Apr. 4th, 2008 01:02 am
The Quest for the Holy Grail 3/8
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lovely_ambitionTitle: The Quest for the Holy Grail 3/8
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain/Tristan, Galahad/Gawain, Dagonet/Tristan
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Years have passed, but circumstances have changed and it's time to bring everyone back for one more heist.
Notes: This is, indeed, a sequel to Modern Day Legends. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bwc_baby for the lookover and to melloniel for the constant support. This part is dedicated to melloniel for her bday!
9.
The light was on when Tristan pulled up to the curb and glanced over to Dagonet, giving him a onceover. He pulled out a cigarette and let Dagonet light it, still cushioned by the protective leather seats of the car. “You want me to wait?” Dagonet asked as he leaned over with his lighter (a metallic thing, looking heavier than it could ever possibly weigh). Tristan eased forward, long fingers casually draping over the cigarette and taking a first drag as he weighed his options.
He had been doing research; name-checks at churches and interviews with priests, museum curators, police-connections, and other criminals with less than pristine reputations. He just needed to see what the boys had discovered to add to the folio before they delivered it up to Lancelot.
“No,” Tristan finally decided, exhaling a thin, smooth stream of smoke as he opened the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He stood on the curb, lifting a hand to Dag as he watched him drive off into the night, past the streetlamps and back home to the brats and Bors, probably to relieve Vanora of the weight of duty at her back. He glanced up and over his shoulder to see one of the rooms still illuminated by a single lamp, the orange and yellow tones flooding the room. They hadn’t yet invested in curtains, it appeared, because he could see Gawain moving towards Galahad and undressing the younger man, pushing him against the wall as he pried the wifebeater from his shoulders, mumbling something against his neck.
Well, Tristan couldn’t have that.
They did happen to keep their door locked, which was hardly an issue for a man who carried around a portable lockpicking set with him, always making sure to keep it in the velvet encasement of luxury as it was the top of the line. Tristan never settled for anything less than the best. The door gave way easily and on the landing of the second floor, Tristan was no more than a shadow, waiting to enter. His fingers brushed over a tattoo on his wrist, his newest; a single initial: D.
Bors had thought it was for Dagonet. Tristan had never corrected him.
Being a new flat, the doors didn’t creak and neither did the floors as he locked up behind him and tucked the case away into his long overcoat, making sure all his guns were set to safety as he hung it up and continued to wander past the foyer, gracefully striding past boxes and ducking anything in his way to the lit room, where he watched from the doorway.
“…I don’t know why…” Gawain was saying, his hands firm on Galahad’s hips. Galahad was in a terrible state of undress and from that angle, everyone on the street would be able to see him standing there, solely in his boxers.
“Yes, of course you do,” Galahad had snapped in return. Gawain, on the other hand, was completely clothed, serving as a contrast to all that pretty, tanned, bared skin of Galahad’s. “You know how much I despise that prick of a brother you have.”
“Language, Galahad,” Tristan finally drawled.
That made the entire scene freeze before his eyes and Tristan was almost amused at how his voice seemed to contain the ability to stun an act and prevent it from completing. His posture didn’t shift a single centimetre from its languid and relaxed state. And somehow, he had the feeling that Galahad would shake off the shock with ease, moving their little threesome to far more interesting countries.
Gawain was the missing link at the moment.
“Gawain, Tristan says I have pisspoor language,” he said, his grin broadening and getting even more irredeemable, sin living in that boy’s figure, sometimes. “Do I have to be penitent?”
“Maybe get on his knees?” Tristan pitched in a helpful suggestion.
Gawain’s gaze was flickering between the two of them, as though considering. Always the thoughtful one, Gawain. Finally, something seemed to click and Gawain’s face lit up with a smile of its own. “Not for you, though,” he warned Tristan, gaze heavy on him. Tristan merely lifted one hand, to signify that he wouldn’t mind whatever he got. “I think maybe that Tristan should watch.”
Slowly, he turned that dark gaze back around on Galahad, which caused such a pretty little reaction, Galahad’s back slamming against the wall with an audible thump and Gawain leaned in to take advantage of that moment of weakness with a brutal kiss, his hand grabbing fistfuls of Galahad’s curly hair, hard, thumb scraping over the beard on the side of his face, no more than four days’ worth of stubble.
“Do you need help?” Tristan queried, bemused.
Galahad drew away from the kiss, lips brushing against Gawain’s cheek to turn a glare on Tristan, seemingly taken out of the long and intimate moment they had put on show for Tristan. “We’ve been doing this without you for four years. I think we can handle it.”
That seemed to make Gawain terse, like he had lost control of the pup. “Seriously, Galahad. Shut up.”
“Do it for me, why don’t you?”
And the result of that was truly a sight fit for any voyeur’s eyes, the vicious kiss that Gawain laid on Galahad, pinning him against the wall, a hand to each shoulder and intent on keeping him there, no matter how much Galahad bucked up against the applied pressure. And Galahad kept trying to get out of the grip, again and again, grinning into the kiss, even as their tongues dueled and Tristan couldn’t honestly tell which of them had the control anymore, especially when Galahad managed to overpower Gawain and spin them, pressing his knee up against Gawain’s crotch, breathing hard and glancing over his shoulder at Tristan.
“Is this what you think about at night?” he asked, but Tristan didn’t hear Galahad’s voice. No, rather, he heard something from a very long time ago. “Is it me you think of at night or her? Or is it both of us?” all said in that lascivious tone.
He tried to shake off the memory of blond hair in the moonlight, fingers pushing into red hair and instead focused on the scene before him, all curls and stubble and strength.
He bit his cheek, just until he could taste blood; it was enough. Enough to distract him and keep him from drifting off into a past that was no more, thinking of a woman who had changed too many times over and let bitterness make her icy, think about a man buried too long.
Before he knew it, they were moving, away from the wall and into the bedroom and the boys had left the door open for him; an invitation. Follow us couldn’t have been any clearer. So Tristan did with slow and steady strides, entering the shadowlands of the bedroom, watching the way that Galahad didn’t even bother to close the blinds or the curtains and Tristan replaced them, forming a barrier between them and the world.
There was only a sparse and singular sheet on the bed, which Galahad’s toes were quick to push away, their bodies writhing and already naked, clothes having fallen quickly by the wayside sometime in the last ten seconds.
Not while Tristan had blinked. He never blinked. Figuratively.
“Is this what it was like before,” Tristan finally spoke, as Gawain’s hand traced a pattern of five fingers down Galahad’s sweaty torso, fingers slick and intruding on Galahad’s arsehole, pushing in without much hesitation because Galahad when he writhed was all too pretty of a sight. “Look, but don’t you touch?”
But he wasn’t rewarded with an answer. Though, that movement of Gawain’s hips, thrusting down into Galahad was a sight to see and he didn’t protest the currency of the evening, which seemed to be pure, unadulterated porn. If this were, in fact, the way of old, then Tristan could hardly protest what looked to be a trip into sinful territory, the touching and grabbing so firm, bruised marks shining in pale light, Gawain’s fingers making new marks as his hands clasped Galahad’s hips and yanked him forward, Galahad’s hand wrapped around Gawain’s cock, always, always pushing for more. Though this wasn’t the first time Tristan had seen the two of them in their more intimate moments (he had a quiet step and no tendency to talk about these types of things), this was the first time in some months and they had gained rhythm and grace since. As much as they fought against each other (Galahad’s hand scratching down Gawain’s torso, the occasional buck that nearly threw Galahad off), there was cohesion and cooperation.
It was difficult to deny that they were a couple now. Better together than apart, at least when it came to the acts of the bedroom.
Though it was difficult, Tristan managed to not participate beyond a shifting of his hips forward against his trousers, the friction of the silk pants pushing against his straining erection. He could control himself. And if he couldn’t, he could wait.
