srin
in
mad_poetics
Pornathon, part 2
Here are the rest of my pornathon entries!
All of the regular entries are NC-17 and 740-750 words.
Challenge 5: kink meme prompts ( "h/c I'd like to see teary!Arthur and comforting!Merlin.")
Arthur/Merlin
Allium Alibi
“Onions!” Arthur announces, when Merlin’s tracked the sniffling noises he heard on entering the flat to their kitchen.
“I’m sorry?”
“I am chopping onions,” Arthur says, far more defensively than simple culinary pursuits should warrant.
“Why?”
Arthur never chops onions willingly, because it makes his eyes water like faucets. Merlin usually does extra when cooking and freezes them, to spare Arthur the ordeal later. Currently, Arthur is surrounded by nearly as many damp tissues as diced onions.
“Need chopping,” Arthur says.
“Arthur-” Merlin begins, but stops when Arthur glares at him with red-rimmed eyes. Merlin spots Arthur’s phone on the floor under the kitchen table, the battery dislodged and lying a few inches away; a sure sign of an ugly row with Uther. Ah.
“Okay, you’re chopping onions,” Merlin says carefully. “That’s very thoughtful. But I think you’ve done enough for now.”
Arthur doesn’t resist when Merlin takes the knife from him, and just stands there sniffling while Merlin dumps the onions into a freezer bag and puts it away. He finds a relatively dry tissue, wipes Arthur’s eyes and nose, then kisses each of his eyelids.
“I hate onions,” Arthur mutters.
“I know,” Merlin says.
He kisses Arthur’s mouth, nipping gently at his lips until he winds his arms around Merlin’s waist and starts kissing back. Merlin steers them to the living room, presses Arthur down on the couch, and straddles him. He brushes his mouth over Arthur’s nose and jaw, licks the salt from his cheeks, slides his hands through Arthur’s hair. Then, determined to shift Arthur’s persisting pout, Merlin abruptly attacks the ticklish spots behind Arthur’s ears.
That gets him a bark of startled laughter, and more importantly, the first smile he’s seen since he got home.
“I hate you,” Arthur protests.
“No you don’t,” Merlin tells him.
“No I don’t,” Arthur admits. He shoves his hands under Merlin’s shirt and Merlin yelps, expecting retaliatory tickling, but Arthur just smirks and yanks the shirt off.
Arthur kisses Merlin’s chest, then sheds his own shirt and hugs Merlin tightly, seeking his lips again. There’s still something a little fragile in Arthur’s eyes, in the way he nuzzles in and sneaks his tongue past Merlin’s teeth - not shy exactly, they’re long past shy, but sort of raw and delicate at once. Merlin cradles him, one hand on his neck, the other arm wrapped around his shoulders, and tries to give the comfort Arthur won’t ask for in words.
Merlin can feel the tension gradually seeping out of Arthur’s shoulders while they kiss, and as it does the press of his mouth grows more intent, his hands on Merlin’s back clutching and restless like they always get when he wants more but can’t decide what kind. Merlin works one hand between their bodies, finds the bulge at Arthur’s groin, and rubs him. The shape of his cock as it fills is easy to trace through the soft material of his tracksuit bottoms, and Arthur hisses, hips jerking into the touch.
Arthur reaches for Merlin’s fly only to grunt, frustrated, into Merlin’s mouth when he can’t manage the button and zip blind.
“Easy,” Merlin murmurs, grinning. He shoves Arthur’s trousers and boxers down enough to free his cock while Arthur keeps fumbling at him, his fingers ever so slightly maddening with the denim in the way; finally Arthur breaks off so he can see what he’s doing and finish it.
Arthur loops an arm around Merlin’s hips and Merlin shuffles in closer, pushing them together. They don’t quite line up, but Merlin gets his hand around the base of his own cock and the middle of Arthur’s, and Arthur cups the head of Merlin’s, thumbing over the slit - a little awkward, but good enough.
Merlin twists his free hand into Arthur’s hair, feeling the sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, while Arthur mouths sloppily at Merlin’s collarbone. The space between them is small, hot with their heavy breathing and building pleasure.
