50 Sentences: MerlinxArthur part 2
Title: 50 Sentences: MerlinxArthur, part 2
Author: Rissa
Pairing: MerlinxArthur
Rating: PG to NC-17 overall
Word Count: 5,657
Notes: Written using 1fandom's third theme set for 50 sentences. These pretty much break every rule requiring them to be a "sentence" in length, save for the period at the end. Call it creative license!
A/N: All of my love and the promise of my future children go to analineblue for being amazingly patient with me through my writer's block, my whining and bitching, my inability to make a decision without beating the topic to death first, and for correcting my mistakes when I was too fed-up to look for them anymore ♥
*All drabbles are standalone, except for 30 - 33 and 47 - 50, which are told in sequence respectively. Enjoy!
Sentences 1 - 25 can be found here.
26. Hair
It’s a distraction Arthur is determined to ignore (a ridiculous one anyway, it’s just hair), and he succeeds in doing so for all of forty-eight hours after Merlin’s sabbatical to Ealdor ends with his return to Camelot, more than a fortnight gone and Arthur emotionally exhausted from spending the time vacillating between indifference, anger, and loneliness, so it’s safer blaming the fatigue when he finds himself pinning Merlin against the heavy door to his chambers, lips hot over Merlin’s mouth and the rough scratch of the beard against his chin a sensation he never thought he’d find so wildly arousing or something he’d want to make a habit of feeling, but there’s no denying the way parts of him heat and ache in carnal satisfaction when Merlin’s mouth opens to his tongue, coarse hair brushing his cheek as he licks the corners of Merlin’s lips, and when they’re both panting heavily Arthur only manages to pull his mouth away long enough to say, “The beard stays.”
27. Home
Merlin doesn’t stop thinking of Ealdor as home for the first year he lives in Camelot, and for a long time after, his feelings are caught in limbo without a clear definition of where he belongs - drifting somewhere between cobblestones and tilled earth, narrow market streets and wild forests, stone walls and mud thatched roofs - and though Camelot gradually grows more familiar and less stupefying (though no less magnificent) there is too much history for Merlin to forget entirely; he’s spent a lifetime knowing one way of life, a mother and a village and a friend who was like a brother, summer afternoons exploring creek beds and cold winter nights sharing warmth with the pigs, each year a pattern that revolved around the changing seasons and not the whims of a high-born prince - but there are some mornings when he wakes, feeling warm and heavy and held down by Arthur’s arm across his chest, that he starts to think that this could be home too.
28. Loud
It’s a bit of a surprise when Arthur discovers that Merlin is the vocal one while having sex, because the revelation doesn’t come until nearly a month into their intense affair and that’s something Arthur can’t help feeling cheated out of knowing, and therefore enjoying, much sooner; it takes a trip to the only unoccupied tower of the castle, hot in pursuit of a dog that’s been running loose and avoiding all attempts at capture (and while normally Arthur wouldn’t stoop to this sort of errand, Merlin has shown an uncharacteristic fear of the mangy creature and Arthur feels it’s in his best interests to prevent his manservant from fleeing in terror straight through a stone wall), but upon reaching the top of a herculean flight of narrow steps they find no signs of dog or human habitation, which Arthur feels justifies taking a well deserved break from the hunt; Merlin’s moans as Arthur takes them both in hand are obscenely loud with several thick walls and half a castle between them and the next human being, which only spurs Arthur to wring as many of the needy, guttural noises from Merlin’s throat as he can, and when Merlin finally comes in Arthur’s mouth with a whine and a sharp cry that sends a few roosting birds fleeing out the tower window, Arthur’s already planning the quickest way to have his bedroom relocated to the opposite side of the castle.
29. Travel
The ocean is nothing like Merlin expects - the stories he’s overheard from traveling merchants have painted something more expansive and calming in his imagination, like the beach on a lake and water clear to the horizon without hills or forest to bracket it in - not this tumult of churning white caps, waves beating against cliff faces higher than any turret at Camelot, and a salt tang in the air that chaps his lips and stings his eyes as he blinks them against the late morning sun reflected off the water; when Arthur takes his hand and leads him to his favorite caves, shows him the tidepools he knows from childhood and the hidden caches of driftwood and broken shells still untouched after all these years, Merlin draws them against the damp stone wall and crawls inside Arthur with his lips and tongue, drowning in the taste of salt and sea, finally understanding the particular shade of blue in Arthur’s eyes.
30. Damage
The shore is farther away than Merlin remembers swimming and he’s having enough difficulty just keeping his head above the water, let alone dragging the two of them back to dry land, and each time water sloshes into his mouth and up his nose he tries not to think about the body in his arms that hasn’t moved or breathed since being hauled to the surface (he’s unaware that he’s been talking all the while, “just hang on,” “Arthur, you hear me?” “we’re almost there,” and “don’t you dare be dead!”), and the moment his feet touch the sandy bottom he’s scrambling and pulling Arthur and all his armor over the gravel beach and onto the grass, the water from their bodies turning the ground to slippery mud, and Arthur’s lips are already blue when Merlin falls to his knees, trembling from the cold water and a more chilling, bone deep fear as he places an ear over Arthur’s chest and strains to listen for a heartbeat in the heavy, empty silence within.
31. Strength
Merlin’s hands are shaking as he struggles to undo the soaked leather straps and buckles of Arthur’s armor, his frustrated curses quickly turning into angry, clipped spells that shred through Arthur’s hauberk like parchment paper, metal parts and pieces clattering to the ground as he sweeps the broken links aside to tear at the quilted surcoat underneath and finally to Arthur’s bare chest, placing both hands against the cold (too cold) flesh, heart beating so wildly he isn’t sure for a moment if the rushing pulse under his fingertips is Arthur’s or his own, but something swells in him that moves him to action, memory or instinct or his magic, or maybe all three, his hands finding a rhythm that heats the flesh with every straining press, arms aching and heart cracking, and with the first choking cough that leaves Arthur’s mouth, brackish lake water spilling over his chin and neck, Merlin feels his own chest fill with a shuddering gasp that matches Arthur’s own, and he allows himself to slump forward as he turns Arthur onto his side, the curve of his back a wet and shivering barrier between Arthur and the rest of the world, drawing strength from the way Arthur curls against him and lets Merlin’s magic heat his naked flesh and coax him into a healing slumber.
32. Together
Merlin hasn’t stopped shaking and he can’t stop touching the body cradled in his arms; he’s watching his hands run skittering, senseless patterns across Arthur’s back and shoulders, feeling the swell of unknown muscles, the ridges of scars he’s seen but not felt, the top of his spine, the curve of his ribs, the small of his back where a dusting of golden hair tickles the tips of his fingers; some part of him is still stunned that Arthur isn’t lying dead at the bottom of the lake, and however loudly the voice in the back of his head is telling him that this is wrong wrong so very wrong what are you doing he can’t stop reaffirming the simple truth, fingers fluttering to check for the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, a trembling palm below Arthur’s shoulder blades, fingers leaving dry trails through his wet hair, a halting pass of his thumb across one, strong cheekbone - letting every point of contact be another confirmation that the man in his arms is alive and that somehow, improbably, they’ve managed to make it out of this mess together, intact and whole.
