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"Shorelines" (King Arthur)
Shorelines
By Lokei
Universe: King Arthur (movieverse), Lancelot/Arthur
Rating: R-lite
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine.
Author’s Note: unbeta’d late entry for romanticalgirl’s Sex on a Beach challenge.
“I should like to know why successfully pushing the Woads back from the Wall merits such punishment,” Lancelot grumbled, digging the toe of one boot into the gravelly sand at his feet.
“Punishment? To travel the country and receive the attention and gratitude of the people you keep safe?” Arthur’s voice was amused. “Dare I ask what would be your idea of reward?”
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Probably not, no.”
Arthur snorted and then turned back to gaze again on the vista which had had him so enthralled before Lancelot’s interruption. “You do not find this glorious?” Arthur threw out his hands to encompass the wide, gray, bleak sea and the wider, grayer, bleaker sky.
“Glorious?” Lancelot snorted and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. “Your head’s as empty as the wind on this sun-forsaken Cornish coast.”
“It’s a nice change from fighting,” Arthur offered peaceably.
His second scowled. “Rome brought us here to fight. If your far-off military thinks a few weeks’ leave from fighting is anything like freedom, they’ve got their heads on more permanently backwards than I had previously assumed.”
Arthur turned wounded eyes on his friend. “It’s only a bit more than a year to go, Lancelot.”
“And how many of us will live to see it? A bit more than a year was a bit too long for Gaheris and Cador.”
“You think I do not recognize that? That our friends-ours, Lancelot, mine as well as yours-have earned their freedom a hundred times over by their service?”
Lancelot kicked at the sand and looked somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. “I know.”
It was the closest the man ever got to an apology, and Arthur knew to take it as one. He rolled his eyes and clapped a hand on the other’s upper arm.
“Come, my surly friend, can you not be grateful for one day of peace? For the feel of the wind and the sound of the ocean?”
Lancelot twitched his shoulder. “I should be happier were the wind coming from Sarmatia and not from Ireland. Are you certain you do not wish me to watch the horizon for raiders?”
Arthur was ready to be seriously annoyed, but an irrepressible spark in the other’s eyes proved that the knight was now continuing his griping for the sake of humor rather than any true grievance. In response, Arthur turned his torso so that his shoulder knocked into Lancelot with a certain amount of force, the surprise movement sending the slighter man to the ground with an undignified thump and Arthur on top of him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Arthur said smugly from his perch on the other’s chest. “Perhaps you have not a proper appreciation for the land you protect.” He picked up a handful of gravelly sand and dribbled it over Lancelot’s leather jerkin. “I hear continuously from the foot soldiers that you consider yourself too far from the ground as it is, and ought to gain better acquaintance with it.”
“And you’re the one to perform the introductions, is that it?” Lancelot’s eyes glittered and his muscles bunched, far too fast for Arthur to prevent being thrown over and pinned in turn. “Perhaps that’s fitting. You’re as hard headed as this rocky soil you claim to love.” Lancelot leaned closer and dropped a pebble close to Arthur’s ear.
“You’ve the stony bits and pieces of this freezing, foggy island running through your veins, Arthur.”
Lancelot’s voice was low, and the warmth of his breath was a sharp contrast to the salt wind whispering over their heads. Arthur groaned at the way Lancelot’s motion emphasized the other man’s contact with Arthur’s own body: one long fingered hand pinning his wrists, the other at his shoulder, while whipcord lean strength powered the legs that held sharp hipbones against his own. The pebbles under his ribs were chilled, but the man above him was as heated as if he’d just stepped from the caldarium.
Arthur shifted a little and Lancelot chuckled, that knowing laugh that was somehow Tristan’s eyes, Bors’ leer, and Dagonet’s quiet loyalty all rolled into one, with a darker stripe that was Lancelot’s alone, and reserved for only Arthur’s ears.
“All that native rock in your veins seems to be concentrating below your waist, Roman.” Lancelot released Arthur’s hands and chuckled again as they settled firmly on the seat of his pants. “I should argue with you more often.”
“You argue quite often enough,” Arthur groaned again. “And as it’s usually you who starts it,” he gave a futile surge with his hips that merely left Lancelot even more effectively seated, “I suspect it’s you who intends the result all along, my most volatile knight.”
Lancelot smirked. “And how did this one start?” He stretched his hands over Arthur’s head and brought his weight down to rest on Arthur’s chest, sliding lower as he spoke.
“Ah, yes, I remember.” Lancelot’s face tilted up to keep his eyes on Arthur’s as his busy fingers tugged at laces and leather and flesh. His eyes glittered. “Ask me again.”
What?” At this point, Arthur wasn’t sure he remembered getting to the ground, let alone anything that had happened before.
“Ask me what I want for a reward,” Lancelot challenged, and Arthur waved a hand.
“Anything.” At the raise of the other’s eyebrows, he sighed and played along. “What do you want, Lancelot?”
The other gave him that slow, lazy smile. “This,” he answered, and bent his head.