Arthur comes first, spilling with a sigh, and tugs Merlin’s cock with sticky fingers until he follows. They stay still after, curled into each other, settling.
“Thank you,” Arthur says eventually.
“Hmm?”
“The onions were - just thank you. For understanding.”
“You’re a bit ridiculous but s’okay, I’m used to it,” Merlin says, fond.
“I am not-” Arthur begins, mock-affronted, but then just smiles ruefully and catches Merlin’s grin in another kiss.
Challenge 6: happy endings
Arthur/Merlin
Pathetic Fallacy
The rainbow outside Arthur’s window this morning is unusual but not outstandingly so; the concentric rainbows from here to the horizon, however, are pretty damn weird. As are the clouds shaped unmistakeably like fluffy baby animals. And the birds singing cheerful minstrels’ tunes in perfect harmony. And the actual kittens following Arthur around. A particularly tiny one climbed onto his shoulder when he finished dressing, and mewled in the most pathetically adorable manner imaginable to dissuade him from removing it. It nuzzles his neck, and purrs when he abandons all pretence of dignity and skritches behind its ears.
(Overall, still not as weird as that time some creature made everyone sing. Or the incident with the turnips and belt buckles. (Don’t ask.))
Merlin’s nowhere to be found. Which means odds are about even that this is Merlin’s fault, or that it’s part of someone’s evil plot and Merlin’s off questioning one of his semi-mythical consultants and the kitten is going to try and kill Arthur any minute. Arthur eyes it warily; it licks his nose. Death by excessive cuteness, possibly.
Flowers sprout from the cracks in the courtyard. The sun is shining. There’s a light, pleasantly-scented breeze. A couple of unicorns nuzzle at each other by the well. Arthur feels he should probably be annoyed by the sheer twee sentimentality of the whole affair, but he can’t quite manage it.
“This is not my fault,” Merlin says, when Arthur eventually locates him in a far corner of the library with a large book in his lap. He has a kitten escort too. “Or, well, I suppose technically it kind of is, but only because - it’s your fault, really.”
“Is it now?”
“It’s because-” Merlin breaks off and groans, burying his face in his hands. A kitten paws at his fingers. “Because of what you said last night.”
(“My duty is to my kingdom-”
“I know-”
“-But a man needs more in his heart than duty,” Arthur said. He gently cupped Merlin’s cheek, smiling a little at the catch in Merlin’s breath, and continued: “You are my more-than-duty.”)
“What does that-”
“Well, not just what you said. Camelot is - it’s like the Fisher King. Only nice. It’s - Arthur, I swear, I am not making this up. You’re happy, yes? About last night?”
(“Oh,” Merlin said, and a moment later Arthur found himself pinned to the wall with Merlin kissing him as though a sweet and thorough exploration of his mouth were the only way to save the world.
His body was warm in Arthur’s arms and Arthur shuddered, half-drunk on the joy of long-nurtured wanting made real. The stumble to the bed was a blur, as was the shedding of clothing, but he remembers with complete clarity the first press of naked skin, Merlin’s fingers on him, Merlin’s startled gasp when he spilled against Arthur’s hip. He remembers resting briefly, marvelling at the man (finally, finally) in his arms, and then the brilliant confusion of mouths and cocks, clutching Merlin’s hips, trying to keep his own under control, and feeling brilliantly whole, joined in exquisite balance. Like he was shaken to the core, and reassembled with Merlin’s touch and laughter slotting perfectly into all of Arthur’s once-hollow places.)
Arthur’s cheeks heat. “Yes, I’d say so. Aren’t you?”
Merlin looks up then, expression infinitely tender. “Of course I am,” he says. He sets the book aside and tugs Arthur down to sit beside him.
“The thing is, basically,” Merlin says, taking Arthur’s hand between both of his, “that your kingdom is happy too. For you. As king you’re bound to the land, and there’s all that nonsense about destiny and my magic and-”
Arthur stares at their entwined fingers, revelling in the quiet intimacy of the contact.
