Mememe
Doing this belatedly because my holiday schedule has slowed down a bit, and my writing neurons are firing, and my typing fingers need warming up, so:
Pick one of my [Merlin] stories and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of ( Read more... )
Pick one of my [Merlin] stories and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of ( Read more... )
Gwaine is warm against his back--and still asleep from what Merlin can tell from his lack of tension or movement, not to mention the hot whuff of his sleepy breath against the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin finds himself grateful, for Gwaine's presence and the fact that he's not awake both. The feeling uncoils from a core of equilibrium that--while not exactly solid--is still present now, unlike yesterday.
Merlin breathes deeply to fortify himself, trying to hold the movement of it close to not disturb Gwaine's slumber. It clears his head further, and the seeming obliviousness of the man at his back makes him try more movements--tensing and stretching minutely, testing the state of the rest of his body.
He's still a little sore, but he expected that--and feels wobbly and unsure as to whether he's grateful or not that the mortification now outweighs his physical discomfort. But perhaps he should reserve judgement on that until he stands up again--which he's more and more feeling the urge to do; not only to relieve his bladder, but to wash. His throat closes with the thought that maybe they'll have to linger yet another day while he recovers from the faery curse: perhaps that equilibrium is not as established as he hoped.
But he can force it to be--another day wrapped sullenly in blankets as he was yesterday afternoon, with Gwaine and Lancelot giving him concerned, far-too-knowing looks from their respective distances--god, he'll do anything to avoid that. Though--he cringes internally--perhaps not anything.
He doesn't remember falling asleep with Gwaine there--Gwaine must have bedded down with him later. After half a day of Merlin keeping his own little solitary cocoon, he's not really surprised that Gwaine saw fit to wait until he was asleep until he edged his way in. Clearly Gwaine has decided that propriety in their sleeping arrangements holds no importance amongst the three of them any more, and Merlin can't really blame him. He feels no qualms in sneaking off before Gwaine wakes, though.
Lancelot is asleep nearby, and doesn't even stir at the soft sounds of Merlin's footsteps. He must be as thoroughly exhausted as Gwaine; and perhaps that was the convoluted intention of the curse? Merlin can barely entertain the thought that it was something more insidious; being used as a tool in such a way makes him feel like shouting, like destroying something--perhaps the entire forest and all of its inhabitants, magical and otherwise, overwriting his humiliation with a razing fire.
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As soon as he gets out of the campsite and his surrounds become unfamiliar again, Merlin finds himself relaxing, watching the ground underfoot, considering each step he takes amidst the roots and leaves and wildflowers. His stride becomes meditative, even the lingering pain merely threading into the complex stimulus of the woods. He reaches out to brace his hand unnecessarily against tree trunks as he goes, the cushioning of moss softening the craggy bark beneath.
After relieving himself further downstream, he wanders back up alongside the river, the sandy bank crunching quietly underfoot, dampness staining the leather along the edges of his boots dark. Far too soon he gets to a point he recognises again; the broad, open stretch of water is half the reason they chose this spot; shallow and flat enough to cross on horseback, and just deep enough to cool down in after a long day's riding.
Merlin strips off quickly and strides in, though the water feels almost too cold, now; he hisses as he crouches into the deepest bit he can find. The water flowing over the most sensitive parts of him is almost too painful at first, at least until the chill of it numbs the skin it touches. He wants to close his eyes, but instead keeps them determinedly open, watching along the shore for movement as he washes. His fingers turn nearly senseless too, and his jaw aches from clenching it as he makes himself feel between his legs--he's tender, but not damaged, the flesh still hot and a little too yielding, even in the freezing water.
There's the sound of something crashing through the woods, and Merlin startles and teeters in his crouch, tipping to his knees instead, torn between trying to keep himself covered by the water and finding the best stance to defend himself; but then Lancelot bursts out of the trees by the riverside, stopping abruptly when he sees Merlin.
Merlin stares back at him, trying to project a disgruntled expression, keeping as much of himself below the water as he can.
