Fic: Sticks and Stones
Author: Ashley
Sticks and Stones
warnings: language, some violence and light slash
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
summary: Lancelot loves a fight.
author's notes: dang it, I wanted pwp but they totally did whatever they wanted. more sex next time.
feedback is love!
Lancelot kicked out, his hob nailed boots striking the soft but strong flesh that bound his arms to his sides, and was satisfied with the grunt the bearer of said arms breathed out, the tight grip loosening. He kicked again and his head snapped back against the other man’s forehead, shoving, biting, teeth gnashing and hands gauging and he was free suddenly, free to bend over and pick up his weapons, steel strong in his hands, echoes of the strength in his own arms.
“Bastard,” Arthur groaned, rubbing his face, blood from the surely broken nose dripping slowly down his lips and coating his chin with viscous fluid. Lancelot took a few steps, swinging his blades, whipping them around in his hands, the throbbing in his head and his groin increasing as he got closer to the Roman.
“Always,” he answered, the snarl on his lips stretching and pulling them. They still ached, swollen and full from the kisses - he spun one sword and quickly slammed the other one home into the ground, tip wedged solidly, hilt vibrating back and forth with the violence of his motion. “Come to me and back that up.” He smirked and ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. His clean shaven chin felt odd and naked and he snarled again and the tip of his sword was suddenly clashing with Excalibur, the crack of steel on steel familiar and long missed. It had been too long since they’d done this, although Lancelot was certain Arthur would prefer no blood. Fuck the Roman. He had no say.
“You are a complete,” Arthur huffed, swinging his broadsword, advancing with his right foot, his bloody nose and face creating a fearsome mask of his craggy features that might scare a lesser man, “and utter God damned bastard. Still, knight!” He shouted the command at Lancelot; as though they were training anymore. Lancelot could fight rings around Arthur; he was a soldier by profession and by life and he couldn’t dare be anything but perfect at it.
Maybe not rings as Arthur suddenly had Lancelot at the point of Excalibur, one arm captured and slung behind his back, the muscle and bone screaming as Arthur’s face was in Lancelot’s, the commander’s breath puffing out, blowing Lancelot’s hair away from his forehead. The moon sparkled on them, the dirty clothing they’d been carrying from the baths dropped to the ground and trampled on as they’d fought, Arthur glancing down at his cloak the advantage Lancelot had needed.
But still the other man had gotten Lancelot in a choke hold - but still Lancelot had managed to break it and apparently Arthur’s nose.
“That’s the best you can do? Bastard? Come come, Artos, I think I’m much more than just a bastard,” Lancelot sneered, his sword screeching against Arthur’s, the two men shuffling back and forth as each gained momentum, booted feet kicking up dust from the courtyard ground. “I am a heathen foreign dog and a slave and scum and the lowest of the low. See?” he laughed and with a resounding snap he broke the connection between his blade and Excalibur, spinning away from Arthur, drawing the other man down the small dirty alley next to the bathhouse. “I resort to unfair tactics in order to win! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” he purred breathily, letting Arthur catch him up, allowing the Roman to grab his arms, allowing Arthur to get close, his lips brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear as he kept talking. “Don’t tell me you’re alright with my being that way. I’m your second, after all,” he whispered, his knee raising and pressing against Arthur’s leather covered groin. The Roman groaned and Lancelot shoved at Arthur’s growing erection and spun away, laughing at the frustrated moan that spilled from Arthur’s lips.
He flipped his blade from one hand to the other, the light from the guttering, stinky torches wavering ghost like, reflected in the steel he held. “I can even defeat you with just one weapon. I am that go-”
The brick he knocked his head against as Arthur rushed him was scratchy and hard and he cursed, musically and long in his own tongue. Arthur held Lancelot’s blade in two hands, the right hand bloodied from the blade tip, the left an anchor of immovable strength that wouldn’t budge on the hilt no matter what Lancelot tried to do. Arthur angled the blade closer to Lancelot’s clean shaven face, the tip sliding through his palm, the blood dripping pat pat pat onto the earth packed ground.
“Shut. Your mouth,” Arthur growled, and Lancelot’s smile spread when Arthur’s face pushed into his space, dirt and blood decorating Arthur’s lips and chin. It grew even wider when Arthur rubbed his cheek against Lancelot's bare face like an animal marking its territory would, the Roman murmuring something that sounded like Jesu help me even as the tip of Arthur's tongue stuck out, touching Lancelot's cheek.