“Are you telling me all the kittens and rainbows are Camelot, what, congratulating us?”
“More or less, yeah.”
Arthur snorts and tips his head against Merlin’s shoulder. “That dragon of yours will love this.”
“Mm, probably. You’re taking it rather better than I expected.”
“Yes, well. For some inscrutable reason, I find myself feeling quite gay today.”
“Can’t imagine why that would be.”
“Complete mystery.”
“Suppose we should investigate. Starting with your bed? Something in the sheets, maybe.”
“What an excellent suggestion, Merlin. Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
They grin at each other.
And don’t quite make it to the bed.
(Not that bed, anyway; they do find a nice soft mattress helpfully laid out in the deserted great hall...)
Challenge 7: sleep
Elena/Vivian, Arthur/Merlin
Boudoir
The existence of a guest bed is not terribly exciting. Long stretches of lying empty, punctuated by brief periods of occupancy by strangers, who bitch about the accommodation or plot to destroy something-or-another. Sometimes both. Number seven down the corridor sees the occasional sword fight, because that room’s got half an armoury on the walls and half a bear on the floor and tends to be where the burly guests with scars and tempers are put. And number two, all done up in velvet and lace, gets the gorgeous ladies having illicit affairs of one sort or another.
Number five, though, sees servants coming round to do the airing more often than it sees guests. Sometimes that skinny lad with the ears will stumble in, looking like someone’s stuck a winter-weight canopy on purely decorative posts, and flop down for a kip. He’ll mumble into the bedspread, thrash around all unsettled-like, and flail guiltily on waking, but he plumps the pillows with something like awe, and always smoothes the sheets before leaving.
Finally, number five gets a proper guest, a blonde woman who tracks stable mud across the floor. And she has a guest of her own: another blonde lady, who looks like number two was decorated just for her. They talk politely while a servant banks the fire, but as soon as she’s gone, Velvet-and-Lace tackles Stable-Mud to the bed. They grapple in a thoroughly unlady-like manner, all roaming hands and hot, desperate kisses and moans of missed you and too long. When they undress, it’s a flurry of ribbons and fine fabrics flung around the room, a stocking narrowly missing the flame while landing on a sconce. Stable-Mud presses Velvet-and-Lace down and suckles at her nipple, fingers roaming over breast and belly and the heaving jut of her ribcage; then Velvet-and-Lace rolls them and dives between Stable-Mud’s legs. They never stay in any one position for more than a few minutes, constantly shifting and twisting together until they’re a tangle of blonde hair and soft skin and gasping, shuddering breaths.
The bed groans along with them, unused to such vigorous use. But it isn’t slept in: they settle, finally, on the floor, in a heap of sheets and pillows that landed there during their exertions.
In the morning, Velvet-and-Lace wakes first. She seems bewildered, but then she catches sight of Stable-Mud - who is snoring and inelegantly sprawled - and beams. She tugs Stable-Mud’s arm until she rolls onto her side, which stops the snoring, and then tucks herself in, snug against the other woman’s body. When they both wake later, they stay cocooned together, languidly kissing and caressing until a knock at the door startles them into parting.
(The stocking is never retrieved from the sconce, much to the amusement of the maid who arrives to clean after the ladies leave.)
Then the room sits empty until Ears next comes in for a nap. He’s drooling slightly when the door bangs open again, to admit a blond fellow with an imperious stride and expensive jacket. When he spots Ears, he sighs, expression softening, and sits down at his side.
He just watches Ears for a while. Something about his face is reminiscent of a bare mattress: naked, raw wool left exposed rather than being hidden, as normal, behind rich weaving and costly dyes. His look is far too fond for the brashness of his arrival; his fingers, when he raises them to stroke Ears’s hair, far too gentle for their sword-calluses.
“If you needed sleep, you could have had it in my bed,” the man says, when Ears opens his eyes without any of his usual wild motions.
Ears nuzzles against the hand at his cheek, and mumbles,
“Didn’t wanna bother you.”
“More of a bother when I have to look for you.”