But Galahad couldn’t, not from the look of pure ecstasy flickering across his face, splintered and ecstatic. And soon after that, Gawain tumbled after him, rolling them on the bed until the sheets and pillows had fallen onto a polished wood floor and Tristan was still watching the whole thing with an unmoving gaze. He picked up the folder of information on his way, lifting it without a single sound and rifling through it while the boys finished up, panting and gasping heavily for air.
But before there could be things like small talk, Tristan had slipped out from the room, a hand momentarily brushing over his cock as he drew out his mobile, leaning against the foyer as he dialed up Lancelot.
“We’re ready to go. Set the plan in motion.”
And once more, Tristan disappeared into the shadows of the street.
10.
There were lamps flying at headquarters which could only mean one thing. They had decided to redecorate or Isolde was visiting. Tristan wasn’t about to keep her in check and so, her temper flared up.
She was a feisty woman whose heart had slowly iced over. Her hair burned as red as Vanora’s, but there was no warmth left in her face. Since Dinidan’s death, every wrinkle had cemented and every bit of iciness had only strengthened, forming new walls that prevented anyone from getting inside. She wore a rosary around her wrist as a bracelet and she often slipped into private conversations with Arthur for what the others could only assume was a form of confession (but still drove Lancelot to mad jealousy). Her clothes fit perfectly, though her posture was never perfect and she was pale. Too pale, as though she had not stopped grieving. Years had passed, but Isolde began to dwindle away, and not even Tristan could stop that. Her constant trips to Ireland were to make her feel alive again, but too often, they did nothing for her.
And now, she was throwing a lamp straight at the wall to punctuate a point.
“Seduce a guard?” she snarled. “What do you think I am, Lancelot. Bait? A toy? A little puppy you give orders to?”
“Jesus shit, Isolde,” Lancelot snapped (as Galahad and Gawain getting ready in the background for the wedding, which Isolde was also dressed for). “Could you be a little more of a bitch?”
“Don’t take His name in vain,” she warned with a perfectly manicured finger shoved against Lancelot’s chest. “And why! Why would you think I’d do this?” Gawain was rolling his eyes as he fidgeted with Galahad’s bowtie, ignoring the way that Galahad was moving his fingers up and down the inseam of Gawain’s trousers. “Oh, hands off the goods, Galahad,” she snapped over her shoulder.
“Maybe,” Vanora piped up, smoothing a hand over her blue dress. “You’d do it for me? And our children?”
That seemed to get a pause from Isolde, though not a terribly long one. She had never been persuaded in the past to do anything for children. “One guard,” she finally said to Lancelot, holding up a single finger. “One.”
“Are we ready to get this travesty over with?” Galahad asked, twirling his keys around on his finger, looking for all the world like he’d rather be taken out back and shot rather than attend the actual wedding with a fake-date. Gawain trailed him, vaguely bemused as he extended an arm to Vanora (for all effects and purposes, ‘picking’ her).
Which left Isolde for Galahad. It was almost too perfect, given both their explosive personalities.
It was almost enough to make a man laugh.
The wedding itself had been a quiet event in a chapel rife with history, the stained glass painting colourful patterns over the pews and Galahad seemed to spend the entire service tracing his pinky over them, adjusting and coughing (which disrupted the service, but also annoyed Elaine to the point of glares, which Gawain would surmise was the point of such a thing). He hid a smile behind his palm when Galahad continued, oblivious to any rancor that he was stirring up and Vanora had to elbow him in the ribs to prevent him from actually laughing aloud. None of their party seemed happy, not for a moment.
That changed when the wedding was over and the reception began thanks to two of the most glorious words in the history of Britain: open bar.
Somewhere along the way, past clichéd dances and Galahad being accosted by aunts and uncles, Gawain had lost track of his erstwhile companion and wanted to check on him. He had put up such a fuss about attending the wedding and to that very second, Gawain still had no earthly idea as to the real reason why, besides, ‘I hate weddings’.
Gawain wandered out of the hall and back into the golden wash of the foyer, decorated by the blinding light of the massive chandelier; at least five hundred crystals aglow with light, shining on the ceramic tiles of the floor and the wall. Galahad was sitting with legs parted on a bench, staring into space. The doors to the hall closed behind Gawain and the tinny strains of music turned to silence.
Gawain took a seat on a bench a few feet from Galahad and simply stared off into the same direction as Galahad.
“Too much?” Gawain asked quietly.
Galahad merely said, “Isolde,” by way of explanation.
Gawain paused. “Yeah.” Another pause. “She can be a bit much.”
Galahad sighed heavily. “My little brat of a cousin just got married. She’s so young. And such a brat. But a young brat.” Gawain chanced a look at him, but he wasn’t looking back, still looking forward and looking older than he had in years.
“You’re not so old,” Gawain protested.
Galahad finally turned and graced Gawain with a truly unflattering smirk. “I’m twenty-seven,” he said the number like it was a disease to be ignored. “Almost thirty. My little cousin just got married,” he repeated. “She’s got someone for forever.”
There was a pause. If Gawain weren’t trying so hard to avoid familial thoughts, he would have called it a pregnant pause.
“Is that what you want?” Gawain asked quietly.
Galahad shook his head, looking anywhere but at Gawain. He stared forward again as he folded his hands into his lap and let out another heavy sigh, as though the weight of the world was resting on the shoulders of his expensive Armani jacket. “Don’t ask me,” he scoffed. “Please.”
“I won’t,” Gawain promised. He slowly stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers – borrowed from Arthur as he didn’t have anything nicer than a pair of slacks that were currently ruined from his and Galahad’s last attempt at a fancy dinner. “C’mon. On your feet.”
“What?” Galahad scowled.
Gawain moved in front of Galahad, holding out one hand. “Up. Stand. Let’s go.”
Galahad stood slowly. “This is silly,” he muttered.
“You don’t even know what I want,” Gawain commented incredulously, amazed that Galahad could find fault when he didn’t even know what was going on. He took Galahad’s hand and tugged him away from the seats, into the empty foyer. All the guests were in the hall for the wedding, enjoying the happiness. “Come here,” he beckoned softly, tugging Galahad into his arms, placing one hand at the small of Galahad’s back and urging him to curl in closer.
Galahad rested his cheek against Gawain’s shoulder as they simply stood there.
“Dance with me,” Gawain asked quietly.
“No music,” Galahad argued.
Gawain tugged Galahad with him to the door, propping it open just the smallest bit with a doorstop before he guided Galahad back to the centre of the foyer, standing beneath the brilliantly bright chandelier, swaying slowly at first until Galahad sighed and began to move a little more, tightening his hold on Gawain.
“She was named for my Aunt,” Galahad muttered, destroying yet another lovely, silent moment. “Vain, isn’t it?”
“With your family, I’ve come to expect vanity.”
“Prick.”
“Brat.”
11.
Tristan had been on his mobile for four hours straight, speaking to an antiquities dealer in the shadier parts of a small town two hours outside of London. The man was in his sixties and for his entire life had been collecting Arthurian Legends, remnants of an era long past, of a myth born from real life. He had made the drive up there through the rainy moors, lurking about the shadows of the shop and touching the chalices that the true King Arthur had supposedly drank from.
“What about the Holy Grail?” Tristan had asked. “What truth is in that?”
The man was creaky and old, but he seemed to have life in his eyes. Tristan hoped he wouldn’t have the kill the man for being ornery or unhelpful. That would be decidedly unpleasant. “Ah yes. The Holy Grail. Do you know, it’s going on display soon. I tried to get it into my possession, but ah…the money…”
“Rather rich for our blood,” Tristan agreed, playing the part of the agreeable young man. “The Grail?”
“You see,” the man was shuffling about the shop, holding his tea possessively to him, as though to ward off evil spirits. “I’ve spent my life researching the thing. That and Excalibur, of course. But the thing about the Holy Grail is that its regenerative properties…never tested, not properly.”
