Dedication
Title: Dedication
Summary: In which Merlin and Morgana have a lot of sex, but Merlin falls in love with Arthur anyway.
A/N: From this kinkme_merlin prompt: Merlin is a first-time author hoping to get published, but his publisher tells him he needs more "real life experience" (ie. have sex with a woman) because the book requires more romance. Merlin meets Morgana and decides to seduce her. He also meets Arthur, who knows exactly what's going on. Merlin ends up getting the "experience" from Morgana, but winds up getting the romance from Arthur.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin. And "Too loud, very unseemly" belongs to The Great Joss Whedon.
“This isn’t up to your usual standards, my boy.”
Merlin stares miserably across the desk at his editor, who has just patted his latest manuscript offering, and tries to think of something to say that isn’t I know. “I know.” Damn it.
“The quest motif and your subversions of it were inspired, and I’ve thought so ever since I saw the proposal, but the romance ...” Gary Killian, editor extraordinaire for Albion Press, steeples his fingers, and Merlin slumps in his seat. “I expected better of you.”
Mr. Killian has a way of making Merlin want to babble anything and everything just to make him stop raising his eyebrows, but this time he valiantly resists the urge. “I haven’t really tried to write romance before,” he offers weakly, because it’s true. Other than a few pieces of bread-and-butter writing that only got posted on the internet, but those definitely aren’t on his CV and there weren’t women involved in them, and that seems to be the problem.
“It’s ... without substance. Trite. To be honest, Merlin, it sounds as if you’ve never had experience with women.”
That’s pretty much true, other than a few drunken fumbles on a trip to a lake with a girl named Freya in sixth form, but Merlin doesn’t want to sound pathetic and he definitely doesn’t want to out himself in a business meeting. “Um,” he manages.
“You’ve still got three weeks before deadline, Merlin. Perhaps you’d better ... get the experience, and do some more edits. Find a nice girl, make it ring true.”
Merlin realizes with some horror that he’s discussing his sex life with his editor, which is even more awkward than discussing it with his agent Gaius. He’s got a thousand objections on the tip of his tongue, about how he shouldn’t have to sleep with someone for his art, because romance isn’t necessarily the problem--he’d written most of the book while he was still with Will. But then, maybe it’s the “most” that’s the problem. He might have been a little bitter during the edits. And his experiences with Will wouldn’t really help with the sex scene he’d written, blushing the whole time, because Will lacked breasts and a vagina. Which was great, as far as Merlin was concerned. “Okay?”
“I’ll expect your revisions in three weeks, Merlin. See yourself out, will you?”
With a jerky nod, Merlin grabs his bag and escapes from the room before he actually combusts from shame. He calls Gwen the instant he gets out of the building, before realizing that she’s at work like a responsible adult, but she answers anyway. “Gwen!” he cries before modulating his tone and remembering he’s in public. “My editor wants me to seduce a woman!”
“... Hold on a minute.” There are a few muffled conversations and a long silence as Gwen presumably takes the conversation somewhere private. Or perhaps puts it on speakerphone. He wouldn’t put it past her. “Now, your editor wants you to what?”
“He says the romance doesn’t ring true, and then basically told me to go off and have sex! With a woman!” ... Too loud, very unseemly. Merlin grimaces an apology at a shocked-looking woman. “The sex doesn’t ring true, but the magic does!”
“He, um, he does realize that you’re about eighty-five percent into men, right? And there are reasons for the magic ringing true.” She whispers the last part.
“Yes, fine, but that’s not the problem. I just know that the romance is apparently terrible and it must be fixed, and--Gwen. Gwen, I have had a brilliant idea.”
Gwen is understandably hesitant when she answers. “Your last brilliant idea ended up with Trickler spiking the punch at my flat-warming party.”
“Yeah, but the one before that ended up with you engaged to Lance, so, you know, it all evens out.” He can almost hear her roll her eyes. “I should just sleep with you!”
“Merlin.” She sighs. “You just mentioned my fiance two seconds ago, and then propositioned me.”
“Lance knows I’m gay, he knows I wouldn’t steal you away.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Look, if you need it for the book, then find someone--God knows you need to, after Will. But it won’t be me, and I hope you have the decency to tell her that you’re using her for literature.” There’s something that sounds like a knock on the other end, and Merlin realizes that Gwen probably locked herself in a supply closet to talk to him. “I’ve got to go. Use a condom.”
“You’re a horrible person,” he informs her, but she’s already hung up.
*
That night, Merlin finds himself in a club, clutching a Coke because he doesn’t want to be drunk and run the risk of forgetting his “experience.” He doesn’t want to have to do it multiple times, because he feels a complete arse.
Of course, the problem seems to be getting to the first time, because he isn’t attracting many women. Or any, in fact. He resists the urge to ring Gwen and ask her if he’s completely unlovable, because she put up with far too much of that after the split with Will.
There’s a pair of girls who’ve been at the table next to his on and off for most of the night--one of them’s blonde and one has dark hair, but they look like sisters nonetheless, and the dark-haired one seems to be keeping an eye on him. The next time Merlin catches her looking, he gives her one of his brightest smiles, and less than thirty seconds later, she approaches him, smirking. “You aren’t dancing,” she half-shouts over the music.
“I didn’t want to cause anyone grievous bodily harm,” he replies. She laughs. “I’m Merlin.”
“Morgana.” She slides into the other seat at his table, and Merlin blinks and wonders if he was flirting with her by accident or if she’s just naturally this friendly. “So what are you doing in a club alone if you don’t want to dance?”
Merlin hopes that he’s leering, but judging by her expression, he just looks confused. “Enjoying the scenery.”
The blonde stops off at their table, jacket in hand and a scruffy-looking man hanging behind her. “I’m off for the night. See you on Tuesday.” She gives Merlin an appraising look and a nod before sweeping away.
“That was Morgause. My ... half-sister? Something like that, anyway.” Morgana grins at him in a way that his writer’s brain attempts to call “predatory” before he reminds himself that he doesn’t actually write romance novels. “So. Merlin. Tell me all about yourself.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Wait, then are you Merlin as in Merlin Emrys?” Merlin blinks and nods. He’s published two books, but it never ceases to shock him that people actually read them. Well, people who aren’t his mother, anyway. “I absolutely love your work.”
Oh, good. That makes everything so much easier. He hopes. “Would you happen to want to sleep with me for the sake of my next novel?”
Morgana chokes, and Merlin wants to sink into the floor, because he hadn’t meant to be quite that blunt. “You ... what? I thought you were ... I mean, I always got the impression ...” She waves her hand and he realizes that perhaps the fact that he kept his neckerchief on might have scared away some women. Which begs the question of why she came over to talk to him in the first place. “You want me to sleep with you?”
“Um, yes.” Merlin explains the problem in fits and starts, because he doesn’t want to be a horrible user and he suspects that Morgana could easily string him up by his ears if he slept with her for inspiration without telling her that he was doing so.
There’s a long silence while Morgana processes the story, and Merlin prepares himself to flee before she can call the police and have him hauled away for harassment or something equally mortifying, but then she grins again. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse. Will you dedicate the book to me?”
“Why not?” He’d meant to dedicate it to Gwen, but she’ll understand.
“Well, then. My place or yours?”
Merlin thinks of his apartment, which has lapdesks nailed soft-side out at strategic places on the walls because Gwen was starting to worry that he would concuss himself. “Yours. Definitely yours.”
*
Morgana strips them both with terrifying efficiency almost the second they’re in the apartment, leaving a trail of discarded garments, and Merlin manages not to gape at her while she strolls into the bedroom in nothing but knickers and high heels. He does stumble trying to take his socks off, though, and takes a moment to go red-faced with mortification before banishing the rest of his clothes to the floor with a golden-eyed glance. A second later, Morgana is at the door to her bedroom, leaning on the frame with an arm stretched over her head, flaunting. “You coming, Shakespeare?”
Merlin manages to stop remembering that he is in fact at least partly bisexual long enough to step out of his pile of clothes. “Quick as I can.”