“Sorry Arthur, what’d you need?” Ears asks. He starts hauling himself upright, but Arthur stops him.
“Nothing. Relax.”
Arthur removes their boots, and lays down beside Ears, almost touching. They lock gazes for a moment, then Ears huffs and closes the space between them, tucking his head under Arthur’s chin. Arthur gives a soft laugh and drapes his arm over Ears’s chest, holding him close. When Ears dozes off, Arthur presses a secretive little kiss to his hair.
(Later, number five hosts someone who proves to be a disguised elf bent on overthrowing the kingdom. There are lots of explosions and broken crockery. Maybe being a guest bed in Camelot isn’t so dull after all.)
Bonus challenge 7: dreams
Arthur/Merlin, ~260 words, PG-13
Mostly Arthur has the usual sorts of dreams, incomprehensible mismashes of memory and imagination. His father turning into a chicken and decreeing that the eating of poultry is now punishable by death; some feast that manages to be as dull as every other feast in spite of half the guests being naked and half being strange beasts; himself, wandering through a normal day in a surreal landscape.
Sometimes, though, sometimes his dreams make more (and less) sense. Once, he sees himself as a little boy, being guided by a Merlin who’s older than Gaius. Once, he’s an old man with no Merlin at all, watching a strange (royal-born, much younger) Guinevere touch Lancelot with a passion she never showed him. Once, there’s a lot of singing. (Once, there’s also a lot of singing, but it’s … different. Silly. There’s no Merlin, no Guinevere. There are a great deal of moose.) Once he’s not a king or a prince, he’s just a warrior, a man who stayed behind to defend an abandoned land.
Once, he dreams of himself and Merlin, his Merlin, the two of them naked and twined together and so, so happy. Arthur wakes from that dream sticky and bewildered, and he thinks: never, and then he thinks of the way Merlin’s lips twist when he laughs, and how gentle his fingers are when they’re stumbling back to Arthur’s chambers, both pretending to be a little drunker than they actually are. And then he thinks maybe.
(Later that day, Merlin smiles at him, teasing and sweet. And Arthur thinks yes, and please.)
All of the regular entries are NC-17 and 740-750 words.
Challenge 5: kink meme prompts ( "h/c I'd like to see teary!Arthur and comforting!Merlin.")
Arthur/Merlin
Allium Alibi
“Onions!” Arthur announces, when Merlin’s tracked the sniffling noises he heard on entering the flat to their kitchen.
“I’m sorry?”
“I am chopping onions,” Arthur says, far more defensively than simple culinary pursuits should warrant.
“Why?”
Arthur never chops onions willingly, because it makes his eyes water like faucets. Merlin usually does extra when cooking and freezes them, to spare Arthur the ordeal later. Currently, Arthur is surrounded by nearly as many damp tissues as diced onions.
“Need chopping,” Arthur says.
“Arthur-” Merlin begins, but stops when Arthur glares at him with red-rimmed eyes. Merlin spots Arthur’s phone on the floor under the kitchen table, the battery dislodged and lying a few inches away; a sure sign of an ugly row with Uther. Ah.
“Okay, you’re chopping onions,” Merlin says carefully. “That’s very thoughtful. But I think you’ve done enough for now.”
Arthur doesn’t resist when Merlin takes the knife from him, and just stands there sniffling while Merlin dumps the onions into a freezer bag and puts it away. He finds a relatively dry tissue, wipes Arthur’s eyes and nose, then kisses each of his eyelids.
“I hate onions,” Arthur mutters.
“I know,” Merlin says.
He kisses Arthur’s mouth, nipping gently at his lips until he winds his arms around Merlin’s waist and starts kissing back. Merlin steers them to the living room, presses Arthur down on the couch, and straddles him. He brushes his mouth over Arthur’s nose and jaw, licks the salt from his cheeks, slides his hands through Arthur’s hair. Then, determined to shift Arthur’s persisting pout, Merlin abruptly attacks the ticklish spots behind Arthur’s ears.
That gets him a bark of startled laughter, and more importantly, the first smile he’s seen since he got home.
“I hate you,” Arthur protests.