33. Pull
With the stretch of minutes and the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, Merlin has given in to the urge to simply clasp Arthur’s half-naked body to him, sharing body heat to dampen the last of his own shivers and draw comfort in the simple contact, and everywhere Merlin’s hands move in their quest to chase away the lingering patches of gooseflesh, Arthur’s skin is dry and pinked with warmth, the pads of his fingertips attempting to erase the memory of unnatural paleness and blue-tinged flesh, drawing solace in the movement of each indrawn breath and the steady pulse under his hands - it’s terrifying in retrospect that this is truly the first time that Arthur’s life has come so close to the precipice, that that no small trick or quick spell could have turned the tide at the last moment as it has so many other times, and Merlin realizes this with a certainty that frightens him (if he hadn’t run fast enough, arrived a minute too late, hadn’t found him in the water in time), and it’s neither wizard nor manservant that pulls Arthur a little closer in selfish comfort, feeling the remembered fear of failure, of being alone, of losing a friendship so precious and newly gained, and together they sit in silence as the sound of closing gates echo in the distance.
34. Safe
Merlin’s teeth won’t stop chattering but at least they’re out of the freezing rain, and the damp earth floor of the small cave is a welcome change to the sopping mud they’ve been trudging through for the past quarter hour, even if it does smell a bit like the last animal to inhabit it (“It stinks,” Merlin had grumbled, and Arthur’s exhaustion hadn’t stopped him from snapping back, “Be grateful it’s no longer here.”), and because any kindling was too wet to bother starting a fire they’ve ended up huddled together under the only dry bedroll between them (Arthur’s, of course), pressed back to back with Arthur practically breathing through the rear wall of the foxhole and Merlin still shivering like he hasn’t already stolen most of the blanket; it’s sensible, really, because Arthur doesn’t fancy inhaling an earthworm in his sleep, that he turns over and spoons behind Merlin, pressing a forearm to the skinny man’s sternum to quell the worst of the shaking, and when Merlin gradually stills, long minutes later, Arthur lets his arm linger and dare to tighten, briefly, relishing the warmth as Merlin sags into him, heavy, safe, and trusting.
35. Private
Arthur’s guest chambers at Tintagel face the sea, with a broad lattice window that takes in the incredible view and much of the afternoon sun, and it’s not the first time Merlin’s found himself rooted in front of them, distracted midway on some errand to stand motionless in silent awe - the horizon lies at such a great distance that the cloud banks sit edge-on, stretching into different shapes and shades of white and gray and soft plumes that, in some places, stretch straight up into the sky, as if they could reach the sun, and where the ocean ends, only a soft haze marks the transition between water and sky, leaving Merlin to often wonder if he’s looking at the edge of the world, if such a thing is even possible, or if even the most stalwart sailor might be doomed to ride out for days and days and never reach the end - so preoccupied by the view this time around, he barely hears the rustle of sheets as the room’s other occupant rises from the bed behind him, and when Arthur’s sleepy weight presses against his bare back, chest warm and scratchy against his skin, Merlin leans into the loose embrace instinctually, accepting the dry kisses against his neck, and with only a soft sigh of protest for being drawn away from his perch lets himself be led gently back to bed, the sound of the ocean following him down into the arms of his prince.
36. Light
Merlin’s gangly, thin frame is much too wanting to be called genuinely attractive: muscles too sparse and poorly developed, skin pale and near translucent over the veins of his hands and neck, face long and lips narrow and cheekbones sharp and shoulders prone to sagging in a way that push the knobs of his spine to the surface in prominent relief - but when Arthur has Merlin shoved against the wall, naked from the waist down and his own trousers pooled around his ankles, he has to marvel at the ease at which he can hoist Merlin with merely a hand on each thigh, directing knees and calves to wrap around his hips, and thrust into tight, wet heat with none of the exertion one might expect from carrying another man’s weight; Arthur loves how easy it is to control the speed as Merlin fucks himself on him when he’s laying on his back, how light he feels in his arms when he holds onto his bony hips and guides him to sink down on his cock, how easily he folds when Arthur pushes Merlin’s knees up to his shoulders and exposes his puckered oil-slick hole for Arthur to sink into, how clearly he can feel the pulse fluttering just below the surface in Merlin’s neck when he grips his shoulders and comes hard between the lips wrapped around his cock; and he loves how easy it is to drag Merlin across the bed to him, despite whatever sleepy protests he might issue, arranging feather-light limbs to his liking and spreading himself across Merlin’s skinny back so he can feel Merlin’s heartbeat, strong and steady through two sets of ribcages as if it were nestled alongside his own.
37. Big
One week after the coronation, Arthur finds Merlin in his new quarters (large and with walls generously lined with bookshelves, most of which lie empty) bent over a map spread across a table larger than anything that could have fit through the door, his expression comically pensive (to Arthur, at least) as he circles the drawing, sometimes leaning in close or crouching to place his face at eye-level with the expanse of the table, and the true nature of the oversized map is easily realized when Arthur comes forward to observe, with miniature mountains and hills standing in relief to scale against the paper, blue rivers snaking across the countryside and thick green forests spread like whorls around tiny clusters of brown hovels and lush golden fields, each cleared patch of land crowned by a tiny castle at the center; it’s a massive atlas of Camelot and its surrounding kingdoms, Arthur realizes, and when he asks Merlin its purpose, his newly appointed Court Magician straightens and grins in a way that should be insolent but only makes Arthur more curious (“It’s Albion,” “I can see that, Merlin,” “I mean it’s your future kingdom,” “Planting ambitions for your King, I see,” “Yes, always,”), and though convention demands that he should find his Sorcerer making plans to conquer the entirety of a continent at least disturbing, if not downright treasonous, Arthur understands the spark of hope in Merlin’s eyes, the promise of a dream to bring everyone under the protection of Camelot and its King, to create a kingdom that not only stretches peace across the lands but through the ages, and though Arthur has barely dared to let himself contemplate ambitions this big, he wants to stand beside Merlin and claim the dream for himself and all of Camelot, no matter how impossible or what price might be necessary to make it come true.