“You’d better hope not.”
The second he gets close enough, while he’s still stammering about not having meant that at all, Morgana grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. In the heels, she’s almost as tall as he is, and she kisses hard, but her lips are softer than Will’s ever were, and when he pulls her closer, it takes a second for him to fit everything together properly.
A bit later, she pushes him away and he puts a hand on the door frame to steady himself while she walks to the bed and tips back onto it, kicking off her shoes and starting to shimmy out of her knickers the second she’s down. “Come and let me show you how it’s done.”
Merlin stumbles over to the bed and is about to call it off from sheer embarrassment until she rolls her eyes, grabs his hand, and pulls him down on top of her. And then she rolls them over until she’s on top and reaches into a nightstand to pull out a condom. Merlin swallows hard, and she laughs. He wonders if he ought to be offended, but before he can muster the willpower, she’s kissing him again, hair falling to block the low light out while she nips at his lower lip and he proves that he does know how to kiss, at least, even if it feels odd, not catching on stubble while he does so.
“Breasts, Merlin,” she says eventually, sounding exasperated. “Much as I enjoy necking, I thought you wanted the full experience.”
Merlin obediently runs his fingers first across her collar bones and then down to her breasts, and she arches against him before attaching her mouth to his neck. “Like this?” Merlin asks, and then starts using every trick in his arsenal.
His arsenal isn’t large, but apparently it’s effective, because a few minutes later, about the time that he figures out that Morgana really likes it when he gently nips her breasts, she grabs one of his hands and puts it right between her legs. “Right then,” she says, splaying her knees apart. “Let’s see how long it takes you to find the clitoris.”
“The commentary is the least sexy thing ...” Merlin mutters into her chest.
“Less than three tries and I’ll go down on you,” says Morgana, and that’s definitely motivation enough for anyone, and sure enough, on the third try, she rocks against him and nods. “There’s a lad. Keep at that for a bit, please.”
She only gives that a few minutes, rocking against Merlin’s growing erection, before pulling abruptly away and sliding down the bed to take his cock in her mouth, and five minutes later, he’s doing his best not to explode while she grabs the condom and puts it on him before putting her knees on either side of his hips and sliding over him.
Merlin comes embarrassingly fast, but she pats his shoulder and tells him to stay the night anyway.
*
“You filthy tart!” someone shouts, and it’s not Gwen unless Gwen turned into a man who sounds like he was brought up at Eton, and that would require magic, and he hasn’t done accidental magic while he’s come in several years and ... oh. Merlin sneaks a peek at Morgana, who’s just starting to stir, and wonders if he’s about to be beaten up by a beefy boyfriend. “If you had someone over, you could have called me to come back some other time!”
So, not a boyfriend then. “Fuck off, Arthur,” groans Morgana, and peels her eyes open to smile at Merlin. Merlin manages to smile back. “How are you feeling? We ought to do that again sometime, make sure you’ve got it right.”
“I ... I’m still mostly gay.”
She pats his hand. “Of course you are. And you aren’t my type. My type tends to look at breasts as an asset and not a mystery, for instance. Your pants wouldn’t happen to be in my bedroom, would they?”
“Who is out there?”
“Morgana!” Someone is knocking on the bedroom door. Merlin buries his face in the mattress. “Morgana, if you fucked a serial killer and are dead in there, my father is going to kill me.”
Morgana sits up in bed, pulling the sheet with her. “Arthur, if there’s a pair of men’s boxers out there, could you toss them in, please? My serial killer’s a bit shy.”
“It’s okay, she’s safe, I only kill blondes,” calls Merlin, still half-asleep, and Morgana chokes on laughter as the door creaks open and Merlin is greeted with the sight of a Greek god with a handkerchief over his hand gingerly holding Merlin’s boxers. “Just ... um.” His power of speech deserts him momentarily as he takes in the figure at the door.
“Toss them in and shut the door, would you?” The other man does as bid, though he still looks incredulous. “That’s Arthur, he’s my foster brother. And he is two hours early for brunch,” she says, loud enough that he has to hear her. “He’ll probably interrogate you about your intentions, but he’s quite harmless, really.”
Merlin scrambles out of bed and into his boxers, glad that Morgana apparently doesn’t feel awkward in the least about what they did because that makes one of them. “As long as he doesn’t kill me.”
“He has people for that, I’m pretty sure.” Merlin gulps. Morgana pats his cheek on her way to the wardrobe. “Don’t worry, I can defang him quite easily. Now, go out there and get your clothes on.”
“Shouldn’t you, you know, get on with the defanging before I talk to him?”
Morgana puts her hands on her hips, and Merlin flees.
*
Merlin follows the trail of his clothing back to Morgana’s living room, dressing as he goes, so he’s fully-dressed when he almost smacks into Arthur while he’s hopping to get his left shoe on. “Sorry,” he mutters, and grins in triumph as he succeeds with the shoe.
Arthur doesn’t seem inclined to speak directly to him. “Morgana, where the hell did you find this one? Is he even eighteen?”
“I’m almost twenty-five,” mutters Merlin, and looks around the floor for his neckerchief, which was the first thing to go.
“You don’t look it. What are you looking for?” Merlin finds the neckerchief sticking out from under the sofa and shakes the dust off of it. Morgana’s flat may look neat, but she doesn’t seem to sweep under her furniture. He decides to stuff it in his pocket. There is a long, awkward silence, and Merlin wonders if he’s supposed to leave before Morgana emerges. “So,” says Arthur, and Merlin’s heart sinks. “How long have you known Morgana?”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” says Morgana, emerging at last in a sundress. “Last time I checked, I’d told you to stay out of my love life. Arthur, this is Merlin. He’s a writer.”
Merlin waves, and Arthur just raises his eyebrows. “Merlin? Really? Who next, Morgana? First Percival, now Merlin ... Lancelot, perhaps? Gawain?”
“I know a Lancelot, but he’s engaged,” offers Merlin. “And my mother ...” My mother decided on my name when I started doing magic in the womb. “My mother likes T.H. White.”
“Merlin, you’re an absolute love,” says Morgana, and pats his shoulder. Arthur stares at them like he isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing. “Give me your number and we’ll do coffee sometime, I want to hear all about the book.”
Merlin recognizes a dismissal when he hears one, so he takes a bit of paper and a pen and scrawls his name and number on it. “I’ll see about getting you a proof copy,” he promises, and flees before she can tell Arthur what last night was all about because he suspects Arthur could and would rip him into little bits with his very impressive muscles.
... Well. Good to know Morgana hasn’t turned him straight, then.
*
“Oh my God,” says Gwen when she’s finished laughing. “You actually did it!”
Merlin makes a note for at least the twentieth time this month to figure out a spell to stop him blushing that won’t cut off bloodflow to his brain, and looks plaintively at his best friend across the table. “Well, Mr. Killian said I ought, and I don’t know how else to fix it, and I spent all yesterday editing the sex scenes and they’re so much better ...”
“And you told her why you did it?” Gwen’s tone is suddenly severe, and Merlin nods. Which leads her to bursting out laughing again. “And her brother ...”
That’s really the worst part of it all. Morgana was so businesslike and frank about the whole thing that Merlin is willing to work past his awkward feelings about asking her to have sex with him, but Arthur’s arrival the morning after had thrown everything off. And it kept showing up the second he started revising any of the love story outside the sex scene too (the first time he’d written “golden” instead of “brown,” he’d written it off as distraction. The third time he’d started to worry about himself. The seventh time he’d found an unpadded piece of wall to beat his head against). “Her brother was a bit of an arse, but I suppose if I had a sister and came across her one night stand’s boxers in the hallway, I wouldn’t be happy either.”
“You always just smirked at me,” Gwen points out.
“Well, we also have to factor in that your type could probably take me apart in under thirty seconds.”
“Yeah, but then you could set them on fire with your brain. So it all evens out.” Merlin nods, seeing the wisdom of this. “So the brother was fit?”
