[Closed Post: A Pit of Clay]

[timebethine]

Laertes has settled on building a cross-draft kiln--but for that, he'll need to fire bricks, and to make bricks, of course, he'll need clay. He's finished sifting the clay he'd dug from the shore of the lake, and now all that remains is to get it into a state that will bear shaping and firing. The tool room had a couple of bags of sand and a smaller sack of bauxite alumina ready for use; those will help the kiln bricks to withstand the great heat of a long firing.

It's a grey day, and the scent of clay is rich in Laertes's nostrils. Smells always get stronger right before he has a migraine, and a part of him wants to call off this whole project and hide in bed to wait out the impending ache--but he isn't hurting yet; his vision isn't starting to shimmer yet. The wind off the lake is bracing, redolent with the rich, spice-and-rot scent of fallen leaves.

There's time enough to pull off his boots and socks, roll up his jeans, and dig in.

Comments

[sagramore]

He begins with Laertes. There's a particular bar of soap he tends to use for shaving and he has that to hand too; he dips it in the water and works up a mint-and-cucumber-scented lather, which he spreads on Laertes' cheeks and chin, along his jaw.

[timebethine]

Laertes smiles a little while he's being lathered, then lets his face fall to neutral once it's done. He doesn't want to make any inconvenient grooves for Sagramore to navigate--but even so, his expression is all trust, all adoration.

[sagramore]

In this case the remove actually helps -- he's shaved his own face an infinite number of times, and he knows it so well he's fairly sure he could do it with his eyes closed, or blind drunk (he may even have done, once or twice), but it's a different thing to shave Laertes. He takes out the straight razor from its case, holds Laertes' chin with his fingertips, and begins.

He works slowly, listening to the scrape of the blade on skin, alert to every movement or sound Laertes might make.

[timebethine]

For Sagramore, Laertes can be stillness itself. He moves only when Sagramore tugs him one direction or another. He makes no sound at all, except the steady, slow rush of his breath through his nostrils. As the sediment settles around them, Sagramore may notice that Laertes is fully hard, but he doesn't seem aware of it himself; all his attention is bent on Sagramore's face, as focused as Sagramore's own.

[sagramore]

He takes note of it, but doesn't let himself think about it, all his concentration on the task at hand. His hands are perfectly steady as he moves Laertes' face to either side, or tilts it up to shave his neck.

[timebethine]

And that makes Laertes's breath come short--the blade at his throat, and the steadiness with which Sagramore wields it.

[sagramore]

"Good," he murmurs, drawing the razor against the soft and vulnerable underside of his jaw, along the ridged line of his windpipe. "Good."

[timebethine]

Laertes's lips part, but no sound comes out. He is good; there is nothing between him and the praise. He is good, because Sagramore has called him good, and Sagramore is the fixed point around which the universe turns. Happiness unfurls and floats in the sea of him, like cloth in water.

[sagramore]

Finally he finishes, and rinses the blade of the razor in the water before setting it aside. He lifts water in his cupped hands to wash the residue of soap and tiny, fine hairs, so light brown they're almost golden, away from Laertes' face. He pats his skin dry with the smallest handtowel he could find, and then takes a little aftershave lotion in his hands and rubs it in, with gentle circles of his fingers.

[timebethine]

An inward part of Laertes preens at this care--he must be so beloved, to be attended to so tenderly. He must be so good. Sagramore, the best of men, has chosen him for this. The world seems to refract a little, hazy at the edges, the bathroom lights shattering into a thousand colors as though broken upon the facets of a diamond.

[sagramore]

"Good," he says again quietly. "Get up and dry off now."

[timebethine]

Laertes eases himself up from his knees--his thighs and calves burn; he had almost forgotten the strain he's put on them from kneading clay--and then steps out of the tub and takes down a towel. He dries himself, hair to shoulders, stomach to legs, enjoying the quiet pleasure of his own hands roughly working terrycloth over his skin. When he finishes, he looks up at Sagramore and smiles. He hopes that Sagramore was watching. He hopes that the sight was pleasing to him.

[sagramore]

He had been, leaning on the side of the tub, his gaze soft. Now that Laertes is dry and clean, he hauls himself up in turn, dripping, and unstoppers the bath so it can drain. He's been above water so long his hair is starting to dry, the curls damp and tight, and he doesn't bother toweling it off, just his body, perfunctory.

"How's your head?"

[timebethine]

It takes a moment for Laertes to surface enough to answer--to recognize that he has an answer; that the halo around every light signifies something meaningful. "Well, sir. But it may not be well, in an hour. Less, perhaps."

[sagramore]

"Long enough to be used, or no?"

[timebethine]

"Ay," says Laertes, soft but urgent as an avalanche. "Use me, sir."

[sagramore]

"Bed," with a nod towards the other room.

[timebethine]

Laertes pads into the bedroom and seats himself on the edge of the bed, ready to rearrange himself however Sagramore should choose to have him. He looks up at Sagramore; his expression is expectant, inviting.

[sagramore]

"Lie down. I'm going to fuck myself on you. I don't want you to move or speak or touch me, but you may look at me. Do you understand?"

[timebethine]

Laertes nods, then lies back against the blankets. He feels soft and light, as though he's no more than bones and eiderdown; need pulses at the base of his cock like a heartbeat. He knows that he must look soft-faced, boyish, infinitely touchable without stubble shadowing his chin; he knows that Sagramore sees Laertes as younger than he is (or perhaps sees himself as older than he is), and he lets himself go vulnerable and doe-eyed. It's only what every young creature does when it wants care--looks up at its elders with absolute trust and need.

[sagramore]

"Good," again. He pumps the bottle of lube once or twice and begins opening himself up -- efficiently, not a man showing off for his lover. He's only planning something quick to take the edge off, the use of a favorite toy for a little pleasure before moving on to something else, and there's no need to make a production if it.

[timebethine]

Laertes catches the tenor of their game well enough. Sagramore does not want something soft and vulnerable that he can care for; he only wants a useful toy, and Laertes can be that. He reaches down to stroke himself a little, testing his own hardness, making sure that he's ready for his master.

[sagramore]

He gives Laertes an approving look, his eyes darkening. He doesn't need too much time to prepare himself; he's relaxed, his muscles slack from the warmth of the bath, and he's mindful of not having infinite time before Laertes' migraine strikes. Soon enough his hand is on Laertes' cock, slicking him up for use, and then he lowers himself down, letting his breath out in a long shaky exhale as he's filled.

[timebethine]

Laertes's hands fall to his sides, curling into fists. His eyes close, at first; Sagramore sinks down on him like the lassitude of a hot bath, the flush of drunkenness, and for a moment every sensation is warm and clear and perfect. Laertes lets himself be still. Every exhalation feels like the last--as though bubbles must drift up from his lips toward the distant surface of consciousness, and break. But then he breathes in again, and the smells of myrrh and mint and sex are heavy on the air.

[sagramore]

He fucks himself on Laertes with an energy he hadn't quite expected himself to have, not after the exertion of the clay-making; but the burn of pushing his body up, until he's on the verge of letting Laertes slip out of him, and then swallowing him back again into his own heat and tightness is wildly satisfying. Laertes is his, his charge and his servant, his beautiful, brave, clever, unmatchable husband, and Sagramore would give him the world -- it's nothing to give him this. He uses Laertes' cock as if Laertes had been made for this purpose alone.