38. Want
There are few things Arthur allows himself to want outside of the scope of his duty to the kingdom and its people - a mild winter, rain for the crops, a few less monsters terrorizing the outlying villages, and a well trained army ready to defend Camelot and its citizens, to name a few - but Merlin’s introduction into his life has spawned a progressively longer list of desires that Arthur had, until then, been sure were trained out of him before his twelfth birthday: competent and timely service, for starters; a muzzle sometime around the end of week two when he’d realized that Merlin did not quite understand the meaning of “shut up”; for the fastest horse in his stables and a rare poisonous flower not a week after that; for a way to save a small village outside of his father’s kingdom without starting a war a few months after that; for Merlin’s fingers to work faster and pry off the dented armor where the jousting lance had hit directly over his old wound from the questing beast; for Gaius to find a cure quickly as Merlin lies thrashing in his arms, whimpering through a throat flayed raw from his screams, muscles convulsing and eyes flashing between gold and blue as the spell that had been aimed for Arthur ravages his manservant’s body, leaving Arthur helpless to do nothing but push back the sweat soaked hair from his brow and fervently wish Merlin to live more than anything else he’s wanted in his life.
39. Law
Of all the ways and reasons Merlin could be caught for breaking the law, repeatedly lying to the King and harboring criminals and being a warlock among the list, this was the one thing he’d never expected to get punished for: caught in Arthur’s chambers with his pants down, hips snug and tight against the Prince’s arse, Arthur bent over the bed and Merlin braced behind him with one foot on the mattress, and both of them too caught up in the throes of approaching orgasm to notice that they were no longer the only two people in the room - which brings Merlin to later the same day, his hands in manacles and Arthur locked away securely in his own cell in the castle dungeons (temporarily, just long enough for Merlin’s punishment to be carried out without interference by a furious Prince), and honestly, how was Merlin to know that buggering the Prince was considered a serious crime (or that it might have been overlooked entirely had Arthur been the one doing the buggering instead?), but semantics seem to hold little weight when Merlin’s being strung up by the cuffs around his wrists by a grim face soldier carrying an ugly looking knout, and all Merlin can do as he hears the first whistle of the whip being drawn back is be grateful that at least Arthur isn’t there to watch.
40. Canine
There is something mysterious and maybe a little alarming about how frequently Arthur’s teeth occupy Merlin’s thoughts, and in turn the lips that surround them, or how the sight of them is enough to coil something tight in Merlin that wants to leap across the distance between them and press his lips to Arthur’s mouth, rough and dirty and maybe just this side of possessive, the kind of hot, wet kisses that would give his tongue free reign to slide between Arthur’s lips and run across the uneven white teeth, the rough edges of his incisors and sharp points of his canines, tasting everything there is to find on Arthur’s tongue (that morning’s breakfast, wine after dinner, the sweet meats snuck between training, Merlin’s own salty sweat), feeling the hitch in Arthur’s breath when the kiss shifts just so and everything is perfect and heady and there, rejoicing in the moment when Arthur’s tongue pushes back and his teeth pull gently on Merlin’s bottom lip, uneven and sharp and a little crooked - Merlin knows that in that moment all of his unrivaled fantasies would vanish with the slight sting of reality, swept aside by the touch of Arthur’s lips and the feel of his teeth on his mouth, the sensation better than anything Merlin has dared to dream, or allowed himself to secretly desire.
41. Truth
It’s Merlin’s fault in the end for taking off his shirt right there in Arthur’s chambers without ducking behind the screen first (he’d forgotten how shocking it would look to anyone for the first time, he’d gotten so good at ignoring it himself), but the sudden cold fist of fear that punches through his stomach isn’t enough to jerk him out of Arthur’s strong hold as he’s swung around to face him in the candlelight, the sleeve still attached to his arm flapping futilely in an attempt to cover the scars on his chest, the same mess of twisted flesh that Arthur has already seen and is regarding with wide-eyed confusion (“Where did you get that?” “It’s nothing, your highness,” “Don’t lie to me Merlin, you didn’t have it a month ago,” “I can’t tell you,” “You will,” “I can’t,” “Why does the flesh look burned?” “It doesn’t-” “This kind of injury could kill a man,” “I wasn’t-” “When, Merlin?” “Please…” “How did you get these scars?”), and Arthur is nearly vibrating with anger, eyes roving over the tangled web of shiny scar flesh where Nimueh’s fireball had impacted his chest, fingers clenched in a painful grip around Merlin’s forearm, and something in Merlin breaks a little at the brief flash of pain and confusion he sees in Arthur’s angry expression, sympathy and regret and resignation twisting like the scars over his heart - Arthur jerks as Merlin’s other hand covers the one on his arm, but he doesn’t pull away, and when Merlin tells him as much of the truth as he dares, the bargain and his mother and Gaius’ sacrifice and his final confrontation with the sorceress and the freak lightning storm that killed her, Arthur only moves to grab the back of his neck and call him an idiot with tears in his eyes.
42. Smoke
They don’t often go overnight on hunting trips; only when the game is unusually scarce and leads them far enough from the castle that returning in daylight becomes impossible will Arthur choose a clearing to set up camp (Merlin will be told to collect firewood and Arthur will appoint himself the task of spreading out bedrolls and cleaning any small game they might have caught for dinner), and when dusk eventually gives way to the true black of night and they have a cheerful fire crackling at their toes, the smell of pine sap and animal fat in the smoke over their heads, is it easier to notice how close their sleeping mats have been placed next to each other and to welcome to the flush of anticipation when Arthur settles under his blanket and watches Merlin, blue eyes dark and silently beckoning, and for a few hours it’s easy to forget the master and the servant and press close to the solid weight of a friend, eager lips and fumbling hands hidden by the blankets and desperate moans swallowed by the smoke and the night.
43. Order
There is a natural order to the world that Merlin finds himself observing with equal parts admiration and fear, all too aware that when it comes to magic, the balance that Nature seeks to maintain will often bear unexpected weight on the consequences of a spell beyond the caster’s intent (whether it be for good or evil) and that the greater the impact upon the world, the greater the price exacted - from his early efforts at mass rat exterminations which led to the horrifying surge in the cockroach population (Merlin learned the hard way that it’s better to banish a creature to the far side of the continent than kill it), or that a stream redirected to flow closer to a farmer’s field will demand an earthquake to shake the neighboring village, or that throwing balls of fire across a battlefield will gradually consume the very air from around him (and hadn’t it been embarrassing to wake up in Arthur’s tent and find out he’d fainted dead away in the midst of the conflict), and that one of the cardinal rules of the Old Religion will always stipulate that the cost for a human life be one of equal payment, and thus is the one bargain that Merlin refuses to ever strike again - but it doesn’t stop him from searching for loopholes in the unwritten rulebook, and as the narrow barge takes the still-warm body of Arthur Pendragon through the open gates of Avalon, Merlin feels a spark of pride through the soul ripping grief; that at least, this once, the natural order of the world has been bent by the force of destiny and his promise to wait through the eons for The Once and Future King to rise again.