“The brother was most likely straight and definitely didn’t get a good impression of me,” says Merlin, hoping to nip any such thoughts in the bud. Gwen is starting to gently mention other men, and while he’s moved on from Will and his horrified reaction to the magic, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to move on to anyone else.
“Maybe he didn’t make a move because you’d just slept with his sister and he assumed you were straight.”
“Maybe he assumes we’re both straight,” says Merlin, throwing his hands up. Gwen has a disconcerting tendency to not let things go. Luckily, his mobile rings before she can keep bothering him, and he lunges to answer it, even though he doesn’t know the number. “Hello?”
“Merlin? It’s Morgana.”
Merlin almost drops the phone. “Yes, hello. I sort of ... wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“Nonsense, you silly thing. I have to make sure you do my inspiration justice, don’t I? I’m having a little dinner party tomorrow night, and I wondered if you might come along. Always good to show off that I know a member of the literary elite.” Merlin blinks at the phone and waves off Gwen’s patented Questioning Eyebrows. He was cured of responding to them the second he met Gaius, his agent. “Perhaps you can stay afterwards, if you feel the need to do more research.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Lovely! I’ll see you then.”
Morgana hangs up, and Merlin looks back at Gwen, who has progressed to making impatient hand gestures at him. “So, it seems that I’m going to a dinner party at Morgana’s tomorrow night.”
Her squeal makes everyone else in the restaurant look at them.
*
Merlin arrives at Morgana’s flat the next night without a neckerchief and with a lily wrapped in colorful paper, since he doesn’t trust himself to choose wine, and he almost turns around and leaves when Arthur opens the door. Instead, he stares for half a minute while he tries to think of something to say, wishing that Arthur saw fit to help him out with that. “I would have brought wine, but Morgana seems to sort to be picky about it,” he says at last, and Arthur lets him in.
“Good thing you didn’t. Wine is generally my responsibility. And the flower is pretty.”
Morgana sweeps over to them, smile firmly in place, and Merlin offers her a sheepish smile, not sure if he’s there to be a boyfriend or a friend or simply a pet to show off. “The flower is lovely, Merlin, thank you. I’ll go put it in water.” She takes it from him and disappears again, leaving Merlin standing with Arthur and wondering what he’s supposed to do now.
“So, she didn’t tell me much about the party,” says Merlin.
“Of course she didn’t. Morgana likes people off-balance.” Arthur grabs his sleeve and tows him towards the dining room, where there are several strangers waiting, all of whom stop their conversations when Merlin arrives. He waves at all of them and tries out a smile. “Everyone, this is Merlin. He writes, apparently.”
With relief, he recognizes Morgana’s sister Morgause from the night at the club (and wonders if she’s related to Arthur as well. He suspects that a question on the subject would not be welcome). She gives him an assessing glance. “Pleased to see you again, Merlin.”
That seems to start all of them off. A blond man with a scarred face introduces himself as Edwin, a medical researcher and entomologist looking into insect-based healing (Merlin has a sinking feeling that means leeches). Mordred is a student of Morgana’s, apparently brilliant (Morgause informs him that Morgana studies myths and legends mostly). Nimueh is another history professor and possibly more terrifying than Morgana, and Tauren is creepy and some sort of politician. “These are Morgana’s latest best-and-brightest,” says Arthur in an undertone while Merlin stares around and tries to cement faces in his mind. “She fancies herself Madame Geoffrin for the modern age,” he adds, much louder, as Morgana comes in.
“If this were a salon, Arthur, I would have thrown you out the second you arrived at the door,” Morgana declares, and whisks around seating everyone to her satisfaction and caroling about Merlin’s books and saying Deeply Academic things about them that make Nimueh and Mordred nod wisely but just confuse Merlin.
They all seem to know each other well, and chat about current issues and culture and science over very posh food, and Merlin wishes desperately for fish and chips, or at least for Gwen, because he feels completely left behind except when Arthur stops having Very Serious Conversations with Tauren about who the next Prime Minister should be and asks him about his book and his flat and the coffee shop where he works so he doesn’t starve to death.
By ten, Merlin is a little tipsy from the excellent wine Arthur brought and has started to develop a hopeless infatuation with Arthur (he recognizes the signs, but he can’t quite figure out what to do to stop it all). Therefore, it seems more than a bit odd when Morgana claps her hands and tells everyone to get out of her flat before pinning Merlin with a smirk. “Everyone but you, that is. I want to talk some more about your book. In private.”
Merlin gulps, and very carefully doesn’t look at Arthur.
*
The next morning, Merlin stumbles back to his flat in last night’s clothes and immediately sits down at his laptop to start editing--first the sex scenes, the arch of Morgana’s spine fresh in his mind, and then working outwards, to the dialogue and the long build-up of the relationship. That has little to do with Morgana, but he still feels as if it’s coming easier than it did even when he was with Will.
When he realizes that he’s just closed his eyes to remember the feel of Arthur’s hand brushing his, refilling his wineglass, Merlin calls Gwen in a panic. “You do realize that this is all your own fault,” Gwen points out once she’s had the whole story out of him. “I mean, it’s awful, but you could have edited your book without getting this ‘experience,’ and then you wouldn’t be sleeping with Morgana and pining after her brother.”
“My life is a horrible American soap opera,” Merlin wails, and hangs up and goes back to his editing because it’s still flowing and he hasn’t accidentally started writing “he” instead of “she” yet, so things can’t be too terrible.
The next day, he ventures out of his flat for a shift at the coffee shop, and by some horrible law of the universe or perhaps because Merlin made the mistake of mentioning the name of his workplace, Arthur arrives near the end of his shift. “So,” he says after he’s ordered black coffee, right as Merlin is starting to wish another patron would come in. “How long have you and Morgana been seeing each other?”
Merlin ponders the likelihood of Arthur killing him if he finds out about his arrangement with Morgana. And then the likelihood of Arthur killing him if Morgana is the one to inform him about the arrangement, as she almost certainly will. “Um, we aren’t really seeing each other, per se.”
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” says Arthur, canting his hip against the counter like he intends to stay for a while. “She seems ... fond of you.”
“If this is where you tell me that if I hurt her you’ll rip me limb from limb--”
Arthur starts laughing. “Morgana is perfectly capable of defending herself. If you broke her heart, she would pin your balls to the wall with a shoe. I just want to know a bit more about you, is all.”
“Look, whatever it is you’re worrying about, don’t.” The next words are out of Merlin’s mouth before he can really think too much about them. “She’s just sleeping with me because my editor wanted me to have more experience with women.”
Arthur chokes on a sip of his coffee. Merlin may or may not use a bit of magic to keep his uniform from getting stained. “Explain.”
Merlin does, face bright red, and when he’s finished, Arthur just nods once, looking thoughtful, before walking out of the shop.
*
“I’m having another dinner party,” says Morgana on the phone a few nights later. “A slightly different group. Perhaps you can stay the night one last time?”
Merlin, staring at his cursor, decides that if he lived in one of his novels, Morgana would be asking that because she was longing to see him one last time. However, it’s more likely that she’s just taking pity on him again, and he decides he’s fine with that. “Sure, Morgana. I’ve only got a week and a half until deadline, it’ll be good to get some inspiration.”
“And maybe you can get Arthur to stop squinting at me like I’ve done something terrible. He usually looks at my boyfriends like that when he suspects they’ve been damaging my nonexistent virtue.”
That ... is not a good thing. “Ah, maybe I’d best not. See, I sort of told Arthur about our arrangement.”
Morgana actually laughs. “Oh, now you have to come. I shall never forgive you if you don’t. Bring your friend along--Gwen, is that her name? She sounds like good company. Her fiance can come too, I don’t mind, dinner won’t be anything formal.”
When Merlin arrives the next night, Gwen and Lance in tow, Morgana actually opens the door, smirk already fastened in place. She’s unusually effusive with her greetings, exclaiming over Gwen’s favorite yellow dress and Lance’s hair and kissing Merlin on both cheeks before leading them all to her living room, where there are plates of appetizers that Merlin suspects are meant to be called hors d’oeuvres.