Lancelot moved as fast a snake, his head tilting forward and catching Arthur’s mouth with his own, sucking the other man’s bottom lip inside, feeding off the blood, drawing Arthur closer, the Roman’s musk and anger roiling off him like one of the waves that had carried Lancelot here to this horrid, fucking awful island on that horrid, fucking awful boat. Leather creaked and Arthur hissed and Lancelot leaned closer -
He felt hot wetness drip down his throat and clapped his free hand, which Arthur had suddenly let go of, to his neck. He laughed, a bright, brittle sound, the noise echoing off the walls of the alley and causing a group of nesting birds to scream angrily as they took flight.
Arthur’s eyes were wide and horrified, but he managed to set Lancelot’s blade down carefully - next to the dropped Excalibur - as he approached and lifted Lancelot’s chin, turning his head this way and that, tongue clicking in his mouth as his expression shuttered and narrowed. “Medicus,” he spat, Lancelot not sure where the anger was coming from.
Arthur had no reason to be angry; Lancelot was the one with a cut throat.
Obviously not very deeply, but still.
He shoved off the wall and past Arthur and picked up his discarded blade and retrieved the first one from where he’d slammed it into the ground. Marching along with Arthur at his heels would normally be a source of humor for Lancelot, especially since he was the one who usually followed, but heading to the fucking Medicus was not where he wanted to be going.
What a waste of a perfectly good fight. Proceeded by a perfectly good fuck, which Lancelot was rapidly forgetting as his ire grew and the blood flowed faster down his neck, soaking his black tunic and wetting his chest.
He growled and stomped the last of the few yards to the Valetudinarium, and allowed Arthur to call roughly for the doctor even as he sheathed his blades behind his back, plunking down onto a stool, fingers bloody and cold.
*
He wouldn’t have worn a dressing around his neck even if the Medicus had told him to; Lancelot was nothing if not vain and besides, he hadn’t even needed it stitched closed. The nasty old man had cleaned it with a salve and pronounced him fine, telling Arthur he should be more careful with his conscripts; they weren’t the smartest men he’d ever seen. Of course he’d said that last bit in Latin, which had Lancelot laughing and answering smarter than you think, Roman dog and Arthur had hustled him out of the room as quickly as possible after getting his own wound seen to, the doctor gaping after them both.
*
Arthur’s rooms were closest but Lancelot hesitated at the door.
Arthur stopped and looked askance at the Sarmatian when Lancelot balked. The torches flickered like they always did, casting Arthur’s face into a shadow, his cleaned up nose no longer bleeding, but he could still use a wash. Lancelot narrowed his eyes and raised a hand, long dirty fingers wiping at the skin over Arthur’s full lips. The blood flaked off in rusty bits, falling on to Arthur’s black tunic, once clean, now dust and detritus and sweat and gods knew what else covered.
“Why?”
Lancelot smirked, his feral face pulling and stretching and his throat ached and he unconsciously clapped a hand over it, the smile gradually fading, leaving only the barest hint of expression. He rolled lips inward and touched the base of his sheathed blades with his left hand, wanting to reassure himself.
not the smartest men ever
“Why not, Arthur?”
“Being obstinate and a stereotype does not become you,” Arthur sighed, his tall body compressing slightly as he leaned against his door, heavily. Excalibur was sheathed at his left hip, but still Arthur’s hands were curled in on themselves, as though the sword was still there. Lancelot flexed his fingers as he watched Arthur’s hands, scarred hands that he was as familiar with as he was his own.
“Being judgmental and self righteous are such things I’d like to emulate,” he shot back, his eyes darkening, glittering in the gloom of the hallway, Arthur’s green gaze heating and Lancelot was certain he’d go back to the Medicus again tonight.
“Come inside,” Arthur snapped and grabbed Lancelot's arm, “because I have a few things I need to be taught. Apparently,” he added as he shoved his door open with his foot, “by you, which I find infinitely amusing.” He spat to the side, blood staining his chin, and Lancelot followed, his swords and black clothing and sliced throat a perfect costume for the knight he was - the man that suddenly made his appearance at Arthur’s words not anything he’d care to show anyone else.
That man wanted things Lancelot didn’t, wanted quiet and peace and didn’t want to be obstinate or fight.
Fuck that man.
Lancelot kicked the door shut with his booted foot and the slam reverberated down the hallway, the torches shivering in their sconces.