44. Feel
The heaviness on Merlin’s back is hot and blanketing and slightly suffocating, but the effort needed to shove off the weight of a full grown man would take more energy than Merlin is capable of, lying half-asleep on his stomach and not quite sure what awoke him in the first place, his eyes blinking into the inky blackness of Arthur’s bedroom - not even a glimmer of moonlight is present to offer illumination into the prince’s chambers and Merlin contemplates conjuring a light (hardly much of a risk when Arthur is this dead to the world), but after a moment dismisses the urge as he feels his exhaustion attempting to pull him back into half-formed dreams, whatever disturbance or shift of movement that woke him no longer a silent pressure on his nerves; Arthur snuffles into the back of his neck as Merlin presses into the broad chest draped across his left side, hand sliding across the sheet to find the end of the heavy arm hanging loosely around his waist and tangling his fingers with Arthur’s when he finds them, feeling the familiar bumps of calluses and still-healing scabs, the wiry hair on the back of his fingers and the blunt nails worn down and cracked at the tips from hours of training, and with a deliberate tug brings their clasped hands higher to lie against the side of his ribcage, letting the feeling of Arthur’s fingers splayed warm and wide across his chest lull him back into sleep.
45. Finish
The fight had started like so many others: someone had declared their intent to enter the conflict, the other had called them an idiot, and in no short time they were reduced to shouting at each other with barbs that ranged from slights against brain capacity and intelligence to slanderous assumptions about birth and parenthood, and when Arthur realized with a small jolt of guilt that he’d just implied Merlin’s mother had slept with a codfish to conceive him, Merlin gave him no time to ponder the merit of an apology or to simply brace for the come-back as he advanced upon Arthur and shoved him back against a tree at the edge of the clearing, their doused campfire still smoking in the morning fog, and cuffed the side of his head before grabbing him with the same hand and shoving their faces together, lips mashing uncomfortably for a moment before they angled their heads to improve the kiss (Arthur with some help by the hand fisted in his hair), and despite the raw heat the kiss was harsh and angry and probably meant to berate Arthur as much as Merlin’s words had sought to do, never mind the perverse pleasure Arthur found in it anyway; when they both pulled away, panting roughly, Merlin leveled a look at him and spoke in a thick voice that spiked through Arthur’s groin like molten heat, “You idiot, you never let me finish. You’re not going there without me. Someone’s got to make sure your royal arse doesn’t get killed, and that’s final. Got it?”, and Arthur figured that didn’t even deserve acknowledging as he reeled Merlin back in with a hand on his neckerchief, already forgetting why they’d been arguing in the first place when Merlin’s lips still had a sheen of spittle he would be happy to remove with his tongue, but Merlin’s smile against his mouth made him think that he’d somehow said yes anyway.
46. Through
Immortality isn’t something that Merlin expects, not at first at least, though in retrospect the comments Arthur had liked to make about his uncannily youthful appearance a decade, then two decades into Arthur’s reign as High King of Albion, should probably have tipped him off that things were happening a bit differently for him than it did for the aging faces around him; when Arthur is slain and Camelot falls, Merlin’s grief is all-consuming, occupying his days like a wool blanket that distorts his perception of the rest of the world, and only when the pain of losing Arthur numbs to a bearable ache behind his breastbone does Merlin reemerge without any acuity of the time that has passed in the interim (and in fact could hardly care less, when it is simply time spent without Arthur); he gives his magic leave to carry him to distant lands where the memory of Camelot is not even a whisper on the wind, visiting villages and towns and cities and distant kingdoms, learning new languages and befriending the intelligent and the eccentric - it’s only after he begins to retrace old ground does the truth begin to sink in, when the reason for small towns blossoming into cities and friends passing away in his absence becomes clear and Merlin comes to accept the nature of his boon and his curse, destined to remain unchanging through the ages, to watch lives wink in and out of existence and see monarchs and countries fall and rise anew, to see the world as it grows smaller and less mysterious and what new ways man comes up with to destroy himself, and await the day when Albion has need of her King again.
47. Race
After two years in Arthur’s service Merlin’s horse riding skills are still nothing to brag about, but he’s come far enough that he no longer fears the beast under his legs might attempt to eat his foot or throw him without provocation, so when they set off from the castle one late summer day on a hunt and Arthur throws a familiar, challenging grin over his shoulder, Merlin is already kicking his mare into a gallop to give him a slight, but brief, lead over Arthur’s more powerful mount as they race across the empty golden fields and jump small rocky streams, grinning and breathless from the thrill, or the company, or maybe both.
48. Need
They and their horses are sweaty and windblown when they stumble upon the burbling sound of a waterfall in the forest, and Arthur doesn’t even bother with the pretense of gathering his crossbow from his saddle as they dismount at the edge of the small pool, a sandy beach and flat, dark rocks surrounding the clear water, the falls a narrow, tumbling cascade of white that makes the air misty and cool - Merlin’s only got his boots kicked off, shirt half-way over his head, when Arthur’s naked body sprints from the beach and launches into the water, legs pulled tight against his chest, and Merlin manages to stop gaping only when Arthur surfaces with a loud whoop, laughing and shaking the cold water from his hair, looking beautiful and irresistible.
49. Splash
Merlin’s entrance into the pool is a bit less impressive but no less refreshing, and he and Arthur spend a few minutes diving and cutting clean strokes through the water, exploring the perimeter of the pool closest to the beach and enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces, and when the novelty of exploration becomes boring Merlin makes the first move, hands shoving Arthur’s shoulders under the water, legs wrapped around the other man’s broader chest, and the wrestling grows progressively more juvenile and dirty until they’re shoving waves of water at the other, laughing and choking and demanding for surrender - Merlin doesn’t notice when the splashing from Arthur stops, so when he’s pinned from behind between two arms, his surprised struggles last long enough for Arthur’s lips to find his neck and for his tongue to lick away the water under his ear, teeth grazing the cool skin and drawing a shudder from Merlin that prompts every muscle in his body to go lax, and the splashing thereafter is more subdued, punctuated by soft moans and the sound of wet kisses, whispered words and playful grins, hitching declarations panted into wet shoulders and pale necks carried away by the sound of the falls.
50. Thrill
Arthur’s floating on his back while Merlin’s swimming lazy dog paddles around him when Merlin looks up at the waterfall and says, “I bet I could jump off that,” and Arthur says, “I bet I could beat you up there,” and then they’re splashing noisily and racing to the wet rocks on the far side of the pool, pushing and grabbing at ankles and shoulders, each trying to get a lead over the other; Arthur, the bloody cheat, hauls himself out of the water with a foot against Merlin’s chest and scrambles up the rock face, Merlin hot on his heels and probably unfairly using the position to admire the view of Arthur’s naked hips and thighs - they reach the top in a wet, breathless heap, and then they’re standing on a flat boulder next to the falls, panting and grinning and taking a moment to admire the view of the forest, a glint in the distance that could be one of Camelot’s turrets sparkling in the sunshine, deep indigo water under their feet and a frothing sheet of white water at their backs; Merlin feels something warm unfurl in his chest as Arthur’s fingers slip through his, clasping their wet palms together, and when Arthur grins and tugs them toward the edge, Merlin can only smile back and follow him down.