Arthur is deep in conversation with a tall bearded man when they come in, but he straightens out of it when he sees Merlin and drags the other man over to him. “Leon, you haven’t met Merlin yet. He’s new to Morgana’s entourage, and he writes books.”
“You’re Merlin Emrys, then,” says Leon. “Morgana’s mentioned your books.” Just the tone in which he says Morgana’s name makes Merlin feel instantly guilty for sleeping with her. “Who are your friends?”
Merlin manages to make introductions and wonders what on earth Arthur is up to.
As the night goes on, and Morgana and Gwen bond instantly and Lance starts a serious conversation with Nimueh about something intellectual and Leon stares besottedly at Morgana while she flits around, Merlin doesn’t get any answers. Arthur always seems to be at his elbow, offering him celery sticks dipped in goat cheese or chatting about some arty film he doesn’t seem the type to see or whispering stories about what happened one time when Morgause had got drunk and challenged him to a duel.
It’s really weird going into Morgana’s room at the end of the night.
*
Merlin spends the next week locked in his flat except when he really has to go out (and even then he uses his magic to multiply his frozen meals so he has to go out less), the revisions for his book flowing better than he dreamed they could. He finds himself remembering Leon’s bashful stares at Morgana towards the beginning, and the way Morgana laughed with her head thrown back at one of Leon’s jokes and how startled they looked about it. Towards the end, he thinks of Gwen and Lance, and how even when they’re in separate conversations they check in with a touch to the arm or just a shared smile.
The middle, though, is filled with Arthur, to the point where it’s embarrassing. The traces of Will and of the Mills and Boon romances Merlin read in desperation after the breakup disappear, replaced by arched eyebrows and exasperated sighs and unexpected kindness. While he feels completely creepy relying so much on his interactions with a man he’s only met a few times, Merlin knows it’s some of the best writing he’s done, so he stays at his laptop and keeps changing word after word and scene after scene.
Three days before his deadline, Merlin e-mails the revised book to Gary Killian and to Morgana and sets his magic to cleaning his flat before collapsing facedown on the sofa and sleeping for a good twenty-four hours.
Merlin wakes up disoriented to the sound of someone pounding on his door. He staggers over, because Gwen has been known to make sure he hasn’t blown himself up with a botched spell or starved himself to death writing, and she gets upset when he doesn’t answer the door.
It’s not Gwen. It’s Arthur, hair rumpled and arms crossed, and Merlin stares at him for a second, wondering if he’s still dreaming. “You sent Morgana your book.”
If this were one of Merlin’s novels, the next words out of Arthur’s mouth would be And I read it, and I saw myself in it, and it made me realize how much I love you or something equally ridiculous. There’s a silence before Merlin realizes that life is not fiction, and then he steps aside. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please.” Arthur walks in and looks around--the flat’s clean, his magic did that much for him, but it’s still sparsely furnished with plot diagrams and maps on the parts of the walls that don’t have cushions attached to them. “So, the book’s finished, then?”
“Unless Mr. Killian thinks it needs another revision.”
“Judging by Morgana’s squeals of glee, I think you’re safe from that. And speaking of Morgana ...”
Merlin fidgets. “If this is where you tell me to leave her alone now that I’m finished getting the ‘experience’ ...”
“Actually,” starts Arthur, and then he huffs out a laugh. “Actually, I sort of wondered if you wanted to go to dinner with me sometime now that your arrangement with Morgana is finished with.”
Belatedly, Merlin pinches himself, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen to him, at least not with men this gorgeous. Arthur rolls his eyes, and that more than the pain convinces him that this is actually reality. “Um, sure. But you could have called me or something, you know.”
Arthur smirks. “Yes, I could have, but I thought maybe this way I would be able to seduce you.”
It’s all Merlin can do to keep his magic from lighting every candle in the flat like he’s some soppy girl, but Arthur seems to get that he’s into the idea, because he walks forward, holds Merlin’s face in his hands, and kisses him.
*
Disregarding the obvious physical differences, Merlin had thought (when he allowed himself to think about it, at least) that Arthur would be a lot like Morgana in bed--still managing to be aloof and amused and bossy, almost clinical about it.
Well, bossy about covers it, thinks Merlin, blinking at Arthur, sprawled naked and golden across his messy futon, half-hard and smirking. “Hurry up, Merlin, I’m not going to wait forever.”
Merlin scrambles out of his pajamas, tripping over the pants, and expects Arthur to mock him for it in the same way that Morgana might, but Arthur just throws his head back and chuckles, lazily palming himself, and lets out a surprised exhale when Merlin manages to tumble into the bed and fall across him. It’s been a while since Will, so it’s almost a shock to feel the flat muscled chest and especially the dusting of hair, and Arthur’s strong arms wrapping around him, making him feel as thin and fragile as Morgana felt under his hands (although Morgana can probably snap him in half).
Arthur kisses him like Merlin’s a particularly delicious bar of chocolate, and Merlin forgets to compare him to Morgana at all, because this feels better than Morgana possibly could, with Arthur’s stubble scraping his cheek and Arthur’s hand resting warm and large on his hip and Arthur’s cock brushing against his.
They don’t do anything fancy. Arthur manhandles Merlin, arranges him loose-limbed over his own body, and they rut together, slow at first, and then faster and almost desperate, and the world is friction and sweat and Arthur’s choked-off words in his ear (“wanted--want--God, Merl--”) and his magic tingling in the air around them, and Merlin doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear they’re glowing gold.
Five minutes--five centuries--fuck it, a while later, Arthur bucks his hips so hard Merlin rolls off of him and almost falls off the bed, coming with a gasp and taking deep breaths before pulling Merlin back to him, sticky and disgusting and perfect, touching Merlin with shaky hands until he lets out a whine and sags against Arthur.
“The lamp,” Arthur pants a few moments later, “is floating. Remind me to ask why in the morning.”
*
“Do you know,” Morgana says at another of her dinner parties a week later, “why I approached you at the club in the first place?”
Merlin blinks and manages to stop staring besottedly at Arthur, who is talking with Lance across the room, making expansive gestures and grinning. “I figured you felt sorry for me being all alone,” he admits.
She pats his arm. “Perhaps a bit, but it wasn’t even close to the main reason. I came over because ... let’s call it intuition.” He doesn’t quite understand her smile. “I just knew that you and Arthur would be perfect for each other, and I wanted to get your contact information so I could set the two of you up.”
“Then why did you sleep with me?” he blurts, a bit too loud, and Morgause rolls her eyes from nearby. Luckily Leon is near Lance and Arthur and unlikely to hear.
“Because it will make a fabulous story to tell at your wedding reception.”
Merlin splutters, because he knows Morgana would do it, and also because he and Arthur have been attempting to go out for dinner (they rarely make it outside their flats and usually end up having takeaway at midnight) for a week, which isn’t quite enough time to be making wedding plans. “He’ll kill you, you know. And my mother would faint.”
Morgana’s glee is unabated. “It’s such a perfect story, though. I suppose I ought to play the bitter other woman, but really, the second Arthur walked into my flat that morning, it was a done deal. At least I get a book dedication out of the deal. How did Killian like the revisions, by the way?”
This is much safer ground. “Oh, he loves it. Talked a lot about me finding the other side of my coin, and being on the path to find my literary destiny.” And it’s certainly true that these revisions have changed his life so much in a month that he has trouble remembering that he was quite recently moping over Will and talking to almost nobody but Gwen and Lance.
Now he can hear Nimueh and Mordred debating something about femininity in legends and Gwen asking Morgause about where she gets her hair done and see Lance say something that makes Leon throw his head back with laughter (and he makes a note to mock Morgana later for smiling a bit soppily at that, because really, pot, kettle). He catches Arthur’s eye across the room and they grin at each other, and it takes a second for him to realize that Morgana has clinked her glass of wine against his.
“To destiny, then,” she says, and Merlin couldn’t agree more.
*
For Morgana, my muse
Arthur--the next one’s for you.