Sticks and Stones
warnings: language, some violence and light slash
disclaimer: my version of someone else's version.
summary: Lancelot loves a fight.
author's notes: dang it, I wanted pwp but they totally did whatever they wanted. more sex next time.
feedback is love!
Lancelot kicked out, his hob nailed boots striking the soft but strong flesh that bound his arms to his sides, and was satisfied with the grunt the bearer of said arms breathed out, the tight grip loosening. He kicked again and his head snapped back against the other man’s forehead, shoving, biting, teeth gnashing and hands gauging and he was free suddenly, free to bend over and pick up his weapons, steel strong in his hands, echoes of the strength in his own arms.
“Bastard,” Arthur groaned, rubbing his face, blood from the surely broken nose dripping slowly down his lips and coating his chin with viscous fluid. Lancelot took a few steps, swinging his blades, whipping them around in his hands, the throbbing in his head and his groin increasing as he got closer to the Roman.
“Always,” he answered, the snarl on his lips stretching and pulling them. They still ached, swollen and full from the kisses - he spun one sword and quickly slammed the other one home into the ground, tip wedged solidly, hilt vibrating back and forth with the violence of his motion. “Come to me and back that up.” He smirked and ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. His clean shaven chin felt odd and naked and he snarled again and the tip of his sword was suddenly clashing with Excalibur, the crack of steel on steel familiar and long missed. It had been too long since they’d done this, although Lancelot was certain Arthur would prefer no blood. Fuck the Roman. He had no say.
“You are a complete,” Arthur huffed, swinging his broadsword, advancing with his right foot, his bloody nose and face creating a fearsome mask of his craggy features that might scare a lesser man, “and utter God damned bastard. Still, knight!” He shouted the command at Lancelot; as though they were training anymore. Lancelot could fight rings around Arthur; he was a soldier by profession and by life and he couldn’t dare be anything but perfect at it.
Maybe not rings as Arthur suddenly had Lancelot at the point of Excalibur, one arm captured and slung behind his back, the muscle and bone screaming as Arthur’s face was in Lancelot’s, the commander’s breath puffing out, blowing Lancelot’s hair away from his forehead. The moon sparkled on them, the dirty clothing they’d been carrying from the baths dropped to the ground and trampled on as they’d fought, Arthur glancing down at his cloak the advantage Lancelot had needed.
But still the other man had gotten Lancelot in a choke hold - but still Lancelot had managed to break it and apparently Arthur’s nose.
“That’s the best you can do? Bastard? Come come, Artos, I think I’m much more than just a bastard,” Lancelot sneered, his sword screeching against Arthur’s, the two men shuffling back and forth as each gained momentum, booted feet kicking up dust from the courtyard ground. “I am a heathen foreign dog and a slave and scum and the lowest of the low. See?” he laughed and with a resounding snap he broke the connection between his blade and Excalibur, spinning away from Arthur, drawing the other man down the small dirty alley next to the bathhouse. “I resort to unfair tactics in order to win! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” he purred breathily, letting Arthur catch him up, allowing the Roman to grab his arms, allowing Arthur to get close, his lips brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear as he kept talking. “Don’t tell me you’re alright with my being that way. I’m your second, after all,” he whispered, his knee raising and pressing against Arthur’s leather covered groin. The Roman groaned and Lancelot shoved at Arthur’s growing erection and spun away, laughing at the frustrated moan that spilled from Arthur’s lips.
He flipped his blade from one hand to the other, the light from the guttering, stinky torches wavering ghost like, reflected in the steel he held. “I can even defeat you with just one weapon. I am that go-”
The brick he knocked his head against as Arthur rushed him was scratchy and hard and he cursed, musically and long in his own tongue. Arthur held Lancelot’s blade in two hands, the right hand bloodied from the blade tip, the left an anchor of immovable strength that wouldn’t budge on the hilt no matter what Lancelot tried to do. Arthur angled the blade closer to Lancelot’s clean shaven face, the tip sliding through his palm, the blood dripping pat pat pat onto the earth packed ground.
“Shut. Your mouth,” Arthur growled, and Lancelot’s smile spread when Arthur’s face pushed into his space, dirt and blood decorating Arthur’s lips and chin. It grew even wider when Arthur rubbed his cheek against Lancelot's bare face like an animal marking its territory would, the Roman murmuring something that sounded like Jesu help me even as the tip of Arthur's tongue stuck out, touching Lancelot's cheek.