“No you don’t,” Merlin tells him.
“No I don’t,” Arthur admits. He shoves his hands under Merlin’s shirt and Merlin yelps, expecting retaliatory tickling, but Arthur just smirks and yanks the shirt off.
Arthur kisses Merlin’s chest, then sheds his own shirt and hugs Merlin tightly, seeking his lips again. There’s still something a little fragile in Arthur’s eyes, in the way he nuzzles in and sneaks his tongue past Merlin’s teeth - not shy exactly, they’re long past shy, but sort of raw and delicate at once. Merlin cradles him, one hand on his neck, the other arm wrapped around his shoulders, and tries to give the comfort Arthur won’t ask for in words.
Merlin can feel the tension gradually seeping out of Arthur’s shoulders while they kiss, and as it does the press of his mouth grows more intent, his hands on Merlin’s back clutching and restless like they always get when he wants more but can’t decide what kind. Merlin works one hand between their bodies, finds the bulge at Arthur’s groin, and rubs him. The shape of his cock as it fills is easy to trace through the soft material of his tracksuit bottoms, and Arthur hisses, hips jerking into the touch.
Arthur reaches for Merlin’s fly only to grunt, frustrated, into Merlin’s mouth when he can’t manage the button and zip blind.
“Easy,” Merlin murmurs, grinning. He shoves Arthur’s trousers and boxers down enough to free his cock while Arthur keeps fumbling at him, his fingers ever so slightly maddening with the denim in the way; finally Arthur breaks off so he can see what he’s doing and finish it.
Arthur loops an arm around Merlin’s hips and Merlin shuffles in closer, pushing them together. They don’t quite line up, but Merlin gets his hand around the base of his own cock and the middle of Arthur’s, and Arthur cups the head of Merlin’s, thumbing over the slit - a little awkward, but good enough.
Merlin twists his free hand into Arthur’s hair, feeling the sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, while Arthur mouths sloppily at Merlin’s collarbone. The space between them is small, hot with their heavy breathing and building pleasure.
Arthur comes first, spilling with a sigh, and tugs Merlin’s cock with sticky fingers until he follows. They stay still after, curled into each other, settling.
“Thank you,” Arthur says eventually.
“Hmm?”
“The onions were - just thank you. For understanding.”
“You’re a bit ridiculous but s’okay, I’m used to it,” Merlin says, fond.
“I am not-” Arthur begins, mock-affronted, but then just smiles ruefully and catches Merlin’s grin in another kiss.
Challenge 6: happy endings
Arthur/Merlin
Pathetic Fallacy
The rainbow outside Arthur’s window this morning is unusual but not outstandingly so; the concentric rainbows from here to the horizon, however, are pretty damn weird. As are the clouds shaped unmistakeably like fluffy baby animals. And the birds singing cheerful minstrels’ tunes in perfect harmony. And the actual kittens following Arthur around. A particularly tiny one climbed onto his shoulder when he finished dressing, and mewled in the most pathetically adorable manner imaginable to dissuade him from removing it. It nuzzles his neck, and purrs when he abandons all pretence of dignity and skritches behind its ears.
(Overall, still not as weird as that time some creature made everyone sing. Or the incident with the turnips and belt buckles. (Don’t ask.))
Merlin’s nowhere to be found. Which means odds are about even that this is Merlin’s fault, or that it’s part of someone’s evil plot and Merlin’s off questioning one of his semi-mythical consultants and the kitten is going to try and kill Arthur any minute. Arthur eyes it warily; it licks his nose. Death by excessive cuteness, possibly.
Flowers sprout from the cracks in the courtyard. The sun is shining. There’s a light, pleasantly-scented breeze. A couple of unicorns nuzzle at each other by the well. Arthur feels he should probably be annoyed by the sheer twee sentimentality of the whole affair, but he can’t quite manage it.
“This is not my fault,” Merlin says, when Arthur eventually locates him in a far corner of the library with a large book in his lap. He has a kitten escort too. “Or, well, I suppose technically it kind of is, but only because - it’s your fault, really.”
