Comment Fic: Princesses
For comment_fic, prompt word "princess."
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"Keep your eyes in your head, knight."
Arthur's had too much wine. Lancelot smirks and tilts his head, the firelight shining in his dark, hooded eyes. His right eyebrow is messy; he's been pulling at it as he drinks and watches the two women that are sitting in the corner. "They might need help, commander. And then where would we be, ignoring helpless females left alone in our fortress?" He rubs his face, smoothing the brow back down, and slams his mug on the tabletop, finishing his own brew.
"The senator can watch his own family," Arthur shoots back and sits up straight, knowing he's overdoing it by the effort he's making in looking not drunk. Drunk he may be, but he'd never admit to it or show it. Unless Lancelot -
"Ladies! More drinks over here for our inebriated commander!"
The barmaids hop to it - they love Lancelot, and his smiles and his curls and his low voice - and the two high born women that are visiting with the traveling senator look at Arthur and Lancelot, their eyes widening as they stare at the red faced Roman who's attempting to hide his true feelings. Lancelot's sure his true feelings are those of anger and he feels the tip of Arthur's hobnailed boot pressing against the tender inside of his ankle.
"Shut. Up."
More wine arrives and Lancelot grabs one of the maids, planting a loud kiss on the bouncing tops of her bared cleavage and she laughs, Arthur growling under his breath as the Roman ladies stiffly rise and exit the homely tavern. The commander and knight are left alone, and Arthur knocks his boot quietly into Lancelot's calf, hard, and repeatedly.
Lancelot pours out their new jug of wine and his dagger-smile widens. "Don't make promises you aren't going to keep, Artos," he murmurs. "Those ladies don't want me, after all. And I think they just decided they don't want you as a husband, either." He smirks and drinks and Arthur finally allows his head to crash to the wooden table, skin flaming, hatred for his situation and Lancelot's ever-present skill with charm forcing a moan from his dry lips.
"Breeding ground of arrogant fools?"
Arthur looks up at the words - Lancelot's scorn for Rome and its denizens very well known.
"'course, I'm sure that's better than what they think of us," he adds cheerfully. He raises his goblet and the knights around him follow suit as he lets loose a sharp whistle.
"To foreign dogs!"
"Foreign dogs!" they scream, and pound their drinks into the wooden, scarred tabletops.
Arthur can only imagine the visiting ladies and their long stoles and their perfect hair and jewelry and what they'll say to their senator father. He bites his lower lip, his black clothing dirty and his knights sweating and disheveled and his eyes close, the imperfectness of life the only thing he knows.
Slowly with closed lids he raises his own mug, and the cheers that echo through the tavern reach thunderous heights.
~~~~~~
"Keep your eyes in your head, knight."
Arthur's had too much wine. Lancelot smirks and tilts his head, the firelight shining in his dark, hooded eyes. His right eyebrow is messy; he's been pulling at it as he drinks and watches the two women that are sitting in the corner. "They might need help, commander. And then where would we be, ignoring helpless females left alone in our fortress?" He rubs his face, smoothing the brow back down, and slams his mug on the tabletop, finishing his own brew.
"The senator can watch his own family," Arthur shoots back and sits up straight, knowing he's overdoing it by the effort he's making in looking not drunk. Drunk he may be, but he'd never admit to it or show it. Unless Lancelot -
"Ladies! More drinks over here for our inebriated commander!"
The barmaids hop to it - they love Lancelot, and his smiles and his curls and his low voice - and the two high born women that are visiting with the traveling senator look at Arthur and Lancelot, their eyes widening as they stare at the red faced Roman who's attempting to hide his true feelings. Lancelot's sure his true feelings are those of anger and he feels the tip of Arthur's hobnailed boot pressing against the tender inside of his ankle.
"Shut. Up."
More wine arrives and Lancelot grabs one of the maids, planting a loud kiss on the bouncing tops of her bared cleavage and she laughs, Arthur growling under his breath as the Roman ladies stiffly rise and exit the homely tavern. The commander and knight are left alone, and Arthur knocks his boot quietly into Lancelot's calf, hard, and repeatedly.
Lancelot pours out their new jug of wine and his dagger-smile widens. "Don't make promises you aren't going to keep, Artos," he murmurs. "Those ladies don't want me, after all. And I think they just decided they don't want you as a husband, either." He smirks and drinks and Arthur finally allows his head to crash to the wooden table, skin flaming, hatred for his situation and Lancelot's ever-present skill with charm forcing a moan from his dry lips.
"Breeding ground of arrogant fools?"
Arthur looks up at the words - Lancelot's scorn for Rome and its denizens very well known.
"'course, I'm sure that's better than what they think of us," he adds cheerfully. He raises his goblet and the knights around him follow suit as he lets loose a sharp whistle.
"To foreign dogs!"
"Foreign dogs!" they scream, and pound their drinks into the wooden, scarred tabletops.
Arthur can only imagine the visiting ladies and their long stoles and their perfect hair and jewelry and what they'll say to their senator father. He bites his lower lip, his black clothing dirty and his knights sweating and disheveled and his eyes close, the imperfectness of life the only thing he knows.
Slowly with closed lids he raises his own mug, and the cheers that echo through the tavern reach thunderous heights.