“Why not?” Tristan demanded. “Surely people have tried.”
“Not with the correct rituals, m’boy,” the man chastised with a quiet laugh. There was something of an Irish brogue lost in his dialect, long beat out, but Tristan had a good ear for anything, whether it be accents or the sound of a man dying or the sound of a car escaping from a battle. “There are words. Rites. Herbs and a compound to be had. With that. Well, life and death become synonymous. Healing becomes instantaneous.” The man slowly smiled, but it brought no warmth to his face.
Tristan liked this man.
“You could possess the secret of life in your hands,” he said, with a simple nod.
Tristan had left with heavy thoughts and rather than going home to his own place (where he had someone tied up in his very special ‘chamber’, someone who was going to give him the floor plans to the museum by the end of it), he went to Dagonet’s, knocking heavily on the door.
“Dag?” He knocked again, fingers brushing against the door. “You in?” Half the time, he was attached at the hip of Bors and Vanora anyway and he knew he was pushing his luck, but Tristan always did have a lucky streak to him.
That was exactly what he thought when the door was opened slowly by Dagonet, standing there only in a pair of sweats, water rolling down his neck, a bit of a cut on his cheek from shaving. It was enough to make Tristan be very, very grateful for his timing. Rather than pushing his way inside, however, Tristan lingered and waited for the proper invitation.
Society had its place somewhere; even with a brute like him.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Dagonet admitted evenly. Silence took over between the two of them as neither man was so much verbose as laconic to the last and they preferred the way that silence blanketed their conversations. With too many words, you gave too much away. With none, you held onto all your gambits. “Come in?”
With an invitation, Tristan felt free to stride into the flat like he owned the place. He was there twice a week as it was and he knew where each little knick-knack went, knew when something was out of place, and most importantly, he knew his way around. He plucked off his expensive leather gloves slowly, a cursory glance going around the four walls to see if anything had changed since the last time he had been over. There was music playing in the background and the dripping faucet of the shower, which went along with Dag’s current appearance.
“Are you going out?” Tristan asked, voice quiet and careful. Every aspect of Tristan’s life seemed a chess game, at times.
“I could stay.”
Off to Bors and Vanora’s again, it sounded like. Tristan had simply been at the right place at the right time to prevent that plan from coming to fruition. He had a habit of always stumbling out a tight space with room to spare. But then, he was Tristan. He just aimed. He turned to make sure that Dagonet was following him before he made it into the darkened bedroom.
“I spoke, tonight, with a scholar,” Tristan recounted, fingers brushing against the coverlet of dark green, the colour of the forest. He wasted no time in dismissing his tie and his button down, giving a look to Dagonet that said he was expected to follow. It was a wordless agreement they had by now, these encounters. They were typically wordless and they could serve as whatever each of them wanted.
Tonight, Tristan wanted to be able to close his eyes and imagine someone else with him; someone that Dagonet knew and was a substitute for, more than adequate, too.
Dagonet knew how to arouse Tristan in much the same ways as Dinidan did, the precise place to touch without being sloppy, arousal by precision which got Tristan off far more than anyone else knew. Tristan had instructed Dagonet on exactly what to do many, many years ago and Dagonet had never asked why.
When you’re personifying the ghost of a dead lover, it was best not to ever ask.
And tonight, Dagonet was in perfect form, kissing Tristan on the neck and the collarbone, not gentle in the least, but rough with precise touches, large hands pushing over his cock and tearing his clothes off. He never said a word, knowing that the slightest bit of speech might throw Tristan out of it. In the dark of the night, in Dagonet’s dim bedroom, Tristan could honestly close his eyes and pretend it was ten years ago and Dinidan was still alive.
Never forget this, bastard, or I’ll haunt you, Dinidan had whispered in a hiss one night.
True to his word, Tristan hadn’t forgot, and if this was how he was preserving Dinidan’s memory, then so be it. Dagonet had prepared the both of them while Tristan was drifting off into memories, writhing slowly on the bed and not once daring to open his eyes. He had to keep them shut, had to keep the image clear as he could or else it would fade and forever leave him. The fuck was quick and hard, Dagonet pushing in, pushing harder, grunting and pushing and the way it felt was so unreal that Tristan couldn’t help but start laughing as everything built up more and more, until the pressure was so incredible that he was going to burst as he laughed, a choking and dark sound.
Maybe he wasn’t about to forget, but he was haunted anyway.
Not for much longer.
He couldn’t take it. Tristan couldn’t take it and he opened his eyes and looked up and Dagonet was looking right back down as he pushed deeper than he had before, bringing Tristan around to the inevitable messy climax.
Not for much longer would he be haunted by a dead man.
Not for much longer, at all.
Tristan cried out, a determined and swift sound as he crashed back onto the bed, sated and still laughing. “Dinidan,” he gasped out, gaze to the ceiling. “Dinidan,” he murmured, once more.
Say Bloody Mary three times and they say she would appear for you. Say any name three times and they say that spirit will hear it.
“Dinidan.”
12.
Lancelot had driven himself back from the meeting with the Archdiocese, tugging all the while at his collar. It all looked good and sexy, of course, until something actually had to happen with it and then the vestments were put on and they were too damn hot to be actually covert or arousing in any way.
He wandered back into the flat to find Arthur going over blueprints for the museum, glasses on his face and squinting, using only a lamp.
“You are going to go blind,” Lancelot announced, flicking the lights on and giving Arthur a Look as he yanked off the rosary he’d been wearing. He had, essentially, been in full priest garb from the cassock to the rosary to the vestments and to the collar. Anything for a little bit of information. In this case, he was getting information about where the Grail had been moved over the course of history. “This fucking thing. I swear, if I didn’t have this fantasy about fucking you in one of these, I’d burn it.”
The reaction to that was wholly worth it though, because Arthur was gaping at Lancelot, not a care in the world paid to the architecture any longer. “I can’t begin to explain the ways this is blasphemous.”
Blasphemous was definitely a direction that Lancelot could approve of, especially at that given moment. “Care to blaspheme a little more?” he suggested lasciviously, lifting his foot to the nearest chair and showing off just enough leg to be suggestive. “Just call me Father Lancelot.”
There was a groan coming from Arthur, but Lancelot couldn’t see him because Arthur had gone and planted his forehead on the table. As though frustrated. Really. “Oh, God,” Arthur pleaded. “Take that off now.”
“And here I thought you’d want to do that for me,” he teased, his smug grin only getting wider and wider.
“What did you find out?” Arthur inquired, patient down to the very last syllable as he managed to lift his head from the table and give Lancelot an enduring look, not once flinching or letting his eyes slip to more private areas. Maybe Lancelot hadn’t given his erstwhile boyfriend enough credit when it came to his ability to hold out on a dirty fantasy here and there.
“The Grail has been moved around since the time of the great King Arthur himself,” Lancelot reported. “This is believed to be the one at the Last Supper, the one that…” Lancelot sighed, rolling his eyes. “The Pure Galahad,” he continued, gritting his teeth. It was always so very difficult to get those words out. “The very one he found after preparing himself spiritually.” Which really, was more in Arthur’s league, but Lancelot said not a word, simply plucked the collar out from the vestments as he wandered closer to Arthur, just in case the other man did want to undress him. “Of course, half the world thinks the thing doesn’t actually exist.”
“So what if this isn’t the real thing?” Arthur queried, fingers running up the dark fabric.
“Ah, here’s the beautiful part,” Lancelot confirmed, pleased that Arthur seemed to be overcoming his little ‘faith issues’. “There’s so much mythology attached to this Grail in particular that real or not, the price tag is magnificently large.” It was enough to be a dream come true, an item they could steal and sell for anything so long as they talked enough about it. “We’ve had Gareth already start to establish more of a buzz about this particular Grail, just in case. He’s having some conversations on the net about it with others, and a few doubles of himself.” He let his gaze fall to watch the way Arthur touched the cloth, so tentatively. “Should I take this off, Arthur,” he offered. “I’d hate to scar you to the point that we couldn’t ever have sex again.”