“Is it now?”
“It’s because-” Merlin breaks off and groans, burying his face in his hands. A kitten paws at his fingers. “Because of what you said last night.”
(“My duty is to my kingdom-”
“I know-”
“-But a man needs more in his heart than duty,” Arthur said. He gently cupped Merlin’s cheek, smiling a little at the catch in Merlin’s breath, and continued: “You are my more-than-duty.”)
“What does that-”
“Well, not just what you said. Camelot is - it’s like the Fisher King. Only nice. It’s - Arthur, I swear, I am not making this up. You’re happy, yes? About last night?”
(“Oh,” Merlin said, and a moment later Arthur found himself pinned to the wall with Merlin kissing him as though a sweet and thorough exploration of his mouth were the only way to save the world.
His body was warm in Arthur’s arms and Arthur shuddered, half-drunk on the joy of long-nurtured wanting made real. The stumble to the bed was a blur, as was the shedding of clothing, but he remembers with complete clarity the first press of naked skin, Merlin’s fingers on him, Merlin’s startled gasp when he spilled against Arthur’s hip. He remembers resting briefly, marvelling at the man (finally, finally) in his arms, and then the brilliant confusion of mouths and cocks, clutching Merlin’s hips, trying to keep his own under control, and feeling brilliantly whole, joined in exquisite balance. Like he was shaken to the core, and reassembled with Merlin’s touch and laughter slotting perfectly into all of Arthur’s once-hollow places.)
Arthur’s cheeks heat. “Yes, I’d say so. Aren’t you?”
Merlin looks up then, expression infinitely tender. “Of course I am,” he says. He sets the book aside and tugs Arthur down to sit beside him.
“The thing is, basically,” Merlin says, taking Arthur’s hand between both of his, “that your kingdom is happy too. For you. As king you’re bound to the land, and there’s all that nonsense about destiny and my magic and-”
Arthur stares at their entwined fingers, revelling in the quiet intimacy of the contact.
“Are you telling me all the kittens and rainbows are Camelot, what, congratulating us?”
“More or less, yeah.”
Arthur snorts and tips his head against Merlin’s shoulder. “That dragon of yours will love this.”
“Mm, probably. You’re taking it rather better than I expected.”
“Yes, well. For some inscrutable reason, I find myself feeling quite gay today.”
“Can’t imagine why that would be.”
“Complete mystery.”
“Suppose we should investigate. Starting with your bed? Something in the sheets, maybe.”
“What an excellent suggestion, Merlin. Knew I kept you around for a reason.”
They grin at each other.
And don’t quite make it to the bed.
(Not that bed, anyway; they do find a nice soft mattress helpfully laid out in the deserted great hall...)
Challenge 7: sleep
Elena/Vivian, Arthur/Merlin
Boudoir
The existence of a guest bed is not terribly exciting. Long stretches of lying empty, punctuated by brief periods of occupancy by strangers, who bitch about the accommodation or plot to destroy something-or-another. Sometimes both. Number seven down the corridor sees the occasional sword fight, because that room’s got half an armoury on the walls and half a bear on the floor and tends to be where the burly guests with scars and tempers are put. And number two, all done up in velvet and lace, gets the gorgeous ladies having illicit affairs of one sort or another.
Number five, though, sees servants coming round to do the airing more often than it sees guests. Sometimes that skinny lad with the ears will stumble in, looking like someone’s stuck a winter-weight canopy on purely decorative posts, and flop down for a kip. He’ll mumble into the bedspread, thrash around all unsettled-like, and flail guiltily on waking, but he plumps the pillows with something like awe, and always smoothes the sheets before leaving.