Author: Rissa
Pairing: MerlinxArthur
Rating: PG to NC-17 overall
Word Count: 5,657
Notes: Written using 1fandom's third theme set for 50 sentences. These pretty much break every rule requiring them to be a "sentence" in length, save for the period at the end. Call it creative license!
A/N: All of my love and the promise of my future children go to analineblue for being amazingly patient with me through my writer's block, my whining and bitching, my inability to make a decision without beating the topic to death first, and for correcting my mistakes when I was too fed-up to look for them anymore ♥
*All drabbles are standalone, except for 30 - 33 and 47 - 50, which are told in sequence respectively. Enjoy!
Sentences 1 - 25 can be found here.
26. Hair
It’s a distraction Arthur is determined to ignore (a ridiculous one anyway, it’s just hair), and he succeeds in doing so for all of forty-eight hours after Merlin’s sabbatical to Ealdor ends with his return to Camelot, more than a fortnight gone and Arthur emotionally exhausted from spending the time vacillating between indifference, anger, and loneliness, so it’s safer blaming the fatigue when he finds himself pinning Merlin against the heavy door to his chambers, lips hot over Merlin’s mouth and the rough scratch of the beard against his chin a sensation he never thought he’d find so wildly arousing or something he’d want to make a habit of feeling, but there’s no denying the way parts of him heat and ache in carnal satisfaction when Merlin’s mouth opens to his tongue, coarse hair brushing his cheek as he licks the corners of Merlin’s lips, and when they’re both panting heavily Arthur only manages to pull his mouth away long enough to say, “The beard stays.”
27. Home
Merlin doesn’t stop thinking of Ealdor as home for the first year he lives in Camelot, and for a long time after, his feelings are caught in limbo without a clear definition of where he belongs - drifting somewhere between cobblestones and tilled earth, narrow market streets and wild forests, stone walls and mud thatched roofs - and though Camelot gradually grows more familiar and less stupefying (though no less magnificent) there is too much history for Merlin to forget entirely; he’s spent a lifetime knowing one way of life, a mother and a village and a friend who was like a brother, summer afternoons exploring creek beds and cold winter nights sharing warmth with the pigs, each year a pattern that revolved around the changing seasons and not the whims of a high-born prince - but there are some mornings when he wakes, feeling warm and heavy and held down by Arthur’s arm across his chest, that he starts to think that this could be home too.
28. Loud
It’s a bit of a surprise when Arthur discovers that Merlin is the vocal one while having sex, because the revelation doesn’t come until nearly a month into their intense affair and that’s something Arthur can’t help feeling cheated out of knowing, and therefore enjoying, much sooner; it takes a trip to the only unoccupied tower of the castle, hot in pursuit of a dog that’s been running loose and avoiding all attempts at capture (and while normally Arthur wouldn’t stoop to this sort of errand, Merlin has shown an uncharacteristic fear of the mangy creature and Arthur feels it’s in his best interests to prevent his manservant from fleeing in terror straight through a stone wall), but upon reaching the top of a herculean flight of narrow steps they find no signs of dog or human habitation, which Arthur feels justifies taking a well deserved break from the hunt; Merlin’s moans as Arthur takes them both in hand are obscenely loud with several thick walls and half a castle between them and the next human being, which only spurs Arthur to wring as many of the needy, guttural noises from Merlin’s throat as he can, and when Merlin finally comes in Arthur’s mouth with a whine and a sharp cry that sends a few roosting birds fleeing out the tower window, Arthur’s already planning the quickest way to have his bedroom relocated to the opposite side of the castle.
29. Travel
The ocean is nothing like Merlin expects - the stories he’s overheard from traveling merchants have painted something more expansive and calming in his imagination, like the beach on a lake and water clear to the horizon without hills or forest to bracket it in - not this tumult of churning white caps, waves beating against cliff faces higher than any turret at Camelot, and a salt tang in the air that chaps his lips and stings his eyes as he blinks them against the late morning sun reflected off the water; when Arthur takes his hand and leads him to his favorite caves, shows him the tidepools he knows from childhood and the hidden caches of driftwood and broken shells still untouched after all these years, Merlin draws them against the damp stone wall and crawls inside Arthur with his lips and tongue, drowning in the taste of salt and sea, finally understanding the particular shade of blue in Arthur’s eyes.
30. Damage
The shore is farther away than Merlin remembers swimming and he’s having enough difficulty just keeping his head above the water, let alone dragging the two of them back to dry land, and each time water sloshes into his mouth and up his nose he tries not to think about the body in his arms that hasn’t moved or breathed since being hauled to the surface (he’s unaware that he’s been talking all the while, “just hang on,” “Arthur, you hear me?” “we’re almost there,” and “don’t you dare be dead!”), and the moment his feet touch the sandy bottom he’s scrambling and pulling Arthur and all his armor over the gravel beach and onto the grass, the water from their bodies turning the ground to slippery mud, and Arthur’s lips are already blue when Merlin falls to his knees, trembling from the cold water and a more chilling, bone deep fear as he places an ear over Arthur’s chest and strains to listen for a heartbeat in the heavy, empty silence within.
31. Strength
Merlin’s hands are shaking as he struggles to undo the soaked leather straps and buckles of Arthur’s armor, his frustrated curses quickly turning into angry, clipped spells that shred through Arthur’s hauberk like parchment paper, metal parts and pieces clattering to the ground as he sweeps the broken links aside to tear at the quilted surcoat underneath and finally to Arthur’s bare chest, placing both hands against the cold (too cold) flesh, heart beating so wildly he isn’t sure for a moment if the rushing pulse under his fingertips is Arthur’s or his own, but something swells in him that moves him to action, memory or instinct or his magic, or maybe all three, his hands finding a rhythm that heats the flesh with every straining press, arms aching and heart cracking, and with the first choking cough that leaves Arthur’s mouth, brackish lake water spilling over his chin and neck, Merlin feels his own chest fill with a shuddering gasp that matches Arthur’s own, and he allows himself to slump forward as he turns Arthur onto his side, the curve of his back a wet and shivering barrier between Arthur and the rest of the world, drawing strength from the way Arthur curls against him and lets Merlin’s magic heat his naked flesh and coax him into a healing slumber.
32. Together
Merlin hasn’t stopped shaking and he can’t stop touching the body cradled in his arms; he’s watching his hands run skittering, senseless patterns across Arthur’s back and shoulders, feeling the swell of unknown muscles, the ridges of scars he’s seen but not felt, the top of his spine, the curve of his ribs, the small of his back where a dusting of golden hair tickles the tips of his fingers; some part of him is still stunned that Arthur isn’t lying dead at the bottom of the lake, and however loudly the voice in the back of his head is telling him that this is wrong wrong so very wrong what are you doing he can’t stop reaffirming the simple truth, fingers fluttering to check for the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, a trembling palm below Arthur’s shoulder blades, fingers leaving dry trails through his wet hair, a halting pass of his thumb across one, strong cheekbone - letting every point of contact be another confirmation that the man in his arms is alive and that somehow, improbably, they’ve managed to make it out of this mess together, intact and whole.