There was an exhalation of relief, as though those had been just the words that Arthur was waiting for. “Yes. Yes, please take it off, Lancelot.”
“Ah.” It was a simple little remark, but it was fraught with self-indulgence and assurance. “Begging. And here I thought the night would be wasted.”
Arthur slowly began to roll up the blueprints (lest they be wrinkled, Lancelot would roll his eyes from now until his grave about Arthur’s fastidious nature) and all the while he tidied, he never once took his eyes off of Lancelot. He nodded, just barely, towards the bedroom, which Lancelot took to mean as a sign that he should get there and begin to ‘prepare’, as he would call it.
In this case, it meant ridding himself of the vestiges of faith so that Arthur wouldn’t have a complete crisis.
“You know, I have no idea whether to side with Galahad or Gareth in this damn little snitfit of theirs,” Lancelot began conversationally as he flicked the priest’s collar out from under his shirt. “They’re both completely snotty fucking brats.”
“The sign you’ve matured,” Arthur noted, sliding an elastic band around the blueprints. “They’re not getting any younger…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m just getting older,” Lancelot said with a roll of his eyes, tossing off the robes onto the nearest chair and intentionally making a mess of them, just to see what Arthur would do in the situation, whether he would choose to clean the mess or whether he would attend to the more pressing matter at hand, if you would. He glanced over the black fabric of his button-down to see what Arthur was doing, smiling smugly to himself when the other man began to walk towards the bedroom. “I hardly think God will notice one more black mark…”
He was stopped when Arthur came closer and splayed his hand out on Lancelot’s chest, centred on his heart. “I cannot help but wish to avoid this in confession,” he spoke, voice heavily quiet.
“And here I thought you weren’t going to confession anymore.” Lancelot’s eyes were kept lower, to watch Arthur’s weathered hands slowly unbuttoning each button on his shirt, each one revealing a new, wider triangle of pale skin (how very British they were, at times). “I thought we’d booked you a psychiatrist.”
“I don’t like him,” Arthur said, words heavy.
“Arthur, you hardly like anyone that we haven’t vetted for you,” Lancelot pointed out, his words heavy as he kept watch on the way that Arthur’s broad hands pushed the shirt off completely, leaving Lancelot solely with the task of removing his trousers and boxers.
Slowly, Arthur angled his hips to cover Lancelot’s and he walked him back towards the bed with slow, careful steps that were measured with that steady passion that Arthur tended to always have burning just beneath the surface. It was part and parcel of why Lancelot loved him so; he never knew when Arthur might explode and it would all come spilling out, an unpredictable showing of lust, wrath, all the sins that made life worth living.
Lancelot fell to the bed first, bare skin hitting the smooth sheets that were cleaned on a bi-weekly basis and the trousers had begun to slip, showing that scant hint of hipbone. Arthur was making quick work of that, however, pushing the trousers down while assaulting Lancelot’s neck with swift kisses; firm, finding their mark, planned and careful.
But just behind that sheen of control, Lancelot could sense that something about the evening had put Arthur on edge. There was just the slightest glimmer, just the barest hint that Arthur didn’t have full control of everything. It was an edge in each kiss, a slip in the teeth, the way Arthur hissed and gasped, the way he moved (harder than usual).
It was, Lancelot thought, intoxicating.
Once on the bed, Lancelot’s world slowly came into perfect focus; narrowly so. Like a camera lens focusing on the picture, the only thing that Lancelot was keenly aware of was Arthur above him, Arthur’s hands beside him, the sheets and pillows behind him and the predictable outcome of the evening before him. Sometimes, knowing the future did little to dampen the fun of the present. Now was one of those times.
They rolled on the bed, a primitive struggle for dominance and one that was fought simply out of habit (Arthur’s hand pinning Lancelot’s torso to the bed, the wrestling of limbs to get atop, the constant rolling and then rolling back, the need inherent in all the groping and the struggling). Eventually, it ended as all their struggles did, with Arthur on top.
That seemed to be the position that worked best for them and it was the one that Arthur seemed to enjoy the most, from the slow and settled smile that spread across his face. “You really have no idea how good you look from up here,” was Arthur’s evaluation as he dug out the small, travel-sized contained of lube from the nightstand. While Lancelot was without clothes completely, Arthur still had far too many on (his boxers, his shirt, and his tie, not to mention his glasses).
“Get those damn pants off,” Lancelot hissed.
“The rest?”
“No. Leave the rest on.”
Arthur’s brow slowly cocked upwards as a sure smirk happened upon his lips. “Really?” That single word was drawn out, as though Lancelot’s request had been the key to a locked door hiding a closet of hidden kinks and facets.
Instead of words, Lancelot decided to move the night along to the more physical aspects that could be found and helped Arthur to get his pants around his knees before latching his gaze on the lube. “I am far more interested in what you’re holding than whatever little mental superiority kink you’re currently experiencing,” Lancelot announced, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture.
Arthur laughed at that (the warm chuckle that filled Lancelot with a sense of safety and love, the one that put all the dangers aside and reminded Lancelot of just why he wanted to be there with Arthur, by his side). He spent a long moment slicking up his fingers as he shifted downwards to slowly push two fingers inside of Lancelot, his strokes slow and careful, crooking every now and then in a rhythm that was, by now, practiced and perfected.
Nothing Arthur did was ever anything less.
Lancelot focused on his breathing, keeping it together and keeping from losing himself far too early in the process. It was all too easy to drift away from looking at Arthur (the glint of the lamp flashing off his glasses or the way the tie swayed as he pushed his fingers another fraction of an inch deeper inside of him). His heels dug further into the sheets, his cock hard, his blood pumping through his body to remind him that he was alive, which was something that was all too easy to forget when you worked in the line of work that they did.
“Lancelot. Mine,” Arthur exhaled, soft and serious. His words caused Lancelot’s breath to hitch in his throat, that level of possessiveness settling him while (at the very same time) arousing him to a new level. Arthur’s words of claim were then replaced by a more pressing claim; a physical one. Arthur slowly pushed himself in, hands spreading Lancelot’s knees as far as they would go and he surged forward with the first thrust.
And then Lancelot did begin to lose his control, from his breath to his voice, right down to his body. He spasmed, cried out, his heart doubled in time when it should have beaten only once, he moved in tandem with Arthur’s thrusts and the strokes of his cock that Arthur’s hand (calloused and familiar fingers) offered.
Lancelot breathed heavily as he always watched Arthur and was always careful to make sure he was enjoying himself as much as Lancelot was and the noises they had never matched, were always discordant and somehow harmonic at once. Even now, they fought for dominance as Lancelot gathered the strength to roll them over and push down while Arthur switched to thrusting upwards and just when he was settled in that rhythm, Lancelot would roll them back again. The king bed did provide for a large playground.
The sweat began to make Arthur’s white-shirt transparent in places as they continued and Lancelot grabbed hold of the tie to yank him down for a lengthy and deep kiss as Arthur pushed in to the hilt, deeper than he had yet that evening. The moans were muffled against lips and Lancelot’s fingers on Arthur’s tie began to slowly slip as the inevitable came.
Lancelot’s climax was almost soundless but for the gasp of breath and the strangled moan that escaped his throat. “God,” he gasped, when his breath came back to him and he could feel Arthur’s rhythm disturbed. He was slowing down, as if he was struggling. “Arthur,” Lancelot murmured, still breathless. “Arthur…”
Before he could even beg for it, Arthur came as he shouted Lancelot’s name up to the ceiling.
