Fic: My Clothes Scattered [Merlin]
Changed my journal title! Because who doesn't love Kate Beaton? Also, Hark! A Vagrant pretty much got me through my finals. I figure it deserves some respect and love for that.
So I'm on another no-sleep-ever kick, which means I'm up at all hours of the night with nothing better to do with my life than annoy people on IM programs. And write some ridiculously cliched PWP, apparently. Even when I still have Kirk/Spock Advent fic to write. Yeah, idek, sorry.
Title: My Clothes Scattered
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing/Rating: Arthur/always-a-girl!Merlin; NC-17
Word Count: 2,750
Date Completed: 14 December 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: For itachitachi, for putting up with all my late-night ramblings and doesn't judge me. Much.
This one year, autumn comes to Camelot slowly, crawling like the pace of the sun as it inches its way past the tree line each morning. It takes longer than normal to bring the harvest in ripe, which means it takes longer than normal for the celebratory feast to arrive, which means it takes more men than normal to hunt the traditional boar with Arthur, the peak of boar season long since passed.
The camp they have erected is accordingly larger than any they’ve set up in previous years. It’s Arthur and closer to twenty knights than ten this time, so things are a bit more crowded, and also a bit more enjoyable for all the additional company. Most evenings, Arthur stays out late by the fire with his men, laughing and trading songs and stories until the last glowing chunks of embers fade. And most mornings, Arthur rises early to do the same, shrugging on clothes for the day and pressing a quick kiss to Merlin’s shoulder where she’s curled up in their shared bedroll before heading out to claim his spot by the fire.
This morning, when Merlin finally drags herself out of bed and their tent, Arthur almost chokes on the bite of bread he’d been chewing. She’s dressed in his clothes for some reason, pieces he can identify on sight no matter how odd they look on her. Yesterday's shirt slips off her left shoulder and lies loose just under her collarbones, pushed out just enough over her breasts for Arthur to make the outline of them out. The breeches he was planning to wear tomorrow are slung low on her hips, slightly too-big on her thighs and shins, and his old boots are way too big on her feet, making her shuffle and almost stumble with every step. Her hair is rumpled from sleep and last night's sex, waves in the back that Arthur remembers knotting his fingers in, and every bit of her looks dishevelled and strange and really ridiculously appealing.
Merlin moves across the camp to get water, stretching as she walks by. Her arms reach up over her head and her hands clasp together and she makes a happy-sounding groan as her back flexes and pulls, Arthur's shirt riding up to show off the thinnest strip of pale skin and sharp hipbone, and also the fact that she definitely has nothing on under those breeches of his.
Arthur can feel the back of his neck start to burn with flush, but she does this like it's nothing, like it's a normal occurrence for them and how they work, like she can't feel the eyes of every man in this camp tracing over the faint push of her breasts, the sloped angle of her shoulders.
Arthur sees them, though, and he feels it when the knights turn to watch him watching Merlin. He can see that some of them look embarrassed, eyes sliding away from him quickly and flush light on their cheeks. And he chooses to be gracious and label that as shame, even when he knows that for a good many of them, it's something else entirely, something that makes his stomach clench like Merlin isn't already marked plainly as his by everything she's chosen to wear.
The thought of that, that she’s choosing to show herself as his, sends a flash of want down Arthur’s spine, hot and brilliant. Before he’s fully thought about it, he’s up and walking across the camp to get to Merlin, weaving through the rows of seated and staring knights. When he’s close to her, Arthur grabs her wrist and leads her out of the camp behind him. Merlin smirks slightly, just enough to let Arthur know that this is exactly what she'd wanted when she tugged on his clothes this morning, and fuck, but that's a great idea, Merlin thinking about this and all the ways she'd know Arthur would react because she can read him like a fucking book, much as he hates to admit it.
Arthur walks a little faster now, Merlin's wrist still caught in his hand. His grip is loose enough for her to get away if she wanted to, only she isn't trying to, is instead only just following him with that stupid, stupid smirk on her face, and Arthur doesn't even care if they've reached a far enough distance from camp to preserve some semblance of their modesty. Fuck modesty, he decides, although he thinks he'd rather just fuck Merlin, and from the way she smiles at him and reaches her hands up to push into his hair and pull him into a kiss when he presses her against the nearest tree, he's going to.