33. Pull
With the stretch of minutes and the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, Merlin has given in to the urge to simply clasp Arthur’s half-naked body to him, sharing body heat to dampen the last of his own shivers and draw comfort in the simple contact, and everywhere Merlin’s hands move in their quest to chase away the lingering patches of gooseflesh, Arthur’s skin is dry and pinked with warmth, the pads of his fingertips attempting to erase the memory of unnatural paleness and blue-tinged flesh, drawing solace in the movement of each indrawn breath and the steady pulse under his hands - it’s terrifying in retrospect that this is truly the first time that Arthur’s life has come so close to the precipice, that that no small trick or quick spell could have turned the tide at the last moment as it has so many other times, and Merlin realizes this with a certainty that frightens him (if he hadn’t run fast enough, arrived a minute too late, hadn’t found him in the water in time), and it’s neither wizard nor manservant that pulls Arthur a little closer in selfish comfort, feeling the remembered fear of failure, of being alone, of losing a friendship so precious and newly gained, and together they sit in silence as the sound of closing gates echo in the distance.
34. Safe
Merlin’s teeth won’t stop chattering but at least they’re out of the freezing rain, and the damp earth floor of the small cave is a welcome change to the sopping mud they’ve been trudging through for the past quarter hour, even if it does smell a bit like the last animal to inhabit it (“It stinks,” Merlin had grumbled, and Arthur’s exhaustion hadn’t stopped him from snapping back, “Be grateful it’s no longer here.”), and because any kindling was too wet to bother starting a fire they’ve ended up huddled together under the only dry bedroll between them (Arthur’s, of course), pressed back to back with Arthur practically breathing through the rear wall of the foxhole and Merlin still shivering like he hasn’t already stolen most of the blanket; it’s sensible, really, because Arthur doesn’t fancy inhaling an earthworm in his sleep, that he turns over and spoons behind Merlin, pressing a forearm to the skinny man’s sternum to quell the worst of the shaking, and when Merlin gradually stills, long minutes later, Arthur lets his arm linger and dare to tighten, briefly, relishing the warmth as Merlin sags into him, heavy, safe, and trusting.
35. Private
Arthur’s guest chambers at Tintagel face the sea, with a broad lattice window that takes in the incredible view and much of the afternoon sun, and it’s not the first time Merlin’s found himself rooted in front of them, distracted midway on some errand to stand motionless in silent awe - the horizon lies at such a great distance that the cloud banks sit edge-on, stretching into different shapes and shades of white and gray and soft plumes that, in some places, stretch straight up into the sky, as if they could reach the sun, and where the ocean ends, only a soft haze marks the transition between water and sky, leaving Merlin to often wonder if he’s looking at the edge of the world, if such a thing is even possible, or if even the most stalwart sailor might be doomed to ride out for days and days and never reach the end - so preoccupied by the view this time around, he barely hears the rustle of sheets as the room’s other occupant rises from the bed behind him, and when Arthur’s sleepy weight presses against his bare back, chest warm and scratchy against his skin, Merlin leans into the loose embrace instinctually, accepting the dry kisses against his neck, and with only a soft sigh of protest for being drawn away from his perch lets himself be led gently back to bed, the sound of the ocean following him down into the arms of his prince.
36. Light
Merlin’s gangly, thin frame is much too wanting to be called genuinely attractive: muscles too sparse and poorly developed, skin pale and near translucent over the veins of his hands and neck, face long and lips narrow and cheekbones sharp and shoulders prone to sagging in a way that push the knobs of his spine to the surface in prominent relief - but when Arthur has Merlin shoved against the wall, naked from the waist down and his own trousers pooled around his ankles, he has to marvel at the ease at which he can hoist Merlin with merely a hand on each thigh, directing knees and calves to wrap around his hips, and thrust into tight, wet heat with none of the exertion one might expect from carrying another man’s weight; Arthur loves how easy it is to control the speed as Merlin fucks himself on him when he’s laying on his back, how light he feels in his arms when he holds onto his bony hips and guides him to sink down on his cock, how easily he folds when Arthur pushes Merlin’s knees up to his shoulders and exposes his puckered oil-slick hole for Arthur to sink into, how clearly he can feel the pulse fluttering just below the surface in Merlin’s neck when he grips his shoulders and comes hard between the lips wrapped around his cock; and he loves how easy it is to drag Merlin across the bed to him, despite whatever sleepy protests he might issue, arranging feather-light limbs to his liking and spreading himself across Merlin’s skinny back so he can feel Merlin’s heartbeat, strong and steady through two sets of ribcages as if it were nestled alongside his own.
37. Big
One week after the coronation, Arthur finds Merlin in his new quarters (large and with walls generously lined with bookshelves, most of which lie empty) bent over a map spread across a table larger than anything that could have fit through the door, his expression comically pensive (to Arthur, at least) as he circles the drawing, sometimes leaning in close or crouching to place his face at eye-level with the expanse of the table, and the true nature of the oversized map is easily realized when Arthur comes forward to observe, with miniature mountains and hills standing in relief to scale against the paper, blue rivers snaking across the countryside and thick green forests spread like whorls around tiny clusters of brown hovels and lush golden fields, each cleared patch of land crowned by a tiny castle at the center; it’s a massive atlas of Camelot and its surrounding kingdoms, Arthur realizes, and when he asks Merlin its purpose, his newly appointed Court Magician straightens and grins in a way that should be insolent but only makes Arthur more curious (“It’s Albion,” “I can see that, Merlin,” “I mean it’s your future kingdom,” “Planting ambitions for your King, I see,” “Yes, always,”), and though convention demands that he should find his Sorcerer making plans to conquer the entirety of a continent at least disturbing, if not downright treasonous, Arthur understands the spark of hope in Merlin’s eyes, the promise of a dream to bring everyone under the protection of Camelot and its King, to create a kingdom that not only stretches peace across the lands but through the ages, and though Arthur has barely dared to let himself contemplate ambitions this big, he wants to stand beside Merlin and claim the dream for himself and all of Camelot, no matter how impossible or what price might be necessary to make it come true.
