Kink Me! #18

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Kink Me! #18
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Drugstore Flowers (3/9?)

[anonymous]

Two weeks later, Merlin is still marveling at the wonders of his new player and there are fingerprints on the shiny back from where he’s constantly rubbing his fingers over the engraving, and he gets to Medieval History in an excellent mood, a few minutes after Gwen and right behind the Blond Dick, who’s looking particularly pleased with himself. “Gwen,” he says seriously the second he sits down, and she looks up expectantly. “There’s a showing of the Buffy musical on Friday. It’s been at least a year since I saw any of it, especially now I can’t afford cable, so we are going. No excuses. Drag Lance along if you must.”

She laughs. “Fine, fine. I can’t resist, after all. Mind if I bring Morgana along too? I know, you’re terrified of her, but she’s at the outs with her stepfather and she could use some cheering up--”

“I am not terrified of her,” mutters Merlin, and he’s not. He just prefers if she’s across the room most of the time, because she is gorgeous and intimidating and looks at him like she has x-ray vision and has used it to look through his skull instead of his pants. “But yeah, sure, bring her. Will might be up at the weekend, too, so we’ll make a party of it.”

“What, Merlin, no invitation for me?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and refuses to acknowledge the Blond Dick. He may have an unhealthy appreciation for Spike, who is a similarly tow-headed arsehole, but that’s another thing entirely. Gwen pats his arm, and he’s rescued from further harassment by the professor walking in to rage about witch hunts. Again. Merlin sighs.

The next day, when he gets back from his morning lecture planning to take a nap, Merlin finds another package with his name, this one with a few pansies attached and a slip of paper on the top with the same bold scrawl across it: I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it.

Merlin blinks at the package a few times and drags it inside his apartment. This time, he Googles the flower himself, before calling Gwen, and discovers that it means “thoughtful recollection,” which only supports his secret-admirer-does-not-know-the-language-of-flowers theory. Then he opens the box, and discovers all seven seasons of Buffy, which he gapes at for a few minutes.

He calls Gwen again. “Okay, just checking, but … you didn’t send me Buffy, did you?”

“What? Like, an action figure?”

“No, I mean a boxed set with every season of it. And a couple of pansies. And a note with a quote from Spike written on it.”

Gwen squeals a bit. “You really do have a secret admirer!” She pauses to think, and then there’s the click of a keyboard while she once again looks up the flowers. “It must be a man,” she concludes after a few minutes. “A woman would have sent you roses, not whatever was on sale at the grocery.”

“I don’t know why they’re sending me anything at all!”

She hums, like she’s thinking very hard about something. “You said there was a quote from Spike. Which one was it?”

He reads it aloud. She’s still laughing when he hangs up.
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