Disclaimer: I own nothing. Trust me, I own nothing. I am just a slave on the wheel of destiny. Okay, maybe not. But it's still not worth a nickel to sue me if you don't like the stories I write. King Arthur and all of the non-original stuff belongs to other people and their depictions in my stories are in no way meant to bring about lawsuits or therapy.

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Author's Note: Thank you to my wonderful reviewers. I must also give credit for the inspiration of this story to Daydream1 for her "Siege of the School" story. Reading her story gave me the idea to do something a little different, especially since she has yet to update her story. If you get a chance, read her story. And please, for the love of whichever deity or idea you prefer, please send a review. They get me inspired and keep me going.

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Muses Behaving Badly

Chapter Three: Curfew

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I winced as the keys jangled in the lock. Casting a careful glance over my shoulder at the still-empty street, I pushed open the front door of my house and scurried inside. The door shut heavily and I breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Dropping my purse on the floor, I began to struggle out of my coat.

Wait, why was I worried about making any noise? I was all alone, I reminded myself.

It had been a good night. Lots of alcohol had flowed at the club and my feet were aching from all the dancing that I'd done. As a reward for getting my bathroom door fixed with no questions asked, I'd agreed to go clubbing with my friends. Good friends who thought that the measure of a person could be taken by how many jello shots you could down. Apparently I was a very good friend.

Weaving just a tad and very glad that I'd taken a taxi to and from the club, I started towards my bedroom.

And slammed face-first into studded Sarmatian armor.

Landing on my butt had really not been part of tonight's entertainment.

"Where have you been?" growled Dagonet, fists on his hips and fixing me with the glare that put random Woads in their place and made little boys behave. Too bad it didn't work on drunken authoresses.

I glared up at the giant Sarmatian while rubbing my nose. Ouch. Damn it, I'd been good. I hadn't thought of the knights all day. Hadn't thought of them while at the club. Hadn't even thought of them in the taxi ride home. "OUT."

Bors, who had thundered from the kitchen at the sound of my butt hitting the floor, flanked Dagonet. "Out where, little one?"

Struggling to my feet, which is not easy in leather pants and stilettos, I glared at the two of them. "I was repaying the guys who fixed the door that you," I pointed to Dagonet, "destroyed."

"By whoring?" came the question from Galahad as he took in my outfit.

I growled and looked down. I had worn less to a club and never been called a whore. Gee, maybe it had to do something with the fact that I had fifth century knights judging my apparel that made the difference.

"I have not been whoring. I have been dancing, thank you very much." I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes and narrowed those selfsame eyes. "See if you ever get laid ever again in any of my stories. 'Have I been whoring?'" I mimicked angrily as I turned on my heel. Damned it I was going to let a bunch of mental phantoms pick on me. I had friends who could do that, thank you very much. "I'm going to have a peanut butter sandwich and then pass out. You all had better be gone by the time I become conscious tomorrow," I warned.

Pulling off my heels, I hurled them in them in the general direction of my room and started down the hallway to the kitchen. I stomped into the kitchen. Somehow I wasn't particularly surprised to find the three knights and one commander who hadn't yet had a chance to critique my outfit once again raiding my kitchen. Thank goodness that I'd done that grocery run.

"What?" I snapped, reaching past Gawain to get the peanut butter out of the cupboard near his ear. Reaching down into the drawer beside Arthur's hip for a butter knife, I waited for the onslaught of comments. None came. Yay, they've learned not to piss off a drunken authoress. Score one for four smart Dark Age men. Unscrewing the peanut butter, I dipped my index finger into the peanut butter and proceeded to suck the gooey yumminess off my finger.

"Go away," I ordered as I transferred the butter knife to the hand that was now slightly damp from my peanut butter tasting. Slathering a piece of bread with the peanut butter and smushing it against another, I lifted it to my mouth. This was my father's cure-all for a hangover--peanut butter. Taking a bite, I savored the peanutty goodness of the JIF peanut butter and wondered what JIF stood for.

"So, where were you?" asked Lancelot, leaning against the kitchen island.

I sighed. Who said that I didn't have a curfew. I may be twenty-one and a senior in college, but God forbid that I actually am treated like anything close to an adult by these men who populated my brain for my stories. "I was at an orgy," I offered bluntly, hip resting against the countertop and biting my lip to keep from laughing.

I didn't think that saying that would have so much impact. Though, thinking on it later, I should have known. I'm not a hottie and certainly no kind of romantic interest for any of them. I'm kind of like a little sister who knows way too much about them all. Way too much.

After the shouting had dropped to a low roar, I burst out laughing. "Kidding. As in not being serious. Geez, you guys really think I'd go to an orgy? Please." I dropped the knife into the sink. "There's such a think as STD's."

"STD's?" came the quiet question from Tristan. The scout was slouched in the doorway, braids almost hiding those gorgeous eyes. And some people wondered why I kept giving Tristan lots of women to love.

"Sexually transmitted diseased," I clarified, enunciating each word carefully. "Besides, some of us aren't looking to bed anything that moves," I added, glaring at Lancelot.

"You're drunk," Arthur commented, surprise edging his words.

I grimaced and took another bite of peanut butter sandwich. Trust the once and future king to catch my inebriation. I went to bed. If they were still there in the morning, I would deal with them in the morning.

TBC...

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To My Wonderful Reviewers

Saxongirl1345: So glad that you're enjoying this story as well. And glad that the knights are keeping in character. Don't worry, I haven't abandoned this story. Just got distracted by the "Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?" story.

Ysolde: Tristan comes to your house too? I know, our muses (and I speak collectively 'cause if we all didn't have muses none of the stuff we write would get written) tend to take over our lives. Or at least mine. Sorry to make Tristan grumpy.

Lady Marek: So glad that you're enjoying. Even the bit with Dag. Yes, you're supposed to giggle. And that's from one "old broad" to another. ;-)

mad.but.cute: So glad that you're enjoying. Don't worry, no Mary-Sue-ness.

xoon: Glad that you're enjoying. Nope, gonna avoid the whole Mary-Sue angle. After all, this is more of a "crack-fic" to deal with my muses when they don't want to cooperate on my drama stories. Thank you for reminding me to deal with that door. And, yes, nitpicker is a fun word.

broken mind: I apologize for the sore belly but I'm glad that you had a laugh at this story. And here's more. Hopefully it'll stay far-far-away from Mary-Suedom.