38. Want
There are few things Arthur allows himself to want outside of the scope of his duty to the kingdom and its people - a mild winter, rain for the crops, a few less monsters terrorizing the outlying villages, and a well trained army ready to defend Camelot and its citizens, to name a few - but Merlin’s introduction into his life has spawned a progressively longer list of desires that Arthur had, until then, been sure were trained out of him before his twelfth birthday: competent and timely service, for starters; a muzzle sometime around the end of week two when he’d realized that Merlin did not quite understand the meaning of “shut up”; for the fastest horse in his stables and a rare poisonous flower not a week after that; for a way to save a small village outside of his father’s kingdom without starting a war a few months after that; for Merlin’s fingers to work faster and pry off the dented armor where the jousting lance had hit directly over his old wound from the questing beast; for Gaius to find a cure quickly as Merlin lies thrashing in his arms, whimpering through a throat flayed raw from his screams, muscles convulsing and eyes flashing between gold and blue as the spell that had been aimed for Arthur ravages his manservant’s body, leaving Arthur helpless to do nothing but push back the sweat soaked hair from his brow and fervently wish Merlin to live more than anything else he’s wanted in his life.
39. Law
Of all the ways and reasons Merlin could be caught for breaking the law, repeatedly lying to the King and harboring criminals and being a warlock among the list, this was the one thing he’d never expected to get punished for: caught in Arthur’s chambers with his pants down, hips snug and tight against the Prince’s arse, Arthur bent over the bed and Merlin braced behind him with one foot on the mattress, and both of them too caught up in the throes of approaching orgasm to notice that they were no longer the only two people in the room - which brings Merlin to later the same day, his hands in manacles and Arthur locked away securely in his own cell in the castle dungeons (temporarily, just long enough for Merlin’s punishment to be carried out without interference by a furious Prince), and honestly, how was Merlin to know that buggering the Prince was considered a serious crime (or that it might have been overlooked entirely had Arthur been the one doing the buggering instead?), but semantics seem to hold little weight when Merlin’s being strung up by the cuffs around his wrists by a grim face soldier carrying an ugly looking knout, and all Merlin can do as he hears the first whistle of the whip being drawn back is be grateful that at least Arthur isn’t there to watch.
40. Canine
There is something mysterious and maybe a little alarming about how frequently Arthur’s teeth occupy Merlin’s thoughts, and in turn the lips that surround them, or how the sight of them is enough to coil something tight in Merlin that wants to leap across the distance between them and press his lips to Arthur’s mouth, rough and dirty and maybe just this side of possessive, the kind of hot, wet kisses that would give his tongue free reign to slide between Arthur’s lips and run across the uneven white teeth, the rough edges of his incisors and sharp points of his canines, tasting everything there is to find on Arthur’s tongue (that morning’s breakfast, wine after dinner, the sweet meats snuck between training, Merlin’s own salty sweat), feeling the hitch in Arthur’s breath when the kiss shifts just so and everything is perfect and heady and there, rejoicing in the moment when Arthur’s tongue pushes back and his teeth pull gently on Merlin’s bottom lip, uneven and sharp and a little crooked - Merlin knows that in that moment all of his unrivaled fantasies would vanish with the slight sting of reality, swept aside by the touch of Arthur’s lips and the feel of his teeth on his mouth, the sensation better than anything Merlin has dared to dream, or allowed himself to secretly desire.
41. Truth
It’s Merlin’s fault in the end for taking off his shirt right there in Arthur’s chambers without ducking behind the screen first (he’d forgotten how shocking it would look to anyone for the first time, he’d gotten so good at ignoring it himself), but the sudden cold fist of fear that punches through his stomach isn’t enough to jerk him out of Arthur’s strong hold as he’s swung around to face him in the candlelight, the sleeve still attached to his arm flapping futilely in an attempt to cover the scars on his chest, the same mess of twisted flesh that Arthur has already seen and is regarding with wide-eyed confusion (“Where did you get that?” “It’s nothing, your highness,” “Don’t lie to me Merlin, you didn’t have it a month ago,” “I can’t tell you,” “You will,” “I can’t,” “Why does the flesh look burned?” “It doesn’t-” “This kind of injury could kill a man,” “I wasn’t-” “When, Merlin?” “Please…” “How did you get these scars?”), and Arthur is nearly vibrating with anger, eyes roving over the tangled web of shiny scar flesh where Nimueh’s fireball had impacted his chest, fingers clenched in a painful grip around Merlin’s forearm, and something in Merlin breaks a little at the brief flash of pain and confusion he sees in Arthur’s angry expression, sympathy and regret and resignation twisting like the scars over his heart - Arthur jerks as Merlin’s other hand covers the one on his arm, but he doesn’t pull away, and when Merlin tells him as much of the truth as he dares, the bargain and his mother and Gaius’ sacrifice and his final confrontation with the sorceress and the freak lightning storm that killed her, Arthur only moves to grab the back of his neck and call him an idiot with tears in his eyes.
42. Smoke
They don’t often go overnight on hunting trips; only when the game is unusually scarce and leads them far enough from the castle that returning in daylight becomes impossible will Arthur choose a clearing to set up camp (Merlin will be told to collect firewood and Arthur will appoint himself the task of spreading out bedrolls and cleaning any small game they might have caught for dinner), and when dusk eventually gives way to the true black of night and they have a cheerful fire crackling at their toes, the smell of pine sap and animal fat in the smoke over their heads, is it easier to notice how close their sleeping mats have been placed next to each other and to welcome to the flush of anticipation when Arthur settles under his blanket and watches Merlin, blue eyes dark and silently beckoning, and for a few hours it’s easy to forget the master and the servant and press close to the solid weight of a friend, eager lips and fumbling hands hidden by the blankets and desperate moans swallowed by the smoke and the night.
43. Order
There is a natural order to the world that Merlin finds himself observing with equal parts admiration and fear, all too aware that when it comes to magic, the balance that Nature seeks to maintain will often bear unexpected weight on the consequences of a spell beyond the caster’s intent (whether it be for good or evil) and that the greater the impact upon the world, the greater the price exacted - from his early efforts at mass rat exterminations which led to the horrifying surge in the cockroach population (Merlin learned the hard way that it’s better to banish a creature to the far side of the continent than kill it), or that a stream redirected to flow closer to a farmer’s field will demand an earthquake to shake the neighboring village, or that throwing balls of fire across a battlefield will gradually consume the very air from around him (and hadn’t it been embarrassing to wake up in Arthur’s tent and find out he’d fainted dead away in the midst of the conflict), and that one of the cardinal rules of the Old Religion will always stipulate that the cost for a human life be one of equal payment, and thus is the one bargain that Merlin refuses to ever strike again - but it doesn’t stop him from searching for loopholes in the unwritten rulebook, and as the narrow barge takes the still-warm body of Arthur Pendragon through the open gates of Avalon, Merlin feels a spark of pride through the soul ripping grief; that at least, this once, the natural order of the world has been bent by the force of destiny and his promise to wait through the eons for The Once and Future King to rise again.