Summary: In which Merlin and Morgana have a lot of sex, but Merlin falls in love with Arthur anyway.
A/N: From this kinkme_merlin prompt: Merlin is a first-time author hoping to get published, but his publisher tells him he needs more "real life experience" (ie. have sex with a woman) because the book requires more romance. Merlin meets Morgana and decides to seduce her. He also meets Arthur, who knows exactly what's going on. Merlin ends up getting the "experience" from Morgana, but winds up getting the romance from Arthur.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin. And "Too loud, very unseemly" belongs to The Great Joss Whedon.
“This isn’t up to your usual standards, my boy.”
Merlin stares miserably across the desk at his editor, who has just patted his latest manuscript offering, and tries to think of something to say that isn’t I know. “I know.” Damn it.
“The quest motif and your subversions of it were inspired, and I’ve thought so ever since I saw the proposal, but the romance ...” Gary Killian, editor extraordinaire for Albion Press, steeples his fingers, and Merlin slumps in his seat. “I expected better of you.”
Mr. Killian has a way of making Merlin want to babble anything and everything just to make him stop raising his eyebrows, but this time he valiantly resists the urge. “I haven’t really tried to write romance before,” he offers weakly, because it’s true. Other than a few pieces of bread-and-butter writing that only got posted on the internet, but those definitely aren’t on his CV and there weren’t women involved in them, and that seems to be the problem.
“It’s ... without substance. Trite. To be honest, Merlin, it sounds as if you’ve never had experience with women.”
That’s pretty much true, other than a few drunken fumbles on a trip to a lake with a girl named Freya in sixth form, but Merlin doesn’t want to sound pathetic and he definitely doesn’t want to out himself in a business meeting. “Um,” he manages.
“You’ve still got three weeks before deadline, Merlin. Perhaps you’d better ... get the experience, and do some more edits. Find a nice girl, make it ring true.”
Merlin realizes with some horror that he’s discussing his sex life with his editor, which is even more awkward than discussing it with his agent Gaius. He’s got a thousand objections on the tip of his tongue, about how he shouldn’t have to sleep with someone for his art, because romance isn’t necessarily the problem--he’d written most of the book while he was still with Will. But then, maybe it’s the “most” that’s the problem. He might have been a little bitter during the edits. And his experiences with Will wouldn’t really help with the sex scene he’d written, blushing the whole time, because Will lacked breasts and a vagina. Which was great, as far as Merlin was concerned. “Okay?”
“I’ll expect your revisions in three weeks, Merlin. See yourself out, will you?”
With a jerky nod, Merlin grabs his bag and escapes from the room before he actually combusts from shame. He calls Gwen the instant he gets out of the building, before realizing that she’s at work like a responsible adult, but she answers anyway. “Gwen!” he cries before modulating his tone and remembering he’s in public. “My editor wants me to seduce a woman!”
“... Hold on a minute.” There are a few muffled conversations and a long silence as Gwen presumably takes the conversation somewhere private. Or perhaps puts it on speakerphone. He wouldn’t put it past her. “Now, your editor wants you to what?”
“He says the romance doesn’t ring true, and then basically told me to go off and have sex! With a woman!” ... Too loud, very unseemly. Merlin grimaces an apology at a shocked-looking woman. “The sex doesn’t ring true, but the magic does!”
“He, um, he does realize that you’re about eighty-five percent into men, right? And there are reasons for the magic ringing true.” She whispers the last part.
“Yes, fine, but that’s not the problem. I just know that the romance is apparently terrible and it must be fixed, and--Gwen. Gwen, I have had a brilliant idea.”
Gwen is understandably hesitant when she answers. “Your last brilliant idea ended up with Trickler spiking the punch at my flat-warming party.”
“Yeah, but the one before that ended up with you engaged to Lance, so, you know, it all evens out.” He can almost hear her roll her eyes. “I should just sleep with you!”
“Merlin.” She sighs. “You just mentioned my fiance two seconds ago, and then propositioned me.”
“Lance knows I’m gay, he knows I wouldn’t steal you away.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Look, if you need it for the book, then find someone--God knows you need to, after Will. But it won’t be me, and I hope you have the decency to tell her that you’re using her for literature.” There’s something that sounds like a knock on the other end, and Merlin realizes that Gwen probably locked herself in a supply closet to talk to him. “I’ve got to go. Use a condom.”
“You’re a horrible person,” he informs her, but she’s already hung up.
*
That night, Merlin finds himself in a club, clutching a Coke because he doesn’t want to be drunk and run the risk of forgetting his “experience.” He doesn’t want to have to do it multiple times, because he feels a complete arse.
Of course, the problem seems to be getting to the first time, because he isn’t attracting many women. Or any, in fact. He resists the urge to ring Gwen and ask her if he’s completely unlovable, because she put up with far too much of that after the split with Will.
There’s a pair of girls who’ve been at the table next to his on and off for most of the night--one of them’s blonde and one has dark hair, but they look like sisters nonetheless, and the dark-haired one seems to be keeping an eye on him. The next time Merlin catches her looking, he gives her one of his brightest smiles, and less than thirty seconds later, she approaches him, smirking. “You aren’t dancing,” she half-shouts over the music.
“I didn’t want to cause anyone grievous bodily harm,” he replies. She laughs. “I’m Merlin.”
“Morgana.” She slides into the other seat at his table, and Merlin blinks and wonders if he was flirting with her by accident or if she’s just naturally this friendly. “So what are you doing in a club alone if you don’t want to dance?”
Merlin hopes that he’s leering, but judging by her expression, he just looks confused. “Enjoying the scenery.”
The blonde stops off at their table, jacket in hand and a scruffy-looking man hanging behind her. “I’m off for the night. See you on Tuesday.” She gives Merlin an appraising look and a nod before sweeping away.
“That was Morgause. My ... half-sister? Something like that, anyway.” Morgana grins at him in a way that his writer’s brain attempts to call “predatory” before he reminds himself that he doesn’t actually write romance novels. “So. Merlin. Tell me all about yourself.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Wait, then are you Merlin as in Merlin Emrys?” Merlin blinks and nods. He’s published two books, but it never ceases to shock him that people actually read them. Well, people who aren’t his mother, anyway. “I absolutely love your work.”
Oh, good. That makes everything so much easier. He hopes. “Would you happen to want to sleep with me for the sake of my next novel?”
Morgana chokes, and Merlin wants to sink into the floor, because he hadn’t meant to be quite that blunt. “You ... what? I thought you were ... I mean, I always got the impression ...” She waves her hand and he realizes that perhaps the fact that he kept his neckerchief on might have scared away some women. Which begs the question of why she came over to talk to him in the first place. “You want me to sleep with you?”
“Um, yes.” Merlin explains the problem in fits and starts, because he doesn’t want to be a horrible user and he suspects that Morgana could easily string him up by his ears if he slept with her for inspiration without telling her that he was doing so.
There’s a long silence while Morgana processes the story, and Merlin prepares himself to flee before she can call the police and have him hauled away for harassment or something equally mortifying, but then she grins again. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse. Will you dedicate the book to me?”
“Why not?” He’d meant to dedicate it to Gwen, but she’ll understand.
“Well, then. My place or yours?”
Merlin thinks of his apartment, which has lapdesks nailed soft-side out at strategic places on the walls because Gwen was starting to worry that he would concuss himself. “Yours. Definitely yours.”
*
Morgana strips them both with terrifying efficiency almost the second they’re in the apartment, leaving a trail of discarded garments, and Merlin manages not to gape at her while she strolls into the bedroom in nothing but knickers and high heels. He does stumble trying to take his socks off, though, and takes a moment to go red-faced with mortification before banishing the rest of his clothes to the floor with a golden-eyed glance. A second later, Morgana is at the door to her bedroom, leaning on the frame with an arm stretched over her head, flaunting. “You coming, Shakespeare?”
Merlin manages to stop remembering that he is in fact at least partly bisexual long enough to step out of his pile of clothes. “Quick as I can.”