Finally, number five gets a proper guest, a blonde woman who tracks stable mud across the floor. And she has a guest of her own: another blonde lady, who looks like number two was decorated just for her. They talk politely while a servant banks the fire, but as soon as she’s gone, Velvet-and-Lace tackles Stable-Mud to the bed. They grapple in a thoroughly unlady-like manner, all roaming hands and hot, desperate kisses and moans of missed you and too long. When they undress, it’s a flurry of ribbons and fine fabrics flung around the room, a stocking narrowly missing the flame while landing on a sconce. Stable-Mud presses Velvet-and-Lace down and suckles at her nipple, fingers roaming over breast and belly and the heaving jut of her ribcage; then Velvet-and-Lace rolls them and dives between Stable-Mud’s legs. They never stay in any one position for more than a few minutes, constantly shifting and twisting together until they’re a tangle of blonde hair and soft skin and gasping, shuddering breaths.
The bed groans along with them, unused to such vigorous use. But it isn’t slept in: they settle, finally, on the floor, in a heap of sheets and pillows that landed there during their exertions.
In the morning, Velvet-and-Lace wakes first. She seems bewildered, but then she catches sight of Stable-Mud - who is snoring and inelegantly sprawled - and beams. She tugs Stable-Mud’s arm until she rolls onto her side, which stops the snoring, and then tucks herself in, snug against the other woman’s body. When they both wake later, they stay cocooned together, languidly kissing and caressing until a knock at the door startles them into parting.
(The stocking is never retrieved from the sconce, much to the amusement of the maid who arrives to clean after the ladies leave.)
Then the room sits empty until Ears next comes in for a nap. He’s drooling slightly when the door bangs open again, to admit a blond fellow with an imperious stride and expensive jacket. When he spots Ears, he sighs, expression softening, and sits down at his side.
He just watches Ears for a while. Something about his face is reminiscent of a bare mattress: naked, raw wool left exposed rather than being hidden, as normal, behind rich weaving and costly dyes. His look is far too fond for the brashness of his arrival; his fingers, when he raises them to stroke Ears’s hair, far too gentle for their sword-calluses.
“If you needed sleep, you could have had it in my bed,” the man says, when Ears opens his eyes without any of his usual wild motions.
Ears nuzzles against the hand at his cheek, and mumbles,
“Didn’t wanna bother you.”
“More of a bother when I have to look for you.”
“Sorry Arthur, what’d you need?” Ears asks. He starts hauling himself upright, but Arthur stops him.
“Nothing. Relax.”
Arthur removes their boots, and lays down beside Ears, almost touching. They lock gazes for a moment, then Ears huffs and closes the space between them, tucking his head under Arthur’s chin. Arthur gives a soft laugh and drapes his arm over Ears’s chest, holding him close. When Ears dozes off, Arthur presses a secretive little kiss to his hair.
(Later, number five hosts someone who proves to be a disguised elf bent on overthrowing the kingdom. There are lots of explosions and broken crockery. Maybe being a guest bed in Camelot isn’t so dull after all.)
Bonus challenge 7: dreams
Arthur/Merlin, ~260 words, PG-13
Mostly Arthur has the usual sorts of dreams, incomprehensible mismashes of memory and imagination. His father turning into a chicken and decreeing that the eating of poultry is now punishable by death; some feast that manages to be as dull as every other feast in spite of half the guests being naked and half being strange beasts; himself, wandering through a normal day in a surreal landscape.
Sometimes, though, sometimes his dreams make more (and less) sense. Once, he sees himself as a little boy, being guided by a Merlin who’s older than Gaius. Once, he’s an old man with no Merlin at all, watching a strange (royal-born, much younger) Guinevere touch Lancelot with a passion she never showed him. Once, there’s a lot of singing. (Once, there’s also a lot of singing, but it’s … different. Silly. There’s no Merlin, no Guinevere. There are a great deal of moose.) Once he’s not a king or a prince, he’s just a warrior, a man who stayed behind to defend an abandoned land.
Once, he dreams of himself and Merlin, his Merlin, the two of them naked and twined together and so, so happy. Arthur wakes from that dream sticky and bewildered, and he thinks: never, and then he thinks of the way Merlin’s lips twist when he laughs, and how gentle his fingers are when they’re stumbling back to Arthur’s chambers, both pretending to be a little drunker than they actually are. And then he thinks maybe.
(Later that day, Merlin smiles at him, teasing and sweet. And Arthur thinks yes, and please.)