.
“What is it you bought me to do?” A few more steps forwards, matching Arthur’s one step back. Arthur was only too familiar with this – and (obviously) Lancelot was still testing – almost aware – of the hold he still held over his ex-commander. “You will not let them take me and yet you will not let me go; I know that much.”
The accusation was clear – and Lancelot knew (for the wrong reasons) that Arthur wasn’t intending to free him, not yet – and Arthur knew he was resented for it, but also knew Lancelot didn’t understand (and wouldn’t) understand his reasoning.
“What is it you bought me for?”
“I couldn’t let you end up fighting again when you’ve already fought for freedom once,” Arthur replied, anger almost drained for his voice – and fading with each step Lancelot took.
“That’s why, Arthur – because you still feel responsible. But what – that’s my question now. What for?”
Arthur didn’t answer – couldn’t answer. Lancelot was standing right in front of him and, slowly (almost hesitantly but then again, not at all) raising a hand to rest on his cheek – and closing the distance between them.
“Lancelot.” The name was only a breath. It was supposed to be a warning, a caution to watch what he was doing – and came out more wanting than its intended effect. Having the man this close was heady, to say the least – he’d spent so many nights dreaming, so much time wanting and this was…it was definitely not a good or right thing to do; it was worse than the knight being under his command –
“What for?”
And then those lips sealed over his and he was completely overcome by the way the familiar taste flooded his mouth as the memories he’d tried so hard to keep at bay came back to him. He remembered the way Lancelot reacted to his touches, remembered the quiet noise that only he could make and only when Arthur’s fingers or lips brushed over him a certain way – and it was intoxicating because Lancelot was yielding, a small moan making its way past his lips as –
No.
Arthur pulled away as abruptly as Lancelot had kissed him, meeting the slightly dazed but determined triumphant eyes of the man in his arms (he hadn’t even realised he’d wrapped his arms around him) – before letting go as if he’d been burnt.
“That’s why?” Came the soft whisper as Lancelot (apart from his eyes – they’d never been able to hide anything from Arthur) seemed completely unaffected by the fact that it had been two years since they’d last been so close. Two tortured, painful years when Arthur was without his soul.
And here it stood, bound to him by law in a way that sickened him, and caged in a way he’d never wanted Lancelot (his soul) to ever be.
One of Lancelot’s hand seemed to reach up – and the man stripped himself slowly of the tunic that had left very little (but more than Arthur had thought) to the imagination. He stood there, bare, unashamedly (he’d never been shy about his body) in front of Arthur, letting Arthur’s eyes wander over the almost-familiar curves and muscles and scars – well-worn and well-loved features of the man he loved (although Lancelot never knew) more than life itself.
“Take it then.” For a moment, Arthur didn’t understand. He could hardly pull his eyes away from the body he thought he’d never see again, pull his mind from the memories it was digging up (he wanted to know if Lancelot still arched and whimpered to the slightly touch to his spine, or if Lancelot’s skin still tasted the same). And then Lancelot’s hand wrapped around his own, pulling it up to run over his skin, and letting it curl the way it used to around Lancelot’s waist.
“Once, I repaid you with everything I had – but I had a lot more to offer. This time….” There was something barely disguised in that voice that Arthur couldn’t quite figure out yet – his mind was too busy just feeling to think about anything at all. “Even my body is no longer mine – but I know you. At least, I know what you try to be.”
Accusation. That came through his hazed mind – before his mind reeled, bring him back to the moment, back to focus on the words and the tone and the everything. Lancelot’s body language, his features, the way he was reacting to touch – it was all wrong. Even though desire was there in his eyes, it was drowned out by everything else.
Disgust. Mistrust. Pain. Humiliation. Defeat. Animosity.
“Take what you bought then, Arthur; use me as you will.”
Arthur gave a small cry and pushed Lancelot away, eyes widening at the realisation of what Lancelot was saying, what Lancelot was accusing him of, of what he knew he wanted to do – what he wanted. Self-hatred bubbled up faster than ever before, than he’d ever imagined it could – and guilt raced through him at the look in Lancelot’s eyes.
Wrong. It was all so, so wrong that Arthur could hardly even fathom how he’d….
He broke the eye contact, unable to meet Lancelot’s gaze any longer (unable to see those emotions from the eyes of one he loved so much) – and then fled, door slamming with an air of finality behind him.
“Take what you bought then, Arthur; use me as you will.”
There were no words to describe how he felt – and nothing that could ease that (self-inflicted) pain. There was only one thing to do – and, whatever his thoughts on the matter, it was the only thing that could be done.
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Date: 2005-08-16 09:25 pm (UTC)............you CAN'T just leave at that, and leave me here gasping for air!!!
...And you did it again...why do your stories always have this effect on me?!
*because they're damn good, that's why*
Once again, wonderful and lovely, darling, but oh so painful...
Damn you, Lance....
Hugs,
Michelle
no subject
Date: 2005-08-17 03:43 am (UTC)I've missed you and your writing, hunna. I've been absent from the KA scene for a while but reading...reading this. *wails again*
I love you so much and this was so heartbreakingly sad and I so need the next part and the raw pain and anguish that Lance has underneath all the flat, static nothingness of trying not to feel and Arthur! Ghod, Arthur! He's so bleedin' in love with Lancelot that it bleeds onto the page and why can't Lancelot see that? And I'm crying!
*takes a deep breath*
I'm going to go collect myself now. *hugs you* Brilliant writing, as usual, hunna. Brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-18 11:11 am (UTC)Please post more soon.