“Dear god,” Lancelot laughed as Arthur collapsed atop him and let out a weary groan. “Apparently I should blaspheme more,” he said, words sticking together. “The consequences are magnificent.”
tbc
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain/Tristan, Galahad/Gawain, Dagonet/Tristan
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Years have passed, but circumstances have changed and it's time to bring everyone back for one more heist.
Notes: This is, indeed, a sequel to Modern Day Legends. Thanks to
bwc_baby for the lookover and to melloniel for the constant support. This part is dedicated to melloniel for her bday!9.
The light was on when Tristan pulled up to the curb and glanced over to Dagonet, giving him a onceover. He pulled out a cigarette and let Dagonet light it, still cushioned by the protective leather seats of the car. “You want me to wait?” Dagonet asked as he leaned over with his lighter (a metallic thing, looking heavier than it could ever possibly weigh). Tristan eased forward, long fingers casually draping over the cigarette and taking a first drag as he weighed his options.
He had been doing research; name-checks at churches and interviews with priests, museum curators, police-connections, and other criminals with less than pristine reputations. He just needed to see what the boys had discovered to add to the folio before they delivered it up to Lancelot.
“No,” Tristan finally decided, exhaling a thin, smooth stream of smoke as he opened the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He stood on the curb, lifting a hand to Dag as he watched him drive off into the night, past the streetlamps and back home to the brats and Bors, probably to relieve Vanora of the weight of duty at her back. He glanced up and over his shoulder to see one of the rooms still illuminated by a single lamp, the orange and yellow tones flooding the room. They hadn’t yet invested in curtains, it appeared, because he could see Gawain moving towards Galahad and undressing the younger man, pushing him against the wall as he pried the wifebeater from his shoulders, mumbling something against his neck.
Well, Tristan couldn’t have that.
They did happen to keep their door locked, which was hardly an issue for a man who carried around a portable lockpicking set with him, always making sure to keep it in the velvet encasement of luxury as it was the top of the line. Tristan never settled for anything less than the best. The door gave way easily and on the landing of the second floor, Tristan was no more than a shadow, waiting to enter. His fingers brushed over a tattoo on his wrist, his newest; a single initial: D.
Bors had thought it was for Dagonet. Tristan had never corrected him.
Being a new flat, the doors didn’t creak and neither did the floors as he locked up behind him and tucked the case away into his long overcoat, making sure all his guns were set to safety as he hung it up and continued to wander past the foyer, gracefully striding past boxes and ducking anything in his way to the lit room, where he watched from the doorway.
“…I don’t know why…” Gawain was saying, his hands firm on Galahad’s hips. Galahad was in a terrible state of undress and from that angle, everyone on the street would be able to see him standing there, solely in his boxers.
“Yes, of course you do,” Galahad had snapped in return. Gawain, on the other hand, was completely clothed, serving as a contrast to all that pretty, tanned, bared skin of Galahad’s. “You know how much I despise that prick of a brother you have.”
“Language, Galahad,” Tristan finally drawled.
That made the entire scene freeze before his eyes and Tristan was almost amused at how his voice seemed to contain the ability to stun an act and prevent it from completing. His posture didn’t shift a single centimetre from its languid and relaxed state. And somehow, he had the feeling that Galahad would shake off the shock with ease, moving their little threesome to far more interesting countries.
Gawain was the missing link at the moment.
“Gawain, Tristan says I have pisspoor language,” he said, his grin broadening and getting even more irredeemable, sin living in that boy’s figure, sometimes. “Do I have to be penitent?”
“Maybe get on his knees?” Tristan pitched in a helpful suggestion.
Gawain’s gaze was flickering between the two of them, as though considering. Always the thoughtful one, Gawain. Finally, something seemed to click and Gawain’s face lit up with a smile of its own. “Not for you, though,” he warned Tristan, gaze heavy on him. Tristan merely lifted one hand, to signify that he wouldn’t mind whatever he got. “I think maybe that Tristan should watch.”
Slowly, he turned that dark gaze back around on Galahad, which caused such a pretty little reaction, Galahad’s back slamming against the wall with an audible thump and Gawain leaned in to take advantage of that moment of weakness with a brutal kiss, his hand grabbing fistfuls of Galahad’s curly hair, hard, thumb scraping over the beard on the side of his face, no more than four days’ worth of stubble.
“Do you need help?” Tristan queried, bemused.
Galahad drew away from the kiss, lips brushing against Gawain’s cheek to turn a glare on Tristan, seemingly taken out of the long and intimate moment they had put on show for Tristan. “We’ve been doing this without you for four years. I think we can handle it.”
That seemed to make Gawain terse, like he had lost control of the pup. “Seriously, Galahad. Shut up.”
“Do it for me, why don’t you?”
And the result of that was truly a sight fit for any voyeur’s eyes, the vicious kiss that Gawain laid on Galahad, pinning him against the wall, a hand to each shoulder and intent on keeping him there, no matter how much Galahad bucked up against the applied pressure. And Galahad kept trying to get out of the grip, again and again, grinning into the kiss, even as their tongues dueled and Tristan couldn’t honestly tell which of them had the control anymore, especially when Galahad managed to overpower Gawain and spin them, pressing his knee up against Gawain’s crotch, breathing hard and glancing over his shoulder at Tristan.
“Is this what you think about at night?” he asked, but Tristan didn’t hear Galahad’s voice. No, rather, he heard something from a very long time ago. “Is it me you think of at night or her? Or is it both of us?” all said in that lascivious tone.
He tried to shake off the memory of blond hair in the moonlight, fingers pushing into red hair and instead focused on the scene before him, all curls and stubble and strength.
He bit his cheek, just until he could taste blood; it was enough. Enough to distract him and keep him from drifting off into a past that was no more, thinking of a woman who had changed too many times over and let bitterness make her icy, think about a man buried too long.
Before he knew it, they were moving, away from the wall and into the bedroom and the boys had left the door open for him; an invitation. Follow us couldn’t have been any clearer. So Tristan did with slow and steady strides, entering the shadowlands of the bedroom, watching the way that Galahad didn’t even bother to close the blinds or the curtains and Tristan replaced them, forming a barrier between them and the world.
There was only a sparse and singular sheet on the bed, which Galahad’s toes were quick to push away, their bodies writhing and already naked, clothes having fallen quickly by the wayside sometime in the last ten seconds.
Not while Tristan had blinked. He never blinked. Figuratively.
“Is this what it was like before,” Tristan finally spoke, as Gawain’s hand traced a pattern of five fingers down Galahad’s sweaty torso, fingers slick and intruding on Galahad’s arsehole, pushing in without much hesitation because Galahad when he writhed was all too pretty of a sight. “Look, but don’t you touch?”
But he wasn’t rewarded with an answer. Though, that movement of Gawain’s hips, thrusting down into Galahad was a sight to see and he didn’t protest the currency of the evening, which seemed to be pure, unadulterated porn. If this were, in fact, the way of old, then Tristan could hardly protest what looked to be a trip into sinful territory, the touching and grabbing so firm, bruised marks shining in pale light, Gawain’s fingers making new marks as his hands clasped Galahad’s hips and yanked him forward, Galahad’s hand wrapped around Gawain’s cock, always, always pushing for more. Though this wasn’t the first time Tristan had seen the two of them in their more intimate moments (he had a quiet step and no tendency to talk about these types of things), this was the first time in some months and they had gained rhythm and grace since. As much as they fought against each other (Galahad’s hand scratching down Gawain’s torso, the occasional buck that nearly threw Galahad off), there was cohesion and cooperation.
It was difficult to deny that they were a couple now. Better together than apart, at least when it came to the acts of the bedroom.
Though it was difficult, Tristan managed to not participate beyond a shifting of his hips forward against his trousers, the friction of the silk pants pushing against his straining erection. He could control himself. And if he couldn’t, he could wait.
