Ficlet: You Don't Have To Be Beautiful
Author: Ashley
You Don't Have To Be Beautiful
warnings: slash
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version
summary: Arthur likes to watch. So does Lancelot.
author's notes: unadulterated porn. someone had given me a prompt a while back about Arthur liking to watch Lancelot shave, and here you go. Cat, I think that was you? ;) Title inspired by Tom Jones and Prince.
Feedback is love.
The blade is sharp in his hand; no slave would ever have to do this for him. The bath house is steamy and empty and Lancelot scrapes at his chin, watching with glittering, narrowed eyes as he cleans up the messy beard he's taken to wearing. He wavers when he comes to the edge of the neat goatee; should he take it totally off?
The scar over his right nipple twinges, and he avoids the hair, scraping the stubble off his throat and leaving the goatee alone. He is the prettiest little thing young looking without facial hair, and that in and of itself can be a detriment, here in this place that's nothing if not dangerous. He is shirtless and barefoot, and the unguent he rubs over his skin is oily and smells of Roman fools and he snarls to himself, the blade shaking, and the thin slice he opens on his cheek bleeds freely as he sets the blade down, searching for a towel in the gloom of the bath house.
He takes the one Arthur hands him, the other man watching as Lancelot cleans up his face, the cut stopping bleeding rather quickly as he dabs at it. He rubs more of the oil on his right cheek and jaw and picks up the knife, removing the hair with a grace and speed he shows on the battlefield with large size weapons as well.
The smell of unguent fills his nostrils again, and then something else - musk and road dirt and unwashed commander and he smiles as he finishes shaving, Arthur's hands light on his hips, fingers dipping just below the waistband of his leathers. He wipes the slightly bloody towel over his cheeks and neck and stares at their reflections in the piece of hanging electrum he's been using to see; Arthur's face lined and familiar and Lancelot narrows his eyes and wonders just what it is he's playing at, allowing this man to touch him.
Arthur's right hand slips inside the front of Lancelot's leathers, grasping his length, and Lancelot smiles, a large white thing that shows better now that his beard is neat and tidy. His hair, however, could stand some work as well; it hangs in his face as he lets his head fall slowly to rest against Arthur's cheek, the other man's fingers dancing over his flesh, the trousers he wears too snug and yet Arthur can get at what he wants. Arthur still hasn't said a word; he presses his chest to Lancelot's back, his own hardness tight against Lancelot's thigh. But Arthur hasn't offered or spoken, so Lancelot merely cocks an eyebrow and lays against Arthur's face, breath coming in rough pants as Arthur's motions on his erection speed up, hand oily from the unguent Lancelot has been using to shave.
Lancelot's eyes tilt to the electrum, and he watches their reflections as Arthur squeezes at his cock, the commander rubbing his own body against Lancelot's once, twice, the other man's face downturned and eyes closed, lips slightly open and ruddy and Lancelot still watches, his face flushed and red from his shaving and he shudders as Arthur strokes too hard, too fast and he bites his lip to avoid shouting Arthur's name as he comes, heat passing between his leathers and Arthur's hand, which finally slows, mercifully cupping Lancelot's flesh loosely as he stops his own motions against Lancelot's thigh.
Their faces in the electrum both raise at the same time, and Arthur opens his eyes, meeting Lancelot's in the mirror. He doesn't look away as he presses dry lips at the corner of Lancelot's mouth, tongue darting out slightly to touch freshly stubble free skin. He takes a deep breath and this time breaks eye contact, hand sliding out of Lancelot's pants, mouth kissing Lancelot's once more, a full, deep contact that has Lancelot turning away from his reflection and slipping his tongue into Arthur's mouth, heat echoing the steam in the bath house.
Everything is slick and wet and Lancelot finds his knees are weak - he locks them into place before collapsing on the floor and taking Arthur with him, the other man sweaty and disheveled as he finally pulls away.
He touches Lancelot's freshly shaven cheek and slithers out of Lancelot's hold, letting go of his hips, walking only a bit unsteadily out of the bath house, leaving Lancelot to stare after him, his brown eyes widened, his heart slowing, his face tingling from where the commander touched it. He turns back to the electrum and looks at himself; just Lancelot, beauty hidden by facial hair and a permanent scowl.
He sits suddenly, groin throbbing, laughter rippling through the empty rooms, the steam absorbing his burst of sound with the ease of a long ignored presence. He rubs his face and touches his lips and the laughter comes again, low and genuine and he ignores the cut he's reopened with his fingers against his cheek.
