[Closed Post: Unmade]

[timebethine]

Laertes's first cups all shattered in the kiln. He isn't sure what went wrong--whether it was a flaw in the clay or the glaze or the construction of the kiln itself, or whether he failed to tend the fire as he should've. That failure had thrown him into a deep, black melancholic slump, which he'd had to admit at the end of it was at least nine tenths exhaustion.

Accordingly, he's spent the last few days cultivating indolence. He's done no cooking, no work with clay, no difficult reading; he's left his rapier in its scabbard. When the sun rises at about eight in the morning, he only nestles further into the warmth of Sagramore's arms and lets himself sleep through it.

By the third day, though, restlessness has overtaken him again. He hauls all the cookbooks he's been studying for Wanderers Gather down to the kitchen, where he shelves them on the windowsill next to the sink. Then he takes all the dishes from their rooms and washes them in hot water--then he scrubs and dusts every surface, puts away every book and paper and half-finished project, washes every loose piece of clothing and hangs them all up to dry on the shower curtain rod. By the time he's finished, the rooms he shares with Sagramore are sparkling, and Laertes feels more human than he has in days.

[Note: This thread will include explicit, rough sexual content.]

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[sagramore]

Sagramore is aware of this mood -- it's impossible that he shouldn't be -- but aside from a little initial fussing he hasn't pressed much. Failure is something that always goes hard with Laertes, and doubly so when he's tired, but this time Laertes has seemed to recognize his own limits and not continued to push insistently against them. It's a pleasure to have him linger in bed in the mornings -- the second day Sagramore even manages to wake before he does and make him breakfast, albeit with a concerted effort. Sagramore is good at worrying, but this is an earned rest, and he doesn't worry about it.

He comes back to their rooms mid-afternoon from a few hours of making snares out by the stables. His conversation with Little John at Wanderers Gather had reminded him it's a skill he used to depend on when he was forced to leave Camelot, and he's curious to see whether he still can, after half a year of having every need provided for in this place. There's a cold wind coming from the east bringing flurries, as there has been often since it snowed at the bonfire, so he kept the horses in with their quilted blankets and just enjoyed being around them (if he privately wishes he had a black and brown puppy to nap or get into trouble beside him, well, he has everything else he needs, he can't complain).

He lets himself in and immediately whistles at the unexpected orderliness of the room.

[timebethine]

Laertes beams up at him from where he's smoothing down the counterpane on the bed. "My star," he says, "thou hast brought winter with thee. Come here, let me warm thy hands." Without waiting for an answer, Laertes gathers up Sagramore's hands and presses both of them flat against his chest, blanketing them with his palms to keep the warmth in.

[sagramore]

Sagramore laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of his head; it feels good to have his hands sandwiched in warmth as the feeling continues to return to them. His face is flushed from the cold air, and his hair is half-loose. "Thou hast made the world new in here."

[timebethine]

"My hands wanted employment, and thou wert seeing to the horses." Sagramore is beautiful like this, wild and radiant from the wind and the cold; Laertes can't help freeing a hand to work it through Sagramore's curls, pulling them still further out of the ribbon. Close to the scalp, his hair is deliciously warm to the touch. "How lovely thou art. How perfectly made for my delight."

[sagramore]

"Wouldst thou delight in me?" he teases, moving closer to Laertes, letting their hips brush.

[timebethine]

"I would," says Laertes, letting his gaze lock with Sagramore's. His chest feels tight, as though there are iron hoops clipped about it. "I would be cruel to thee, and ravish thee, and use thee for my pleasure until thou achest, if thou wouldst have it thus."

[sagramore]

The playfulness in his gaze immediately vanishes: his look is all heat and hunger. "I would. Wouldst thou have me be only obedient to thee, or a brat thou must needs break to obedience?"

[timebethine]

"I ... what wouldst thou be? What wouldst thou have of me?"

[sagramore]

He takes the hand still covering his and brings it to his lips to kiss. "Why wouldst thou unmake me? What about it pleases thee to think on?"

[timebethine]

"I like imagining thee helpless before thy pleasure--to have it wrung from thy body like water from a cloth, the violence necessary to bring the pleasure out in thee." He draws Sagramore's hand back to kiss his knuckles, expression almost shy. "And I do wonder if it would please thee to be hurt the way it would me, if I did not expect thee to hold still and bear it."

[sagramore]

"Let's find out together, then. I know I like a rough hand, and I know I like some pain. Do with me what thou wouldst, and if I like it not I'll say."

[timebethine]

"Mm. Let's have thee out of thy coat and boots, at least. Hast thou eaten or drunk anything today?" Laertes immediately starts bundling Sagramore out of his coat to hang it on its peg by the door; if he's wearing a sweater, Laertes will strip that off, too.

[sagramore]

He is, and he obligingly lifts his arms so Laertes can pull it over his head, before kneeling to unlace his boots. "I had coffee and an egg this morning, and something for dinner, I don't remember -- solyanka from the feast? And bourbon." It's a more detailed accounting than he'd usually give, but he's being obedient for now, offering Laertes whatever information he asks for. "Three or four hours ago by now, I don't recall."

[timebethine]

"Good, that's well," says Laertes warmly. "I made myself a waffle and ate it with strawberries and cream; it was such a decadent breakfast. Alexander the Great could've eaten no better." When Sagramore straightens, Laertes finger-combs the ribbon from his hair and then ties it neatly in a bow on one of the bedposts.

[sagramore]

"Moreover Alexander wasn't married to me. He lived a bleak life. Should I take off the rest?"

[timebethine]

"Take off anything thou wouldst have me leave intact."

[sagramore]

Sagramore laughs, and leaves the rest on. It's jeans and a t-shirt today, copying Laertes' style, and he feels no loyalty towards these items whatsoever. In fact, "That makes me want to put more on."

[timebethine]

"Did it please thee, to have me undress thee with a knife?"

[sagramore]

"I like thee dangerous."

[timebethine]

"What would hurt or fright thee?" Laertes asks, and he takes one of Sagramore's thin, muscular wrists between his fingers with all the delicacy of a man handling finest bone porcelain. "May I bruise thee or make thee bleed? Wrench thine arm, or fuck thee dry? Say cruel or hateful things to thee?"

[sagramore]

"Thou canst bruise or bleed me, and twist my limbs. I don't enjoy being fucked dry, though thou needst not prepare me with thy fingers, that's no matter. Thou canst call me a whore or a slattern, but nothing that touches on sickness. A brat or a boy, but nothing that would say thou thinkst me childish, only untried, or trying. Canst liken me to an animal, obviously. Thou canst degrade me, but I don't want to be made to feel burdensome to thee. Does that make sense?"

[timebethine]

The most delicate of kisses to Sagramore's fingertips. "Wouldst tell me stop, and not have me stop?"

[sagramore]

"No, that's not really my preference." He smiles. "Hast thou sifted me? Wouldst thou know else?"

[timebethine]

Then Laertes strikes him hard across the face and then snarls a hand in his hair to wrench his head back. It's easy to get in close against his throat and bite, not to inflame Sagramore's lust but for the pleasure of how his skin feels between Laertes's teeth. "Hush thou, little bitch," he growls. "Thy master's home now."

[sagramore]

"Fuck," he breathes; it feels as of all the hair on his head and neck is standing up, prickling with excitement and anticipation. His cheek stings from the force of the blow, and heat floods in beneath it. For as much as he has to steel himself to be cruel to Laertes, the pleasure of Laertes' cruelty is so sharp that he should find it easy to give that pleasure back.