But Galahad couldn’t, not from the look of pure ecstasy flickering across his face, splintered and ecstatic. And soon after that, Gawain tumbled after him, rolling them on the bed until the sheets and pillows had fallen onto a polished wood floor and Tristan was still watching the whole thing with an unmoving gaze. He picked up the folder of information on his way, lifting it without a single sound and rifling through it while the boys finished up, panting and gasping heavily for air.
But before there could be things like small talk, Tristan had slipped out from the room, a hand momentarily brushing over his cock as he drew out his mobile, leaning against the foyer as he dialed up Lancelot.
“We’re ready to go. Set the plan in motion.”
And once more, Tristan disappeared into the shadows of the street.
10.
There were lamps flying at headquarters which could only mean one thing. They had decided to redecorate or Isolde was visiting. Tristan wasn’t about to keep her in check and so, her temper flared up.
She was a feisty woman whose heart had slowly iced over. Her hair burned as red as Vanora’s, but there was no warmth left in her face. Since Dinidan’s death, every wrinkle had cemented and every bit of iciness had only strengthened, forming new walls that prevented anyone from getting inside. She wore a rosary around her wrist as a bracelet and she often slipped into private conversations with Arthur for what the others could only assume was a form of confession (but still drove Lancelot to mad jealousy). Her clothes fit perfectly, though her posture was never perfect and she was pale. Too pale, as though she had not stopped grieving. Years had passed, but Isolde began to dwindle away, and not even Tristan could stop that. Her constant trips to Ireland were to make her feel alive again, but too often, they did nothing for her.
And now, she was throwing a lamp straight at the wall to punctuate a point.
“Seduce a guard?” she snarled. “What do you think I am, Lancelot. Bait? A toy? A little puppy you give orders to?”
“Jesus shit, Isolde,” Lancelot snapped (as Galahad and Gawain getting ready in the background for the wedding, which Isolde was also dressed for). “Could you be a little more of a bitch?”
“Don’t take His name in vain,” she warned with a perfectly manicured finger shoved against Lancelot’s chest. “And why! Why would you think I’d do this?” Gawain was rolling his eyes as he fidgeted with Galahad’s bowtie, ignoring the way that Galahad was moving his fingers up and down the inseam of Gawain’s trousers. “Oh, hands off the goods, Galahad,” she snapped over her shoulder.
“Maybe,” Vanora piped up, smoothing a hand over her blue dress. “You’d do it for me? And our children?”
That seemed to get a pause from Isolde, though not a terribly long one. She had never been persuaded in the past to do anything for children. “One guard,” she finally said to Lancelot, holding up a single finger. “One.”
“Are we ready to get this travesty over with?” Galahad asked, twirling his keys around on his finger, looking for all the world like he’d rather be taken out back and shot rather than attend the actual wedding with a fake-date. Gawain trailed him, vaguely bemused as he extended an arm to Vanora (for all effects and purposes, ‘picking’ her).
Which left Isolde for Galahad. It was almost too perfect, given both their explosive personalities.
It was almost enough to make a man laugh.
The wedding itself had been a quiet event in a chapel rife with history, the stained glass painting colourful patterns over the pews and Galahad seemed to spend the entire service tracing his pinky over them, adjusting and coughing (which disrupted the service, but also annoyed Elaine to the point of glares, which Gawain would surmise was the point of such a thing). He hid a smile behind his palm when Galahad continued, oblivious to any rancor that he was stirring up and Vanora had to elbow him in the ribs to prevent him from actually laughing aloud. None of their party seemed happy, not for a moment.
That changed when the wedding was over and the reception began thanks to two of the most glorious words in the history of Britain: open bar.
Somewhere along the way, past clichéd dances and Galahad being accosted by aunts and uncles, Gawain had lost track of his erstwhile companion and wanted to check on him. He had put up such a fuss about attending the wedding and to that very second, Gawain still had no earthly idea as to the real reason why, besides, ‘I hate weddings’.
Gawain wandered out of the hall and back into the golden wash of the foyer, decorated by the blinding light of the massive chandelier; at least five hundred crystals aglow with light, shining on the ceramic tiles of the floor and the wall. Galahad was sitting with legs parted on a bench, staring into space. The doors to the hall closed behind Gawain and the tinny strains of music turned to silence.
Gawain took a seat on a bench a few feet from Galahad and simply stared off into the same direction as Galahad.
“Too much?” Gawain asked quietly.
Galahad merely said, “Isolde,” by way of explanation.
Gawain paused. “Yeah.” Another pause. “She can be a bit much.”
Galahad sighed heavily. “My little brat of a cousin just got married. She’s so young. And such a brat. But a young brat.” Gawain chanced a look at him, but he wasn’t looking back, still looking forward and looking older than he had in years.
“You’re not so old,” Gawain protested.
Galahad finally turned and graced Gawain with a truly unflattering smirk. “I’m twenty-seven,” he said the number like it was a disease to be ignored. “Almost thirty. My little cousin just got married,” he repeated. “She’s got someone for forever.”
There was a pause. If Gawain weren’t trying so hard to avoid familial thoughts, he would have called it a pregnant pause.
“Is that what you want?” Gawain asked quietly.
Galahad shook his head, looking anywhere but at Gawain. He stared forward again as he folded his hands into his lap and let out another heavy sigh, as though the weight of the world was resting on the shoulders of his expensive Armani jacket. “Don’t ask me,” he scoffed. “Please.”
“I won’t,” Gawain promised. He slowly stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers – borrowed from Arthur as he didn’t have anything nicer than a pair of slacks that were currently ruined from his and Galahad’s last attempt at a fancy dinner. “C’mon. On your feet.”
“What?” Galahad scowled.
Gawain moved in front of Galahad, holding out one hand. “Up. Stand. Let’s go.”
Galahad stood slowly. “This is silly,” he muttered.
“You don’t even know what I want,” Gawain commented incredulously, amazed that Galahad could find fault when he didn’t even know what was going on. He took Galahad’s hand and tugged him away from the seats, into the empty foyer. All the guests were in the hall for the wedding, enjoying the happiness. “Come here,” he beckoned softly, tugging Galahad into his arms, placing one hand at the small of Galahad’s back and urging him to curl in closer.
Galahad rested his cheek against Gawain’s shoulder as they simply stood there.
“Dance with me,” Gawain asked quietly.
“No music,” Galahad argued.
Gawain tugged Galahad with him to the door, propping it open just the smallest bit with a doorstop before he guided Galahad back to the centre of the foyer, standing beneath the brilliantly bright chandelier, swaying slowly at first until Galahad sighed and began to move a little more, tightening his hold on Gawain.
“She was named for my Aunt,” Galahad muttered, destroying yet another lovely, silent moment. “Vain, isn’t it?”
“With your family, I’ve come to expect vanity.”
“Prick.”
“Brat.”
11.
Tristan had been on his mobile for four hours straight, speaking to an antiquities dealer in the shadier parts of a small town two hours outside of London. The man was in his sixties and for his entire life had been collecting Arthurian Legends, remnants of an era long past, of a myth born from real life. He had made the drive up there through the rainy moors, lurking about the shadows of the shop and touching the chalices that the true King Arthur had supposedly drank from.
“What about the Holy Grail?” Tristan had asked. “What truth is in that?”
The man was creaky and old, but he seemed to have life in his eyes. Tristan hoped he wouldn’t have the kill the man for being ornery or unhelpful. That would be decidedly unpleasant. “Ah yes. The Holy Grail. Do you know, it’s going on display soon. I tried to get it into my possession, but ah…the money…”
“Rather rich for our blood,” Tristan agreed, playing the part of the agreeable young man. “The Grail?”
“You see,” the man was shuffling about the shop, holding his tea possessively to him, as though to ward off evil spirits. “I’ve spent my life researching the thing. That and Excalibur, of course. But the thing about the Holy Grail is that its regenerative properties…never tested, not properly.”
“Why not?” Tristan demanded. “Surely people have tried.”