44. Feel
The heaviness on Merlin’s back is hot and blanketing and slightly suffocating, but the effort needed to shove off the weight of a full grown man would take more energy than Merlin is capable of, lying half-asleep on his stomach and not quite sure what awoke him in the first place, his eyes blinking into the inky blackness of Arthur’s bedroom - not even a glimmer of moonlight is present to offer illumination into the prince’s chambers and Merlin contemplates conjuring a light (hardly much of a risk when Arthur is this dead to the world), but after a moment dismisses the urge as he feels his exhaustion attempting to pull him back into half-formed dreams, whatever disturbance or shift of movement that woke him no longer a silent pressure on his nerves; Arthur snuffles into the back of his neck as Merlin presses into the broad chest draped across his left side, hand sliding across the sheet to find the end of the heavy arm hanging loosely around his waist and tangling his fingers with Arthur’s when he finds them, feeling the familiar bumps of calluses and still-healing scabs, the wiry hair on the back of his fingers and the blunt nails worn down and cracked at the tips from hours of training, and with a deliberate tug brings their clasped hands higher to lie against the side of his ribcage, letting the feeling of Arthur’s fingers splayed warm and wide across his chest lull him back into sleep.
45. Finish
The fight had started like so many others: someone had declared their intent to enter the conflict, the other had called them an idiot, and in no short time they were reduced to shouting at each other with barbs that ranged from slights against brain capacity and intelligence to slanderous assumptions about birth and parenthood, and when Arthur realized with a small jolt of guilt that he’d just implied Merlin’s mother had slept with a codfish to conceive him, Merlin gave him no time to ponder the merit of an apology or to simply brace for the come-back as he advanced upon Arthur and shoved him back against a tree at the edge of the clearing, their doused campfire still smoking in the morning fog, and cuffed the side of his head before grabbing him with the same hand and shoving their faces together, lips mashing uncomfortably for a moment before they angled their heads to improve the kiss (Arthur with some help by the hand fisted in his hair), and despite the raw heat the kiss was harsh and angry and probably meant to berate Arthur as much as Merlin’s words had sought to do, never mind the perverse pleasure Arthur found in it anyway; when they both pulled away, panting roughly, Merlin leveled a look at him and spoke in a thick voice that spiked through Arthur’s groin like molten heat, “You idiot, you never let me finish. You’re not going there without me. Someone’s got to make sure your royal arse doesn’t get killed, and that’s final. Got it?”, and Arthur figured that didn’t even deserve acknowledging as he reeled Merlin back in with a hand on his neckerchief, already forgetting why they’d been arguing in the first place when Merlin’s lips still had a sheen of spittle he would be happy to remove with his tongue, but Merlin’s smile against his mouth made him think that he’d somehow said yes anyway.
46. Through
Immortality isn’t something that Merlin expects, not at first at least, though in retrospect the comments Arthur had liked to make about his uncannily youthful appearance a decade, then two decades into Arthur’s reign as High King of Albion, should probably have tipped him off that things were happening a bit differently for him than it did for the aging faces around him; when Arthur is slain and Camelot falls, Merlin’s grief is all-consuming, occupying his days like a wool blanket that distorts his perception of the rest of the world, and only when the pain of losing Arthur numbs to a bearable ache behind his breastbone does Merlin reemerge without any acuity of the time that has passed in the interim (and in fact could hardly care less, when it is simply time spent without Arthur); he gives his magic leave to carry him to distant lands where the memory of Camelot is not even a whisper on the wind, visiting villages and towns and cities and distant kingdoms, learning new languages and befriending the intelligent and the eccentric - it’s only after he begins to retrace old ground does the truth begin to sink in, when the reason for small towns blossoming into cities and friends passing away in his absence becomes clear and Merlin comes to accept the nature of his boon and his curse, destined to remain unchanging through the ages, to watch lives wink in and out of existence and see monarchs and countries fall and rise anew, to see the world as it grows smaller and less mysterious and what new ways man comes up with to destroy himself, and await the day when Albion has need of her King again.
47. Race
After two years in Arthur’s service Merlin’s horse riding skills are still nothing to brag about, but he’s come far enough that he no longer fears the beast under his legs might attempt to eat his foot or throw him without provocation, so when they set off from the castle one late summer day on a hunt and Arthur throws a familiar, challenging grin over his shoulder, Merlin is already kicking his mare into a gallop to give him a slight, but brief, lead over Arthur’s more powerful mount as they race across the empty golden fields and jump small rocky streams, grinning and breathless from the thrill, or the company, or maybe both.
48. Need
They and their horses are sweaty and windblown when they stumble upon the burbling sound of a waterfall in the forest, and Arthur doesn’t even bother with the pretense of gathering his crossbow from his saddle as they dismount at the edge of the small pool, a sandy beach and flat, dark rocks surrounding the clear water, the falls a narrow, tumbling cascade of white that makes the air misty and cool - Merlin’s only got his boots kicked off, shirt half-way over his head, when Arthur’s naked body sprints from the beach and launches into the water, legs pulled tight against his chest, and Merlin manages to stop gaping only when Arthur surfaces with a loud whoop, laughing and shaking the cold water from his hair, looking beautiful and irresistible.
49. Splash
Merlin’s entrance into the pool is a bit less impressive but no less refreshing, and he and Arthur spend a few minutes diving and cutting clean strokes through the water, exploring the perimeter of the pool closest to the beach and enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces, and when the novelty of exploration becomes boring Merlin makes the first move, hands shoving Arthur’s shoulders under the water, legs wrapped around the other man’s broader chest, and the wrestling grows progressively more juvenile and dirty until they’re shoving waves of water at the other, laughing and choking and demanding for surrender - Merlin doesn’t notice when the splashing from Arthur stops, so when he’s pinned from behind between two arms, his surprised struggles last long enough for Arthur’s lips to find his neck and for his tongue to lick away the water under his ear, teeth grazing the cool skin and drawing a shudder from Merlin that prompts every muscle in his body to go lax, and the splashing thereafter is more subdued, punctuated by soft moans and the sound of wet kisses, whispered words and playful grins, hitching declarations panted into wet shoulders and pale necks carried away by the sound of the falls.
50. Thrill
Arthur’s floating on his back while Merlin’s swimming lazy dog paddles around him when Merlin looks up at the waterfall and says, “I bet I could jump off that,” and Arthur says, “I bet I could beat you up there,” and then they’re splashing noisily and racing to the wet rocks on the far side of the pool, pushing and grabbing at ankles and shoulders, each trying to get a lead over the other; Arthur, the bloody cheat, hauls himself out of the water with a foot against Merlin’s chest and scrambles up the rock face, Merlin hot on his heels and probably unfairly using the position to admire the view of Arthur’s naked hips and thighs - they reach the top in a wet, breathless heap, and then they’re standing on a flat boulder next to the falls, panting and grinning and taking a moment to admire the view of the forest, a glint in the distance that could be one of Camelot’s turrets sparkling in the sunshine, deep indigo water under their feet and a frothing sheet of white water at their backs; Merlin feels something warm unfurl in his chest as Arthur’s fingers slip through his, clasping their wet palms together, and when Arthur grins and tugs them toward the edge, Merlin can only smile back and follow him down.