“You’d better hope not.”
The second he gets close enough, while he’s still stammering about not having meant that at all, Morgana grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. In the heels, she’s almost as tall as he is, and she kisses hard, but her lips are softer than Will’s ever were, and when he pulls her closer, it takes a second for him to fit everything together properly.
A bit later, she pushes him away and he puts a hand on the door frame to steady himself while she walks to the bed and tips back onto it, kicking off her shoes and starting to shimmy out of her knickers the second she’s down. “Come and let me show you how it’s done.”
Merlin stumbles over to the bed and is about to call it off from sheer embarrassment until she rolls her eyes, grabs his hand, and pulls him down on top of her. And then she rolls them over until she’s on top and reaches into a nightstand to pull out a condom. Merlin swallows hard, and she laughs. He wonders if he ought to be offended, but before he can muster the willpower, she’s kissing him again, hair falling to block the low light out while she nips at his lower lip and he proves that he does know how to kiss, at least, even if it feels odd, not catching on stubble while he does so.
“Breasts, Merlin,” she says eventually, sounding exasperated. “Much as I enjoy necking, I thought you wanted the full experience.”
Merlin obediently runs his fingers first across her collar bones and then down to her breasts, and she arches against him before attaching her mouth to his neck. “Like this?” Merlin asks, and then starts using every trick in his arsenal.
His arsenal isn’t large, but apparently it’s effective, because a few minutes later, about the time that he figures out that Morgana really likes it when he gently nips her breasts, she grabs one of his hands and puts it right between her legs. “Right then,” she says, splaying her knees apart. “Let’s see how long it takes you to find the clitoris.”
“The commentary is the least sexy thing ...” Merlin mutters into her chest.
“Less than three tries and I’ll go down on you,” says Morgana, and that’s definitely motivation enough for anyone, and sure enough, on the third try, she rocks against him and nods. “There’s a lad. Keep at that for a bit, please.”
She only gives that a few minutes, rocking against Merlin’s growing erection, before pulling abruptly away and sliding down the bed to take his cock in her mouth, and five minutes later, he’s doing his best not to explode while she grabs the condom and puts it on him before putting her knees on either side of his hips and sliding over him.
Merlin comes embarrassingly fast, but she pats his shoulder and tells him to stay the night anyway.
*
“You filthy tart!” someone shouts, and it’s not Gwen unless Gwen turned into a man who sounds like he was brought up at Eton, and that would require magic, and he hasn’t done accidental magic while he’s come in several years and ... oh. Merlin sneaks a peek at Morgana, who’s just starting to stir, and wonders if he’s about to be beaten up by a beefy boyfriend. “If you had someone over, you could have called me to come back some other time!”
So, not a boyfriend then. “Fuck off, Arthur,” groans Morgana, and peels her eyes open to smile at Merlin. Merlin manages to smile back. “How are you feeling? We ought to do that again sometime, make sure you’ve got it right.”
“I ... I’m still mostly gay.”
She pats his hand. “Of course you are. And you aren’t my type. My type tends to look at breasts as an asset and not a mystery, for instance. Your pants wouldn’t happen to be in my bedroom, would they?”
“Who is out there?”
“Morgana!” Someone is knocking on the bedroom door. Merlin buries his face in the mattress. “Morgana, if you fucked a serial killer and are dead in there, my father is going to kill me.”
Morgana sits up in bed, pulling the sheet with her. “Arthur, if there’s a pair of men’s boxers out there, could you toss them in, please? My serial killer’s a bit shy.”
“It’s okay, she’s safe, I only kill blondes,” calls Merlin, still half-asleep, and Morgana chokes on laughter as the door creaks open and Merlin is greeted with the sight of a Greek god with a handkerchief over his hand gingerly holding Merlin’s boxers. “Just ... um.” His power of speech deserts him momentarily as he takes in the figure at the door.
“Toss them in and shut the door, would you?” The other man does as bid, though he still looks incredulous. “That’s Arthur, he’s my foster brother. And he is two hours early for brunch,” she says, loud enough that he has to hear her. “He’ll probably interrogate you about your intentions, but he’s quite harmless, really.”
Merlin scrambles out of bed and into his boxers, glad that Morgana apparently doesn’t feel awkward in the least about what they did because that makes one of them. “As long as he doesn’t kill me.”
“He has people for that, I’m pretty sure.” Merlin gulps. Morgana pats his cheek on her way to the wardrobe. “Don’t worry, I can defang him quite easily. Now, go out there and get your clothes on.”
“Shouldn’t you, you know, get on with the defanging before I talk to him?”
Morgana puts her hands on her hips, and Merlin flees.
*
Merlin follows the trail of his clothing back to Morgana’s living room, dressing as he goes, so he’s fully-dressed when he almost smacks into Arthur while he’s hopping to get his left shoe on. “Sorry,” he mutters, and grins in triumph as he succeeds with the shoe.
Arthur doesn’t seem inclined to speak directly to him. “Morgana, where the hell did you find this one? Is he even eighteen?”
“I’m almost twenty-five,” mutters Merlin, and looks around the floor for his neckerchief, which was the first thing to go.
“You don’t look it. What are you looking for?” Merlin finds the neckerchief sticking out from under the sofa and shakes the dust off of it. Morgana’s flat may look neat, but she doesn’t seem to sweep under her furniture. He decides to stuff it in his pocket. There is a long, awkward silence, and Merlin wonders if he’s supposed to leave before Morgana emerges. “So,” says Arthur, and Merlin’s heart sinks. “How long have you known Morgana?”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” says Morgana, emerging at last in a sundress. “Last time I checked, I’d told you to stay out of my love life. Arthur, this is Merlin. He’s a writer.”
Merlin waves, and Arthur just raises his eyebrows. “Merlin? Really? Who next, Morgana? First Percival, now Merlin ... Lancelot, perhaps? Gawain?”
“I know a Lancelot, but he’s engaged,” offers Merlin. “And my mother ...” My mother decided on my name when I started doing magic in the womb. “My mother likes T.H. White.”
“Merlin, you’re an absolute love,” says Morgana, and pats his shoulder. Arthur stares at them like he isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing. “Give me your number and we’ll do coffee sometime, I want to hear all about the book.”
Merlin recognizes a dismissal when he hears one, so he takes a bit of paper and a pen and scrawls his name and number on it. “I’ll see about getting you a proof copy,” he promises, and flees before she can tell Arthur what last night was all about because he suspects Arthur could and would rip him into little bits with his very impressive muscles.
... Well. Good to know Morgana hasn’t turned him straight, then.
*
“Oh my God,” says Gwen when she’s finished laughing. “You actually did it!”
Merlin makes a note for at least the twentieth time this month to figure out a spell to stop him blushing that won’t cut off bloodflow to his brain, and looks plaintively at his best friend across the table. “Well, Mr. Killian said I ought, and I don’t know how else to fix it, and I spent all yesterday editing the sex scenes and they’re so much better ...”
“And you told her why you did it?” Gwen’s tone is suddenly severe, and Merlin nods. Which leads her to bursting out laughing again. “And her brother ...”
That’s really the worst part of it all. Morgana was so businesslike and frank about the whole thing that Merlin is willing to work past his awkward feelings about asking her to have sex with him, but Arthur’s arrival the morning after had thrown everything off. And it kept showing up the second he started revising any of the love story outside the sex scene too (the first time he’d written “golden” instead of “brown,” he’d written it off as distraction. The third time he’d started to worry about himself. The seventh time he’d found an unpadded piece of wall to beat his head against). “Her brother was a bit of an arse, but I suppose if I had a sister and came across her one night stand’s boxers in the hallway, I wouldn’t be happy either.”
“You always just smirked at me,” Gwen points out.
“Well, we also have to factor in that your type could probably take me apart in under thirty seconds.”
“Yeah, but then you could set them on fire with your brain. So it all evens out.” Merlin nods, seeing the wisdom of this. “So the brother was fit?”