“Not with the correct rituals, m’boy,” the man chastised with a quiet laugh. There was something of an Irish brogue lost in his dialect, long beat out, but Tristan had a good ear for anything, whether it be accents or the sound of a man dying or the sound of a car escaping from a battle. “There are words. Rites. Herbs and a compound to be had. With that. Well, life and death become synonymous. Healing becomes instantaneous.” The man slowly smiled, but it brought no warmth to his face.
Tristan liked this man.
“You could possess the secret of life in your hands,” he said, with a simple nod.
Tristan had left with heavy thoughts and rather than going home to his own place (where he had someone tied up in his very special ‘chamber’, someone who was going to give him the floor plans to the museum by the end of it), he went to Dagonet’s, knocking heavily on the door.
“Dag?” He knocked again, fingers brushing against the door. “You in?” Half the time, he was attached at the hip of Bors and Vanora anyway and he knew he was pushing his luck, but Tristan always did have a lucky streak to him.
That was exactly what he thought when the door was opened slowly by Dagonet, standing there only in a pair of sweats, water rolling down his neck, a bit of a cut on his cheek from shaving. It was enough to make Tristan be very, very grateful for his timing. Rather than pushing his way inside, however, Tristan lingered and waited for the proper invitation.
Society had its place somewhere; even with a brute like him.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Dagonet admitted evenly. Silence took over between the two of them as neither man was so much verbose as laconic to the last and they preferred the way that silence blanketed their conversations. With too many words, you gave too much away. With none, you held onto all your gambits. “Come in?”
With an invitation, Tristan felt free to stride into the flat like he owned the place. He was there twice a week as it was and he knew where each little knick-knack went, knew when something was out of place, and most importantly, he knew his way around. He plucked off his expensive leather gloves slowly, a cursory glance going around the four walls to see if anything had changed since the last time he had been over. There was music playing in the background and the dripping faucet of the shower, which went along with Dag’s current appearance.
“Are you going out?” Tristan asked, voice quiet and careful. Every aspect of Tristan’s life seemed a chess game, at times.
“I could stay.”
Off to Bors and Vanora’s again, it sounded like. Tristan had simply been at the right place at the right time to prevent that plan from coming to fruition. He had a habit of always stumbling out a tight space with room to spare. But then, he was Tristan. He just aimed. He turned to make sure that Dagonet was following him before he made it into the darkened bedroom.
“I spoke, tonight, with a scholar,” Tristan recounted, fingers brushing against the coverlet of dark green, the colour of the forest. He wasted no time in dismissing his tie and his button down, giving a look to Dagonet that said he was expected to follow. It was a wordless agreement they had by now, these encounters. They were typically wordless and they could serve as whatever each of them wanted.
Tonight, Tristan wanted to be able to close his eyes and imagine someone else with him; someone that Dagonet knew and was a substitute for, more than adequate, too.
Dagonet knew how to arouse Tristan in much the same ways as Dinidan did, the precise place to touch without being sloppy, arousal by precision which got Tristan off far more than anyone else knew. Tristan had instructed Dagonet on exactly what to do many, many years ago and Dagonet had never asked why.
When you’re personifying the ghost of a dead lover, it was best not to ever ask.
And tonight, Dagonet was in perfect form, kissing Tristan on the neck and the collarbone, not gentle in the least, but rough with precise touches, large hands pushing over his cock and tearing his clothes off. He never said a word, knowing that the slightest bit of speech might throw Tristan out of it. In the dark of the night, in Dagonet’s dim bedroom, Tristan could honestly close his eyes and pretend it was ten years ago and Dinidan was still alive.
Never forget this, bastard, or I’ll haunt you, Dinidan had whispered in a hiss one night.
True to his word, Tristan hadn’t forgot, and if this was how he was preserving Dinidan’s memory, then so be it. Dagonet had prepared the both of them while Tristan was drifting off into memories, writhing slowly on the bed and not once daring to open his eyes. He had to keep them shut, had to keep the image clear as he could or else it would fade and forever leave him. The fuck was quick and hard, Dagonet pushing in, pushing harder, grunting and pushing and the way it felt was so unreal that Tristan couldn’t help but start laughing as everything built up more and more, until the pressure was so incredible that he was going to burst as he laughed, a choking and dark sound.
Maybe he wasn’t about to forget, but he was haunted anyway.
Not for much longer.
He couldn’t take it. Tristan couldn’t take it and he opened his eyes and looked up and Dagonet was looking right back down as he pushed deeper than he had before, bringing Tristan around to the inevitable messy climax.
Not for much longer would he be haunted by a dead man.
Not for much longer, at all.
Tristan cried out, a determined and swift sound as he crashed back onto the bed, sated and still laughing. “Dinidan,” he gasped out, gaze to the ceiling. “Dinidan,” he murmured, once more.
Say Bloody Mary three times and they say she would appear for you. Say any name three times and they say that spirit will hear it.
“Dinidan.”
12.
Lancelot had driven himself back from the meeting with the Archdiocese, tugging all the while at his collar. It all looked good and sexy, of course, until something actually had to happen with it and then the vestments were put on and they were too damn hot to be actually covert or arousing in any way.
He wandered back into the flat to find Arthur going over blueprints for the museum, glasses on his face and squinting, using only a lamp.
“You are going to go blind,” Lancelot announced, flicking the lights on and giving Arthur a Look as he yanked off the rosary he’d been wearing. He had, essentially, been in full priest garb from the cassock to the rosary to the vestments and to the collar. Anything for a little bit of information. In this case, he was getting information about where the Grail had been moved over the course of history. “This fucking thing. I swear, if I didn’t have this fantasy about fucking you in one of these, I’d burn it.”
The reaction to that was wholly worth it though, because Arthur was gaping at Lancelot, not a care in the world paid to the architecture any longer. “I can’t begin to explain the ways this is blasphemous.”
Blasphemous was definitely a direction that Lancelot could approve of, especially at that given moment. “Care to blaspheme a little more?” he suggested lasciviously, lifting his foot to the nearest chair and showing off just enough leg to be suggestive. “Just call me Father Lancelot.”
There was a groan coming from Arthur, but Lancelot couldn’t see him because Arthur had gone and planted his forehead on the table. As though frustrated. Really. “Oh, God,” Arthur pleaded. “Take that off now.”
“And here I thought you’d want to do that for me,” he teased, his smug grin only getting wider and wider.
“What did you find out?” Arthur inquired, patient down to the very last syllable as he managed to lift his head from the table and give Lancelot an enduring look, not once flinching or letting his eyes slip to more private areas. Maybe Lancelot hadn’t given his erstwhile boyfriend enough credit when it came to his ability to hold out on a dirty fantasy here and there.
“The Grail has been moved around since the time of the great King Arthur himself,” Lancelot reported. “This is believed to be the one at the Last Supper, the one that…” Lancelot sighed, rolling his eyes. “The Pure Galahad,” he continued, gritting his teeth. It was always so very difficult to get those words out. “The very one he found after preparing himself spiritually.” Which really, was more in Arthur’s league, but Lancelot said not a word, simply plucked the collar out from the vestments as he wandered closer to Arthur, just in case the other man did want to undress him. “Of course, half the world thinks the thing doesn’t actually exist.”
“So what if this isn’t the real thing?” Arthur queried, fingers running up the dark fabric.
“Ah, here’s the beautiful part,” Lancelot confirmed, pleased that Arthur seemed to be overcoming his little ‘faith issues’. “There’s so much mythology attached to this Grail in particular that real or not, the price tag is magnificently large.” It was enough to be a dream come true, an item they could steal and sell for anything so long as they talked enough about it. “We’ve had Gareth already start to establish more of a buzz about this particular Grail, just in case. He’s having some conversations on the net about it with others, and a few doubles of himself.” He let his gaze fall to watch the way Arthur touched the cloth, so tentatively. “Should I take this off, Arthur,” he offered. “I’d hate to scar you to the point that we couldn’t ever have sex again.”
