[Merlin] Fic: Impulse
Title: Impulse
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Leon
Word Count: 981
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Shameless fluff and slashy kissing scene.
Summary: Leon is nervous before a tournament. And it's not because of the tournament.
Diclaimer: Characters aren't mine. This version of Arthurian Legend belongs to BBC and the Shine.
Author Notes: Written for zephre , a teammate for camelot_fics . Go Team Gwen!
Leon fidgets like a nervous recruit in training for the first time. He isn’t a recruit any more, he should have gotten out of the habit long ago when he was knighted and made Captain of the guards. Right now, though, he feels like the new boy all over again. The one his father sent away, the one who had struggled to prove himself over and over until Arthur Pendragon had taken notice. It’s not Arthur he wants to impress at the moment. It’s his servant. The same servant currently staring at him and smiling like there wasn’t a care in the world that could have ruined this one moment.
“I saw you needed some help,” Merlin says, gesturing to the empty tent that Leon is getting ready in. His attendant is running late, he’ll admit, but to have the Prince’s servant attend him before a tournament - it’s both an honour and an act he cannot condone.
He does the noble thing and waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll manage,” which isn’t exactly true, he’s struggling with one buckle that he can’t quite reach and -
Before he knows it, Merlin is behind him, easily falling into the routine his duties require. Duties that he performs for Arthur. Leon feels like a snake has wrapped around his chest, constricting the flow to his brain, because he’s surely imagining the sudden stab of jealously. He shouldn’t envy Arthur, he can’t. He clears his throat, and insists, “You don’t have to do this, Merlin.”
The young servant lets his fingers dance along the armour and Leon watches, entranced, as Merlin finally looks up from where he’s working on a particularly stubborn fastening. Leon swallows thickly at the answering smile. He’s not sure what to make of it. When the armour is strapped on, properly taken care of, Merlin steps back to admire his handiwork and Leon instinctively steps forward to keep him close. An eyebrow is raised in question, but Merlin doesn’t say a word.
“I … wish me luck?” Not what he wanted to say, but the moment is too awkward, too fragile, and he feels that more than that could scare Merlin away. Their relationship is barely there as it is, thanks to Uther and his son and society itself. He doesn’t want it to stay that way, but he can’t find the words to say what he truly needs to say. A noble, friends with a peasant? It wasn’t highly looked upon. Now, a noble, taking what he wanted? That was more like it. As a knight of Camelot, though, he refuses to behave like just any other noble. He has more pride and more respect for himself than that.
His efforts are rewarded when Merlin grins that effortlessly grin that only Arthur gets to see on a daily basis. Leon lifts one hand, heavy with the weight of his gauntlet, and trails a gloved finger down the servant’s pale, unmarred neck. No, not a servant, he admits, if just in his own mind, more than that.
He leans in before he can think over his actions and steals a kiss, a bare brushing of lips in the shadowy light of the tent. Merlin stiffens and Leon pulls back, watching him cautiously. He’s about to apologize, explain it off as a fluke, an accident, anything. But then Merlin is blushing, running a finger along his lips, and Leon throws caution to wind for the sake of obtaining everything he wants. He closes the distance between them again, both hands tangling in Merlin’s black, immaculate hair as their lips crashed together in a desperate, needy kiss that puts the shy one before it to shame. Merlin’s hands tentatively play along the nape of his neck and Leon stifles a groan as he coaxes Merlin’s tongue into his mouth. It’s a flurry of gentle, unsure strokes, tongue against tongue, until they are forced to part for air.
Merlin wipes off his mouth and straightens his tunic to appear halfway presentable as a half smirk shapes his too red lips. “Is that how all you knights earn your luck?” Merlin teases, a noticeable flush still spread out on his cheekbones and down his jaw. Leon’s tempted to keep going, wanting nothing more than to see Merlin’s eyes darken with arousal and his moon pale skin spread out on a blanket of darkest red. He knows he can wait, a man of honour through and through, and hopes Merlin will wait for him as well.
“Here.” Leon doesn’t know when, but Merlin has taken off his neck scarf and holds it out for him to take. He hesitates only a moment and accepts the token, wrapping it around his forearm with a flash of a small, genuine smile. “You should do that more often,” Merlin quips in that listen-to-me-Arthur voice that Leon knows well from hunting trips that ended in preventable disasters.
“Yeah?” Leon lets his smile grow just a little more. “And what’s that mean?”
“You look good when you smile.” Merlin places a kiss on his cheek, another bare brushing of lips on skin, and then turns to leave. “And milord?” Merlin shots him one of those cheeky grins he’s never seen aimed at anyone but Arthur. “Show the prat you’re a lot luckier than he is, would you?”
For a second time in so many minutes, Leon doesn’t know what to make of that. He waves a hand dismissively and calls back, “I’ve got you cheering for me, what more could I ask for?”
Merlin laughs and reaches out to brush open the tent entrance. “Yeah, well. As hopelessly romantic as you seem to be, just know you don’t have to win to impress me.” He flashes one last beaming smile at Leon and then leaves. The knight left behind admires the token of favour and secures it more tightly round his wrist.