"You--" Lancelot says, voice a little breathless and expression disconcerted.
"Me," Merlin confirms shortly, willing Lancelot to turn and leave again. It strikes him abruptly that he knows the feel and force of Lancelot's cock; and that Lancelot's lips--twisting now in confusion--are in turns soft and firm when he kisses.
Merlin feels himself flush all over and feels angry for it; he's not ready to remember yet without the accompanying outrage, even as a treacherous part of him feels gluttonously grateful for having opportunity to know Lancelot thus.
"I thought maybe--" Lancelot seems to be struggling to find a casual stance himself, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting uneasily on his hip. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course," Merlin says brusquely, not moving. He raises his eyebrow at Lancelot as Lancelot doesn't move either, nor stop watching him.
"I'll rest here a while," Lancelot says, utterly transparent, and wanders back from the shore a little--without ever fully turning away--to lean back against a tree trunk, as if he's merely leisurely taking in the morning, instead of providing unwanted guard.
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Merlin resolves to ignore him, and remains kneeling in the water despite the hard river stones digging up into his shins. After a few more moments--where he can practically sense Lancelot's concern radiating at him from the shore--he unclenches his fists and cups water in his hands to pour over his neck and shoulders. He follows the flow with the scrub of the palms, the last residue of yesterday morning (their mouths, his come) turning almost silky against his skin before it washes away.
He's shivering with the cold after not much longer, teeth gritted as he stares resolutely downstream, not looking down as he scrubs his belly and thighs and cock, imagining it all washing away, carried down the river, nothing of yesterday left.
Of course, it's not that easy. Lancelot refuses to even turn around as Merlin rises out of the water and picks his way back to shore again, something that both grates and reassures Merlin--for all that he longs for privacy right now, at least Lancelot's not suddenly treating him like a maiden, which would have been even worse. He keeps his eyes on Merlin's face as he holds out Merlin's clothes, and Merlin succeeds in resisting the urge to snatch them from him, though he can't manage to unclench his jaw for a thank you.
Lancelot still nods as if Merlin's given him one, and much to Merlin's relief he gazes across the bank with false idleness as Merlin hurriedly pulls his clothes on again. As he tugs on his boots he loses his balance; Lancelot's quick grasp on his upper arm steadies him and steals his breath at the same time. As Merlin straightens Lancelot's touch doesn't fall away, instead shifting to rest reassuringly at the centre of Merlin's back, hot as a brand.
"All right?" Lancelot asks again, softer this time as his eyes bore into Merlin's, dark with concern.
Merlin doesn't answer at first, wondering wildly if perhaps the curse hasn't been cured after all, but he's not senseless with lust--just suffused with the same warm gratitude and affection that he'd always felt toward this man, amplified by the curse and seemingly not toned down a bit since its resolution.
"Of course," he says again, mustering a smile which he's sure must look more like a grimace.
"Your lips are blue," Lancelot says.
Merlin blinks, registering that he's still shivering; he looks back over his shoulder but there's not a patch of sun in sight, the sky clouded over; the seasons are fickle in this part of the land.
"Come on, there's hot food." Lancelot's touch shifts to his shoulder and squeezes briefly before dropping way at last; he walks a few paces back toward camp and stops to make sure Merlin's following.
"Thought that's what I was along for," Merlin grips half-heartedly; as they get closer to camp he can smell meat cooking, and his stomach knots eagerly. Something embarrassing--in an entirely different way--warms and twists in him at the thought of them cooking for him.
"I thought that's just what we were telling Arthur," Lancelot says over his shoulder--a little cheekily--and it makes a genuine smile creep onto Merlin's lips. His steps are still slower than Lancelot's, though--he can't help but carry himself carefully, as much as he wants to pretend nothing at all is amiss--and when Lancelot realises, he stops until Merlin is alongside him, throwing his cloak over Merlin's shoulders. The weight of it settles warmly, and Lancelot uses his hold on it to chivvy Merlin along.
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