“The brother was most likely straight and definitely didn’t get a good impression of me,” says Merlin, hoping to nip any such thoughts in the bud. Gwen is starting to gently mention other men, and while he’s moved on from Will and his horrified reaction to the magic, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to move on to anyone else.
“Maybe he didn’t make a move because you’d just slept with his sister and he assumed you were straight.”
“Maybe he assumes we’re both straight,” says Merlin, throwing his hands up. Gwen has a disconcerting tendency to not let things go. Luckily, his mobile rings before she can keep bothering him, and he lunges to answer it, even though he doesn’t know the number. “Hello?”
“Merlin? It’s Morgana.”
Merlin almost drops the phone. “Yes, hello. I sort of ... wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“Nonsense, you silly thing. I have to make sure you do my inspiration justice, don’t I? I’m having a little dinner party tomorrow night, and I wondered if you might come along. Always good to show off that I know a member of the literary elite.” Merlin blinks at the phone and waves off Gwen’s patented Questioning Eyebrows. He was cured of responding to them the second he met Gaius, his agent. “Perhaps you can stay afterwards, if you feel the need to do more research.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Lovely! I’ll see you then.”
Morgana hangs up, and Merlin looks back at Gwen, who has progressed to making impatient hand gestures at him. “So, it seems that I’m going to a dinner party at Morgana’s tomorrow night.”
Her squeal makes everyone else in the restaurant look at them.
*
Merlin arrives at Morgana’s flat the next night without a neckerchief and with a lily wrapped in colorful paper, since he doesn’t trust himself to choose wine, and he almost turns around and leaves when Arthur opens the door. Instead, he stares for half a minute while he tries to think of something to say, wishing that Arthur saw fit to help him out with that. “I would have brought wine, but Morgana seems to sort to be picky about it,” he says at last, and Arthur lets him in.
“Good thing you didn’t. Wine is generally my responsibility. And the flower is pretty.”
Morgana sweeps over to them, smile firmly in place, and Merlin offers her a sheepish smile, not sure if he’s there to be a boyfriend or a friend or simply a pet to show off. “The flower is lovely, Merlin, thank you. I’ll go put it in water.” She takes it from him and disappears again, leaving Merlin standing with Arthur and wondering what he’s supposed to do now.
“So, she didn’t tell me much about the party,” says Merlin.
“Of course she didn’t. Morgana likes people off-balance.” Arthur grabs his sleeve and tows him towards the dining room, where there are several strangers waiting, all of whom stop their conversations when Merlin arrives. He waves at all of them and tries out a smile. “Everyone, this is Merlin. He writes, apparently.”
With relief, he recognizes Morgana’s sister Morgause from the night at the club (and wonders if she’s related to Arthur as well. He suspects that a question on the subject would not be welcome). She gives him an assessing glance. “Pleased to see you again, Merlin.”
That seems to start all of them off. A blond man with a scarred face introduces himself as Edwin, a medical researcher and entomologist looking into insect-based healing (Merlin has a sinking feeling that means leeches). Mordred is a student of Morgana’s, apparently brilliant (Morgause informs him that Morgana studies myths and legends mostly). Nimueh is another history professor and possibly more terrifying than Morgana, and Tauren is creepy and some sort of politician. “These are Morgana’s latest best-and-brightest,” says Arthur in an undertone while Merlin stares around and tries to cement faces in his mind. “She fancies herself Madame Geoffrin for the modern age,” he adds, much louder, as Morgana comes in.
“If this were a salon, Arthur, I would have thrown you out the second you arrived at the door,” Morgana declares, and whisks around seating everyone to her satisfaction and caroling about Merlin’s books and saying Deeply Academic things about them that make Nimueh and Mordred nod wisely but just confuse Merlin.
They all seem to know each other well, and chat about current issues and culture and science over very posh food, and Merlin wishes desperately for fish and chips, or at least for Gwen, because he feels completely left behind except when Arthur stops having Very Serious Conversations with Tauren about who the next Prime Minister should be and asks him about his book and his flat and the coffee shop where he works so he doesn’t starve to death.
By ten, Merlin is a little tipsy from the excellent wine Arthur brought and has started to develop a hopeless infatuation with Arthur (he recognizes the signs, but he can’t quite figure out what to do to stop it all). Therefore, it seems more than a bit odd when Morgana claps her hands and tells everyone to get out of her flat before pinning Merlin with a smirk. “Everyone but you, that is. I want to talk some more about your book. In private.”
Merlin gulps, and very carefully doesn’t look at Arthur.
*
The next morning, Merlin stumbles back to his flat in last night’s clothes and immediately sits down at his laptop to start editing--first the sex scenes, the arch of Morgana’s spine fresh in his mind, and then working outwards, to the dialogue and the long build-up of the relationship. That has little to do with Morgana, but he still feels as if it’s coming easier than it did even when he was with Will.
When he realizes that he’s just closed his eyes to remember the feel of Arthur’s hand brushing his, refilling his wineglass, Merlin calls Gwen in a panic. “You do realize that this is all your own fault,” Gwen points out once she’s had the whole story out of him. “I mean, it’s awful, but you could have edited your book without getting this ‘experience,’ and then you wouldn’t be sleeping with Morgana and pining after her brother.”
“My life is a horrible American soap opera,” Merlin wails, and hangs up and goes back to his editing because it’s still flowing and he hasn’t accidentally started writing “he” instead of “she” yet, so things can’t be too terrible.
The next day, he ventures out of his flat for a shift at the coffee shop, and by some horrible law of the universe or perhaps because Merlin made the mistake of mentioning the name of his workplace, Arthur arrives near the end of his shift. “So,” he says after he’s ordered black coffee, right as Merlin is starting to wish another patron would come in. “How long have you and Morgana been seeing each other?”
Merlin ponders the likelihood of Arthur killing him if he finds out about his arrangement with Morgana. And then the likelihood of Arthur killing him if Morgana is the one to inform him about the arrangement, as she almost certainly will. “Um, we aren’t really seeing each other, per se.”
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” says Arthur, canting his hip against the counter like he intends to stay for a while. “She seems ... fond of you.”
“If this is where you tell me that if I hurt her you’ll rip me limb from limb--”
Arthur starts laughing. “Morgana is perfectly capable of defending herself. If you broke her heart, she would pin your balls to the wall with a shoe. I just want to know a bit more about you, is all.”
“Look, whatever it is you’re worrying about, don’t.” The next words are out of Merlin’s mouth before he can really think too much about them. “She’s just sleeping with me because my editor wanted me to have more experience with women.”
Arthur chokes on a sip of his coffee. Merlin may or may not use a bit of magic to keep his uniform from getting stained. “Explain.”
Merlin does, face bright red, and when he’s finished, Arthur just nods once, looking thoughtful, before walking out of the shop.
*
“I’m having another dinner party,” says Morgana on the phone a few nights later. “A slightly different group. Perhaps you can stay the night one last time?”
Merlin, staring at his cursor, decides that if he lived in one of his novels, Morgana would be asking that because she was longing to see him one last time. However, it’s more likely that she’s just taking pity on him again, and he decides he’s fine with that. “Sure, Morgana. I’ve only got a week and a half until deadline, it’ll be good to get some inspiration.”
“And maybe you can get Arthur to stop squinting at me like I’ve done something terrible. He usually looks at my boyfriends like that when he suspects they’ve been damaging my nonexistent virtue.”
That ... is not a good thing. “Ah, maybe I’d best not. See, I sort of told Arthur about our arrangement.”
Morgana actually laughs. “Oh, now you have to come. I shall never forgive you if you don’t. Bring your friend along--Gwen, is that her name? She sounds like good company. Her fiance can come too, I don’t mind, dinner won’t be anything formal.”
When Merlin arrives the next night, Gwen and Lance in tow, Morgana actually opens the door, smirk already fastened in place. She’s unusually effusive with her greetings, exclaiming over Gwen’s favorite yellow dress and Lance’s hair and kissing Merlin on both cheeks before leading them all to her living room, where there are plates of appetizers that Merlin suspects are meant to be called hors d’oeuvres.