You Don't Have To Be Beautiful
warnings: slash
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version
summary: Arthur likes to watch. So does Lancelot.
author's notes: unadulterated porn. someone had given me a prompt a while back about Arthur liking to watch Lancelot shave, and here you go. Cat, I think that was you? ;) Title inspired by Tom Jones and Prince.
Feedback is love.
The blade is sharp in his hand; no slave would ever have to do this for him. The bath house is steamy and empty and Lancelot scrapes at his chin, watching with glittering, narrowed eyes as he cleans up the messy beard he's taken to wearing. He wavers when he comes to the edge of the neat goatee; should he take it totally off?
The scar over his right nipple twinges, and he avoids the hair, scraping the stubble off his throat and leaving the goatee alone. He is the prettiest little thing young looking without facial hair, and that in and of itself can be a detriment, here in this place that's nothing if not dangerous. He is shirtless and barefoot, and the unguent he rubs over his skin is oily and smells of Roman fools and he snarls to himself, the blade shaking, and the thin slice he opens on his cheek bleeds freely as he sets the blade down, searching for a towel in the gloom of the bath house.
He takes the one Arthur hands him, the other man watching as Lancelot cleans up his face, the cut stopping bleeding rather quickly as he dabs at it. He rubs more of the oil on his right cheek and jaw and picks up the knife, removing the hair with a grace and speed he shows on the battlefield with large size weapons as well.
The smell of unguent fills his nostrils again, and then something else - musk and road dirt and unwashed commander and he smiles as he finishes shaving, Arthur's hands light on his hips, fingers dipping just below the waistband of his leathers. He wipes the slightly bloody towel over his cheeks and neck and stares at their reflections in the piece of hanging electrum he's been using to see; Arthur's face lined and familiar and Lancelot narrows his eyes and wonders just what it is he's playing at, allowing this man to touch him.
Arthur's right hand slips inside the front of Lancelot's leathers, grasping his length, and Lancelot smiles, a large white thing that shows better now that his beard is neat and tidy. His hair, however, could stand some work as well; it hangs in his face as he lets his head fall slowly to rest against Arthur's cheek, the other man's fingers dancing over his flesh, the trousers he wears too snug and yet Arthur can get at what he wants. Arthur still hasn't said a word; he presses his chest to Lancelot's back, his own hardness tight against Lancelot's thigh. But Arthur hasn't offered or spoken, so Lancelot merely cocks an eyebrow and lays against Arthur's face, breath coming in rough pants as Arthur's motions on his erection speed up, hand oily from the unguent Lancelot has been using to shave.
Lancelot's eyes tilt to the electrum, and he watches their reflections as Arthur squeezes at his cock, the commander rubbing his own body against Lancelot's once, twice, the other man's face downturned and eyes closed, lips slightly open and ruddy and Lancelot still watches, his face flushed and red from his shaving and he shudders as Arthur strokes too hard, too fast and he bites his lip to avoid shouting Arthur's name as he comes, heat passing between his leathers and Arthur's hand, which finally slows, mercifully cupping Lancelot's flesh loosely as he stops his own motions against Lancelot's thigh.
Their faces in the electrum both raise at the same time, and Arthur opens his eyes, meeting Lancelot's in the mirror. He doesn't look away as he presses dry lips at the corner of Lancelot's mouth, tongue darting out slightly to touch freshly stubble free skin. He takes a deep breath and this time breaks eye contact, hand sliding out of Lancelot's pants, mouth kissing Lancelot's once more, a full, deep contact that has Lancelot turning away from his reflection and slipping his tongue into Arthur's mouth, heat echoing the steam in the bath house.
Everything is slick and wet and Lancelot finds his knees are weak - he locks them into place before collapsing on the floor and taking Arthur with him, the other man sweaty and disheveled as he finally pulls away.
He touches Lancelot's freshly shaven cheek and slithers out of Lancelot's hold, letting go of his hips, walking only a bit unsteadily out of the bath house, leaving Lancelot to stare after him, his brown eyes widened, his heart slowing, his face tingling from where the commander touched it. He turns back to the electrum and looks at himself; just Lancelot, beauty hidden by facial hair and a permanent scowl.
He sits suddenly, groin throbbing, laughter rippling through the empty rooms, the steam absorbing his burst of sound with the ease of a long ignored presence. He rubs his face and touches his lips and the laughter comes again, low and genuine and he ignores the cut he's reopened with his fingers against his cheek.