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Leon
Word Count: 981
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Shameless fluff and slashy kissing scene.
Summary: Leon is nervous before a tournament. And it's not because of the tournament.
Diclaimer: Characters aren't mine. This version of Arthurian Legend belongs to BBC and the Shine.
Author Notes: Written for zephre , a teammate for camelot_fics . Go Team Gwen!
Leon fidgets like a nervous recruit in training for the first time. He isn’t a recruit any more, he should have gotten out of the habit long ago when he was knighted and made Captain of the guards. Right now, though, he feels like the new boy all over again. The one his father sent away, the one who had struggled to prove himself over and over until Arthur Pendragon had taken notice. It’s not Arthur he wants to impress at the moment. It’s his servant. The same servant currently staring at him and smiling like there wasn’t a care in the world that could have ruined this one moment.
“I saw you needed some help,” Merlin says, gesturing to the empty tent that Leon is getting ready in. His attendant is running late, he’ll admit, but to have the Prince’s servant attend him before a tournament - it’s both an honour and an act he cannot condone.
He does the noble thing and waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll manage,” which isn’t exactly true, he’s struggling with one buckle that he can’t quite reach and -
Before he knows it, Merlin is behind him, easily falling into the routine his duties require. Duties that he performs for Arthur. Leon feels like a snake has wrapped around his chest, constricting the flow to his brain, because he’s surely imagining the sudden stab of jealously. He shouldn’t envy Arthur, he can’t. He clears his throat, and insists, “You don’t have to do this, Merlin.”
The young servant lets his fingers dance along the armour and Leon watches, entranced, as Merlin finally looks up from where he’s working on a particularly stubborn fastening. Leon swallows thickly at the answering smile. He’s not sure what to make of it. When the armour is strapped on, properly taken care of, Merlin steps back to admire his handiwork and Leon instinctively steps forward to keep him close. An eyebrow is raised in question, but Merlin doesn’t say a word.
“I … wish me luck?” Not what he wanted to say, but the moment is too awkward, too fragile, and he feels that more than that could scare Merlin away. Their relationship is barely there as it is, thanks to Uther and his son and society itself. He doesn’t want it to stay that way, but he can’t find the words to say what he truly needs to say. A noble, friends with a peasant? It wasn’t highly looked upon. Now, a noble, taking what he wanted? That was more like it. As a knight of Camelot, though, he refuses to behave like just any other noble. He has more pride and more respect for himself than that.
His efforts are rewarded when Merlin grins that effortlessly grin that only Arthur gets to see on a daily basis. Leon lifts one hand, heavy with the weight of his gauntlet, and trails a gloved finger down the servant’s pale, unmarred neck. No, not a servant, he admits, if just in his own mind, more than that.
He leans in before he can think over his actions and steals a kiss, a bare brushing of lips in the shadowy light of the tent. Merlin stiffens and Leon pulls back, watching him cautiously. He’s about to apologize, explain it off as a fluke, an accident, anything. But then Merlin is blushing, running a finger along his lips, and Leon throws caution to wind for the sake of obtaining everything he wants. He closes the distance between them again, both hands tangling in Merlin’s black, immaculate hair as their lips crashed together in a desperate, needy kiss that puts the shy one before it to shame. Merlin’s hands tentatively play along the nape of his neck and Leon stifles a groan as he coaxes Merlin’s tongue into his mouth. It’s a flurry of gentle, unsure strokes, tongue against tongue, until they are forced to part for air.
Merlin wipes off his mouth and straightens his tunic to appear halfway presentable as a half smirk shapes his too red lips. “Is that how all you knights earn your luck?” Merlin teases, a noticeable flush still spread out on his cheekbones and down his jaw. Leon’s tempted to keep going, wanting nothing more than to see Merlin’s eyes darken with arousal and his moon pale skin spread out on a blanket of darkest red. He knows he can wait, a man of honour through and through, and hopes Merlin will wait for him as well.
“Here.” Leon doesn’t know when, but Merlin has taken off his neck scarf and holds it out for him to take. He hesitates only a moment and accepts the token, wrapping it around his forearm with a flash of a small, genuine smile. “You should do that more often,” Merlin quips in that listen-to-me-Arthur voice that Leon knows well from hunting trips that ended in preventable disasters.
“Yeah?” Leon lets his smile grow just a little more. “And what’s that mean?”
“You look good when you smile.” Merlin places a kiss on his cheek, another bare brushing of lips on skin, and then turns to leave. “And milord?” Merlin shots him one of those cheeky grins he’s never seen aimed at anyone but Arthur. “Show the prat you’re a lot luckier than he is, would you?”
For a second time in so many minutes, Leon doesn’t know what to make of that. He waves a hand dismissively and calls back, “I’ve got you cheering for me, what more could I ask for?”
Merlin laughs and reaches out to brush open the tent entrance. “Yeah, well. As hopelessly romantic as you seem to be, just know you don’t have to win to impress me.” He flashes one last beaming smile at Leon and then leaves. The knight left behind admires the token of favour and secures it more tightly round his wrist.