Arthur is deep in conversation with a tall bearded man when they come in, but he straightens out of it when he sees Merlin and drags the other man over to him. “Leon, you haven’t met Merlin yet. He’s new to Morgana’s entourage, and he writes books.”
“You’re Merlin Emrys, then,” says Leon. “Morgana’s mentioned your books.” Just the tone in which he says Morgana’s name makes Merlin feel instantly guilty for sleeping with her. “Who are your friends?”
Merlin manages to make introductions and wonders what on earth Arthur is up to.
As the night goes on, and Morgana and Gwen bond instantly and Lance starts a serious conversation with Nimueh about something intellectual and Leon stares besottedly at Morgana while she flits around, Merlin doesn’t get any answers. Arthur always seems to be at his elbow, offering him celery sticks dipped in goat cheese or chatting about some arty film he doesn’t seem the type to see or whispering stories about what happened one time when Morgause had got drunk and challenged him to a duel.
It’s really weird going into Morgana’s room at the end of the night.
*
Merlin spends the next week locked in his flat except when he really has to go out (and even then he uses his magic to multiply his frozen meals so he has to go out less), the revisions for his book flowing better than he dreamed they could. He finds himself remembering Leon’s bashful stares at Morgana towards the beginning, and the way Morgana laughed with her head thrown back at one of Leon’s jokes and how startled they looked about it. Towards the end, he thinks of Gwen and Lance, and how even when they’re in separate conversations they check in with a touch to the arm or just a shared smile.
The middle, though, is filled with Arthur, to the point where it’s embarrassing. The traces of Will and of the Mills and Boon romances Merlin read in desperation after the breakup disappear, replaced by arched eyebrows and exasperated sighs and unexpected kindness. While he feels completely creepy relying so much on his interactions with a man he’s only met a few times, Merlin knows it’s some of the best writing he’s done, so he stays at his laptop and keeps changing word after word and scene after scene.
Three days before his deadline, Merlin e-mails the revised book to Gary Killian and to Morgana and sets his magic to cleaning his flat before collapsing facedown on the sofa and sleeping for a good twenty-four hours.
Merlin wakes up disoriented to the sound of someone pounding on his door. He staggers over, because Gwen has been known to make sure he hasn’t blown himself up with a botched spell or starved himself to death writing, and she gets upset when he doesn’t answer the door.
It’s not Gwen. It’s Arthur, hair rumpled and arms crossed, and Merlin stares at him for a second, wondering if he’s still dreaming. “You sent Morgana your book.”
If this were one of Merlin’s novels, the next words out of Arthur’s mouth would be And I read it, and I saw myself in it, and it made me realize how much I love you or something equally ridiculous. There’s a silence before Merlin realizes that life is not fiction, and then he steps aside. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please.” Arthur walks in and looks around--the flat’s clean, his magic did that much for him, but it’s still sparsely furnished with plot diagrams and maps on the parts of the walls that don’t have cushions attached to them. “So, the book’s finished, then?”
“Unless Mr. Killian thinks it needs another revision.”
“Judging by Morgana’s squeals of glee, I think you’re safe from that. And speaking of Morgana ...”
Merlin fidgets. “If this is where you tell me to leave her alone now that I’m finished getting the ‘experience’ ...”
“Actually,” starts Arthur, and then he huffs out a laugh. “Actually, I sort of wondered if you wanted to go to dinner with me sometime now that your arrangement with Morgana is finished with.”
Belatedly, Merlin pinches himself, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen to him, at least not with men this gorgeous. Arthur rolls his eyes, and that more than the pain convinces him that this is actually reality. “Um, sure. But you could have called me or something, you know.”
Arthur smirks. “Yes, I could have, but I thought maybe this way I would be able to seduce you.”
It’s all Merlin can do to keep his magic from lighting every candle in the flat like he’s some soppy girl, but Arthur seems to get that he’s into the idea, because he walks forward, holds Merlin’s face in his hands, and kisses him.
*
Disregarding the obvious physical differences, Merlin had thought (when he allowed himself to think about it, at least) that Arthur would be a lot like Morgana in bed--still managing to be aloof and amused and bossy, almost clinical about it.
Well, bossy about covers it, thinks Merlin, blinking at Arthur, sprawled naked and golden across his messy futon, half-hard and smirking. “Hurry up, Merlin, I’m not going to wait forever.”
Merlin scrambles out of his pajamas, tripping over the pants, and expects Arthur to mock him for it in the same way that Morgana might, but Arthur just throws his head back and chuckles, lazily palming himself, and lets out a surprised exhale when Merlin manages to tumble into the bed and fall across him. It’s been a while since Will, so it’s almost a shock to feel the flat muscled chest and especially the dusting of hair, and Arthur’s strong arms wrapping around him, making him feel as thin and fragile as Morgana felt under his hands (although Morgana can probably snap him in half).
Arthur kisses him like Merlin’s a particularly delicious bar of chocolate, and Merlin forgets to compare him to Morgana at all, because this feels better than Morgana possibly could, with Arthur’s stubble scraping his cheek and Arthur’s hand resting warm and large on his hip and Arthur’s cock brushing against his.
They don’t do anything fancy. Arthur manhandles Merlin, arranges him loose-limbed over his own body, and they rut together, slow at first, and then faster and almost desperate, and the world is friction and sweat and Arthur’s choked-off words in his ear (“wanted--want--God, Merl--”) and his magic tingling in the air around them, and Merlin doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear they’re glowing gold.
Five minutes--five centuries--fuck it, a while later, Arthur bucks his hips so hard Merlin rolls off of him and almost falls off the bed, coming with a gasp and taking deep breaths before pulling Merlin back to him, sticky and disgusting and perfect, touching Merlin with shaky hands until he lets out a whine and sags against Arthur.
“The lamp,” Arthur pants a few moments later, “is floating. Remind me to ask why in the morning.”
*
“Do you know,” Morgana says at another of her dinner parties a week later, “why I approached you at the club in the first place?”
Merlin blinks and manages to stop staring besottedly at Arthur, who is talking with Lance across the room, making expansive gestures and grinning. “I figured you felt sorry for me being all alone,” he admits.
She pats his arm. “Perhaps a bit, but it wasn’t even close to the main reason. I came over because ... let’s call it intuition.” He doesn’t quite understand her smile. “I just knew that you and Arthur would be perfect for each other, and I wanted to get your contact information so I could set the two of you up.”
“Then why did you sleep with me?” he blurts, a bit too loud, and Morgause rolls her eyes from nearby. Luckily Leon is near Lance and Arthur and unlikely to hear.
“Because it will make a fabulous story to tell at your wedding reception.”
Merlin splutters, because he knows Morgana would do it, and also because he and Arthur have been attempting to go out for dinner (they rarely make it outside their flats and usually end up having takeaway at midnight) for a week, which isn’t quite enough time to be making wedding plans. “He’ll kill you, you know. And my mother would faint.”
Morgana’s glee is unabated. “It’s such a perfect story, though. I suppose I ought to play the bitter other woman, but really, the second Arthur walked into my flat that morning, it was a done deal. At least I get a book dedication out of the deal. How did Killian like the revisions, by the way?”
This is much safer ground. “Oh, he loves it. Talked a lot about me finding the other side of my coin, and being on the path to find my literary destiny.” And it’s certainly true that these revisions have changed his life so much in a month that he has trouble remembering that he was quite recently moping over Will and talking to almost nobody but Gwen and Lance.
Now he can hear Nimueh and Mordred debating something about femininity in legends and Gwen asking Morgause about where she gets her hair done and see Lance say something that makes Leon throw his head back with laughter (and he makes a note to mock Morgana later for smiling a bit soppily at that, because really, pot, kettle). He catches Arthur’s eye across the room and they grin at each other, and it takes a second for him to realize that Morgana has clinked her glass of wine against his.
“To destiny, then,” she says, and Merlin couldn’t agree more.
*
For Morgana, my muse
Arthur--the next one’s for you.