By Lokei
Universe: King Arthur (movieverse), Lancelot/Arthur
Rating: R-lite
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine.
Author’s Note: unbeta’d late entry for romanticalgirl’s Sex on a Beach challenge.
“I should like to know why successfully pushing the Woads back from the Wall merits such punishment,” Lancelot grumbled, digging the toe of one boot into the gravelly sand at his feet.
“Punishment? To travel the country and receive the attention and gratitude of the people you keep safe?” Arthur’s voice was amused. “Dare I ask what would be your idea of reward?”
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Probably not, no.”
Arthur snorted and then turned back to gaze again on the vista which had had him so enthralled before Lancelot’s interruption. “You do not find this glorious?” Arthur threw out his hands to encompass the wide, gray, bleak sea and the wider, grayer, bleaker sky.
“Glorious?” Lancelot snorted and wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. “Your head’s as empty as the wind on this sun-forsaken Cornish coast.”
“It’s a nice change from fighting,” Arthur offered peaceably.
His second scowled. “Rome brought us here to fight. If your far-off military thinks a few weeks’ leave from fighting is anything like freedom, they’ve got their heads on more permanently backwards than I had previously assumed.”
Arthur turned wounded eyes on his friend. “It’s only a bit more than a year to go, Lancelot.”
“And how many of us will live to see it? A bit more than a year was a bit too long for Gaheris and Cador.”
“You think I do not recognize that? That our friends-ours, Lancelot, mine as well as yours-have earned their freedom a hundred times over by their service?”
Lancelot kicked at the sand and looked somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. “I know.”
It was the closest the man ever got to an apology, and Arthur knew to take it as one. He rolled his eyes and clapped a hand on the other’s upper arm.
“Come, my surly friend, can you not be grateful for one day of peace? For the feel of the wind and the sound of the ocean?”
Lancelot twitched his shoulder. “I should be happier were the wind coming from Sarmatia and not from Ireland. Are you certain you do not wish me to watch the horizon for raiders?”
Arthur was ready to be seriously annoyed, but an irrepressible spark in the other’s eyes proved that the knight was now continuing his griping for the sake of humor rather than any true grievance. In response, Arthur turned his torso so that his shoulder knocked into Lancelot with a certain amount of force, the surprise movement sending the slighter man to the ground with an undignified thump and Arthur on top of him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Arthur said smugly from his perch on the other’s chest. “Perhaps you have not a proper appreciation for the land you protect.” He picked up a handful of gravelly sand and dribbled it over Lancelot’s leather jerkin. “I hear continuously from the foot soldiers that you consider yourself too far from the ground as it is, and ought to gain better acquaintance with it.”
“And you’re the one to perform the introductions, is that it?” Lancelot’s eyes glittered and his muscles bunched, far too fast for Arthur to prevent being thrown over and pinned in turn. “Perhaps that’s fitting. You’re as hard headed as this rocky soil you claim to love.” Lancelot leaned closer and dropped a pebble close to Arthur’s ear.
“You’ve the stony bits and pieces of this freezing, foggy island running through your veins, Arthur.”
Lancelot’s voice was low, and the warmth of his breath was a sharp contrast to the salt wind whispering over their heads. Arthur groaned at the way Lancelot’s motion emphasized the other man’s contact with Arthur’s own body: one long fingered hand pinning his wrists, the other at his shoulder, while whipcord lean strength powered the legs that held sharp hipbones against his own. The pebbles under his ribs were chilled, but the man above him was as heated as if he’d just stepped from the caldarium.
Arthur shifted a little and Lancelot chuckled, that knowing laugh that was somehow Tristan’s eyes, Bors’ leer, and Dagonet’s quiet loyalty all rolled into one, with a darker stripe that was Lancelot’s alone, and reserved for only Arthur’s ears.
“All that native rock in your veins seems to be concentrating below your waist, Roman.” Lancelot released Arthur’s hands and chuckled again as they settled firmly on the seat of his pants. “I should argue with you more often.”
“You argue quite often enough,” Arthur groaned again. “And as it’s usually you who starts it,” he gave a futile surge with his hips that merely left Lancelot even more effectively seated, “I suspect it’s you who intends the result all along, my most volatile knight.”
Lancelot smirked. “And how did this one start?” He stretched his hands over Arthur’s head and brought his weight down to rest on Arthur’s chest, sliding lower as he spoke.
“Ah, yes, I remember.” Lancelot’s face tilted up to keep his eyes on Arthur’s as his busy fingers tugged at laces and leather and flesh. His eyes glittered. “Ask me again.”
What?” At this point, Arthur wasn’t sure he remembered getting to the ground, let alone anything that had happened before.
“Ask me what I want for a reward,” Lancelot challenged, and Arthur waved a hand.
“Anything.” At the raise of the other’s eyebrows, he sighed and played along. “What do you want, Lancelot?”
The other gave him that slow, lazy smile. “This,” he answered, and bent his head.