There was an exhalation of relief, as though those had been just the words that Arthur was waiting for. “Yes. Yes, please take it off, Lancelot.”
“Ah.” It was a simple little remark, but it was fraught with self-indulgence and assurance. “Begging. And here I thought the night would be wasted.”
Arthur slowly began to roll up the blueprints (lest they be wrinkled, Lancelot would roll his eyes from now until his grave about Arthur’s fastidious nature) and all the while he tidied, he never once took his eyes off of Lancelot. He nodded, just barely, towards the bedroom, which Lancelot took to mean as a sign that he should get there and begin to ‘prepare’, as he would call it.
In this case, it meant ridding himself of the vestiges of faith so that Arthur wouldn’t have a complete crisis.
“You know, I have no idea whether to side with Galahad or Gareth in this damn little snitfit of theirs,” Lancelot began conversationally as he flicked the priest’s collar out from under his shirt. “They’re both completely snotty fucking brats.”
“The sign you’ve matured,” Arthur noted, sliding an elastic band around the blueprints. “They’re not getting any younger…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m just getting older,” Lancelot said with a roll of his eyes, tossing off the robes onto the nearest chair and intentionally making a mess of them, just to see what Arthur would do in the situation, whether he would choose to clean the mess or whether he would attend to the more pressing matter at hand, if you would. He glanced over the black fabric of his button-down to see what Arthur was doing, smiling smugly to himself when the other man began to walk towards the bedroom. “I hardly think God will notice one more black mark…”
He was stopped when Arthur came closer and splayed his hand out on Lancelot’s chest, centred on his heart. “I cannot help but wish to avoid this in confession,” he spoke, voice heavily quiet.
“And here I thought you weren’t going to confession anymore.” Lancelot’s eyes were kept lower, to watch Arthur’s weathered hands slowly unbuttoning each button on his shirt, each one revealing a new, wider triangle of pale skin (how very British they were, at times). “I thought we’d booked you a psychiatrist.”
“I don’t like him,” Arthur said, words heavy.
“Arthur, you hardly like anyone that we haven’t vetted for you,” Lancelot pointed out, his words heavy as he kept watch on the way that Arthur’s broad hands pushed the shirt off completely, leaving Lancelot solely with the task of removing his trousers and boxers.
Slowly, Arthur angled his hips to cover Lancelot’s and he walked him back towards the bed with slow, careful steps that were measured with that steady passion that Arthur tended to always have burning just beneath the surface. It was part and parcel of why Lancelot loved him so; he never knew when Arthur might explode and it would all come spilling out, an unpredictable showing of lust, wrath, all the sins that made life worth living.
Lancelot fell to the bed first, bare skin hitting the smooth sheets that were cleaned on a bi-weekly basis and the trousers had begun to slip, showing that scant hint of hipbone. Arthur was making quick work of that, however, pushing the trousers down while assaulting Lancelot’s neck with swift kisses; firm, finding their mark, planned and careful.
But just behind that sheen of control, Lancelot could sense that something about the evening had put Arthur on edge. There was just the slightest glimmer, just the barest hint that Arthur didn’t have full control of everything. It was an edge in each kiss, a slip in the teeth, the way Arthur hissed and gasped, the way he moved (harder than usual).
It was, Lancelot thought, intoxicating.
Once on the bed, Lancelot’s world slowly came into perfect focus; narrowly so. Like a camera lens focusing on the picture, the only thing that Lancelot was keenly aware of was Arthur above him, Arthur’s hands beside him, the sheets and pillows behind him and the predictable outcome of the evening before him. Sometimes, knowing the future did little to dampen the fun of the present. Now was one of those times.
They rolled on the bed, a primitive struggle for dominance and one that was fought simply out of habit (Arthur’s hand pinning Lancelot’s torso to the bed, the wrestling of limbs to get atop, the constant rolling and then rolling back, the need inherent in all the groping and the struggling). Eventually, it ended as all their struggles did, with Arthur on top.
That seemed to be the position that worked best for them and it was the one that Arthur seemed to enjoy the most, from the slow and settled smile that spread across his face. “You really have no idea how good you look from up here,” was Arthur’s evaluation as he dug out the small, travel-sized contained of lube from the nightstand. While Lancelot was without clothes completely, Arthur still had far too many on (his boxers, his shirt, and his tie, not to mention his glasses).
“Get those damn pants off,” Lancelot hissed.
“The rest?”
“No. Leave the rest on.”
Arthur’s brow slowly cocked upwards as a sure smirk happened upon his lips. “Really?” That single word was drawn out, as though Lancelot’s request had been the key to a locked door hiding a closet of hidden kinks and facets.
Instead of words, Lancelot decided to move the night along to the more physical aspects that could be found and helped Arthur to get his pants around his knees before latching his gaze on the lube. “I am far more interested in what you’re holding than whatever little mental superiority kink you’re currently experiencing,” Lancelot announced, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture.
Arthur laughed at that (the warm chuckle that filled Lancelot with a sense of safety and love, the one that put all the dangers aside and reminded Lancelot of just why he wanted to be there with Arthur, by his side). He spent a long moment slicking up his fingers as he shifted downwards to slowly push two fingers inside of Lancelot, his strokes slow and careful, crooking every now and then in a rhythm that was, by now, practiced and perfected.
Nothing Arthur did was ever anything less.
Lancelot focused on his breathing, keeping it together and keeping from losing himself far too early in the process. It was all too easy to drift away from looking at Arthur (the glint of the lamp flashing off his glasses or the way the tie swayed as he pushed his fingers another fraction of an inch deeper inside of him). His heels dug further into the sheets, his cock hard, his blood pumping through his body to remind him that he was alive, which was something that was all too easy to forget when you worked in the line of work that they did.
“Lancelot. Mine,” Arthur exhaled, soft and serious. His words caused Lancelot’s breath to hitch in his throat, that level of possessiveness settling him while (at the very same time) arousing him to a new level. Arthur’s words of claim were then replaced by a more pressing claim; a physical one. Arthur slowly pushed himself in, hands spreading Lancelot’s knees as far as they would go and he surged forward with the first thrust.
And then Lancelot did begin to lose his control, from his breath to his voice, right down to his body. He spasmed, cried out, his heart doubled in time when it should have beaten only once, he moved in tandem with Arthur’s thrusts and the strokes of his cock that Arthur’s hand (calloused and familiar fingers) offered.
Lancelot breathed heavily as he always watched Arthur and was always careful to make sure he was enjoying himself as much as Lancelot was and the noises they had never matched, were always discordant and somehow harmonic at once. Even now, they fought for dominance as Lancelot gathered the strength to roll them over and push down while Arthur switched to thrusting upwards and just when he was settled in that rhythm, Lancelot would roll them back again. The king bed did provide for a large playground.
The sweat began to make Arthur’s white-shirt transparent in places as they continued and Lancelot grabbed hold of the tie to yank him down for a lengthy and deep kiss as Arthur pushed in to the hilt, deeper than he had yet that evening. The moans were muffled against lips and Lancelot’s fingers on Arthur’s tie began to slowly slip as the inevitable came.
Lancelot’s climax was almost soundless but for the gasp of breath and the strangled moan that escaped his throat. “God,” he gasped, when his breath came back to him and he could feel Arthur’s rhythm disturbed. He was slowing down, as if he was struggling. “Arthur,” Lancelot murmured, still breathless. “Arthur…”
Before he could even beg for it, Arthur came as he shouted Lancelot’s name up to the ceiling.
“Dear god,” Lancelot laughed as Arthur collapsed atop him and let out a weary groan. “Apparently I should blaspheme more,” he said, words sticking together. “The consequences are magnificent.”
tbc
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Father Lancelot, indeed.
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Thank you for reading!