Lancelot moved as fast a snake, his head tilting forward and catching Arthur’s mouth with his own, sucking the other man’s bottom lip inside, feeding off the blood, drawing Arthur closer, the Roman’s musk and anger roiling off him like one of the waves that had carried Lancelot here to this horrid, fucking awful island on that horrid, fucking awful boat. Leather creaked and Arthur hissed and Lancelot leaned closer -
He felt hot wetness drip down his throat and clapped his free hand, which Arthur had suddenly let go of, to his neck. He laughed, a bright, brittle sound, the noise echoing off the walls of the alley and causing a group of nesting birds to scream angrily as they took flight.
Arthur’s eyes were wide and horrified, but he managed to set Lancelot’s blade down carefully - next to the dropped Excalibur - as he approached and lifted Lancelot’s chin, turning his head this way and that, tongue clicking in his mouth as his expression shuttered and narrowed. “Medicus,” he spat, Lancelot not sure where the anger was coming from.
Arthur had no reason to be angry; Lancelot was the one with a cut throat.
Obviously not very deeply, but still.
He shoved off the wall and past Arthur and picked up his discarded blade and retrieved the first one from where he’d slammed it into the ground. Marching along with Arthur at his heels would normally be a source of humor for Lancelot, especially since he was the one who usually followed, but heading to the fucking Medicus was not where he wanted to be going.
What a waste of a perfectly good fight. Proceeded by a perfectly good fuck, which Lancelot was rapidly forgetting as his ire grew and the blood flowed faster down his neck, soaking his black tunic and wetting his chest.
He growled and stomped the last of the few yards to the Valetudinarium, and allowed Arthur to call roughly for the doctor even as he sheathed his blades behind his back, plunking down onto a stool, fingers bloody and cold.
*
He wouldn’t have worn a dressing around his neck even if the Medicus had told him to; Lancelot was nothing if not vain and besides, he hadn’t even needed it stitched closed. The nasty old man had cleaned it with a salve and pronounced him fine, telling Arthur he should be more careful with his conscripts; they weren’t the smartest men he’d ever seen. Of course he’d said that last bit in Latin, which had Lancelot laughing and answering smarter than you think, Roman dog and Arthur had hustled him out of the room as quickly as possible after getting his own wound seen to, the doctor gaping after them both.
*
Arthur’s rooms were closest but Lancelot hesitated at the door.
Arthur stopped and looked askance at the Sarmatian when Lancelot balked. The torches flickered like they always did, casting Arthur’s face into a shadow, his cleaned up nose no longer bleeding, but he could still use a wash. Lancelot narrowed his eyes and raised a hand, long dirty fingers wiping at the skin over Arthur’s full lips. The blood flaked off in rusty bits, falling on to Arthur’s black tunic, once clean, now dust and detritus and sweat and gods knew what else covered.
“Why?”
Lancelot smirked, his feral face pulling and stretching and his throat ached and he unconsciously clapped a hand over it, the smile gradually fading, leaving only the barest hint of expression. He rolled lips inward and touched the base of his sheathed blades with his left hand, wanting to reassure himself.
not the smartest men ever
“Why not, Arthur?”
“Being obstinate and a stereotype does not become you,” Arthur sighed, his tall body compressing slightly as he leaned against his door, heavily. Excalibur was sheathed at his left hip, but still Arthur’s hands were curled in on themselves, as though the sword was still there. Lancelot flexed his fingers as he watched Arthur’s hands, scarred hands that he was as familiar with as he was his own.
“Being judgmental and self righteous are such things I’d like to emulate,” he shot back, his eyes darkening, glittering in the gloom of the hallway, Arthur’s green gaze heating and Lancelot was certain he’d go back to the Medicus again tonight.
“Come inside,” Arthur snapped and grabbed Lancelot's arm, “because I have a few things I need to be taught. Apparently,” he added as he shoved his door open with his foot, “by you, which I find infinitely amusing.” He spat to the side, blood staining his chin, and Lancelot followed, his swords and black clothing and sliced throat a perfect costume for the knight he was - the man that suddenly made his appearance at Arthur’s words not anything he’d care to show anyone else.
That man wanted things Lancelot didn’t, wanted quiet and peace and didn’t want to be obstinate or fight.
Fuck that man.
Lancelot kicked the door shut with his booted foot and the slam reverberated down the hallway, the torches shivering in their sconces.