The kiss is messy, sloppy and wet and sour from the after-sleep taste in both their mouths. Arthur licks at Merlin's lips, at the inside of her mouth and along the backs of her teeth when she opens to let him in. His hands move down her sides, and his fingers catch in the too-big folds of his shirt on her abdomen. Arthur knows how this shirt feels on his skin -- a little rough and scratchy, too new for him to have worn it in properly. Now, he wonders how it is for Merlin, if she likes the way it must itch slightly where it pulls across her nipples, how the grain of the fabric and raw newness of the fibres feel against the soft skin of her shoulder blades, the small of her back.
His hands reach the hem, which falls almost to her knees, and he pushes it up so slowly, pauses to tease his fingers at the waistband like she's done to him so many times before. Merlin groans at that, the brush of Arthur's fingers at her navel and waist, and she pulls Arthur's bottom lip between her teeth, biting it softer than he likes in retaliation. Arthur hisses just a little and shoves his hands up quickly, fabric of his own shirt spilling over his forearms so he can't see what he's doing. It’s okay, though; he knows Merlin's body by heart now, the planes of her stomach and the dip between her breasts. He finds those, her breasts, warm and heavy against the palms of his hands when he cups them lightly, and he rubs his thumbs in circles across her nipples just to feel her shiver.
Merlin breaks the kiss and presses her mouth to Arthur's neck, breath falling hot and damp in the hollow where it meets his shoulder. She keeps one hand tangled in Arthur's hair, holding his throat close enough for her to bite and lick at, which Arthur knows she will at any second. The other she moves down to grip his hip and pull him tighter against her, enough that Arthur gasps as his cock presses against her thigh.
His hands are still busy with her breasts, fingers pressing them and stroking them, and Arthur wants to get his mouth there, only Merlin's holding his head too tightly for him to move it down.
"Merlin," he says, stilted as she bites what he's sure will be a lovely bruise come tomorrow morning into his neck. "Merlin, let me," and she hums against the spot before pulling back and readjusting her grip to guide his head down.
Arthur goes eagerly, more than happy to press his lips against her breast, his tongue against her nipple. Merlin makes a soft noise at that and Arthur smiles into her skin, knows she'll be able to feel it even if she can't see his face or head for the fabric of his shirt she's wearing pushed up under her armpits. He pulls back a few inches, just enough for him to blow across her nipple, dark pink and shiny with spit from his mouth. Merlin's hand clenches tightly in his hair, so tight it almost hurts, and Arthur smiles wider.
He reaches a hand back to grip her wrist again, fingers tracing the thin bones in her hand as he slowly untangles it from his hair. Merlin looks like she wants to protest, but Arthur's already starting to kiss his way down her stomach as soon as he gets his head free, lowering slowly to his knees as he goes. She doesn't try to stop him, eyes widening slightly because she knows where he's headed.
Arthur stops when he gets to the waistline of her (his) breeches, taking a few seconds to appreciate the way they sit on Merlin's hips. It should be awkward, fabric stretched too-tight on the outside edges and bunching strangely in the front, down between her thighs, only it's not.
He undoes the button fastening and shoves his hand inside, fingers stretching to find her already wet. Merlin's hips buck up when he touches her and Arthur's breeches on her slip down a bit more, and Arthur thinks that he'd drop to his knees in front of her just for that if he hadn't already done so. He has, though, and the dew-wet soil soaks into the fabric of his trousers as his fingers slide against Merlin, rubbing small circles that have her hands fisting back in his hair again and her voice whispering his name like she doesn't mean to. She probably doesn't (she never does, even if it happens every time), but it's no matter; it means the same thing, and the want laced through it has Arthur's other hand pushing the breeches down to pool loose at her ankles.
Merlin shifts her legs open as far as she can with the new restriction of trousers around them, and either way, it's enough room for Arthur to get his head in between her thighs, already moving in before he feels her fingers tugging at him.
She tastes like she always does, bitter and strange no matter how often they do this, and Arthur laps at the heat of her eagerly, even more so when he hears her panting above him. He shifts in closer, parts her with already-wet fingers and licks firmly against her clit, tongue pressing insistently and making her curse. He can feel her legs shaking where they press against his shoulders, and Arthur brings his other hand to rest on her left thigh, steadying it. He's still licking, sucking at her clit and teasing at her entrance with his fingertips, dipping two inside just to tease them both.
"God, Arthur," Merlin says. Arthur hums questioningly, already knowing what she wants and looking to make her hips jerk forward again like that, yes.
"Come on," she says, fingers tugging sharply at his hair, and Arthur does.
He pushes both fingers into her easily, finds her too wet from his saliva and herself to make this anything but that, smooth and quick. Merlin curses again -- heavens, but she's a mouth on her, and God only knows how Arthur loves it -- and moves her hips down, riding his fingers as he slides them in and out of her. "Please," she's saying, and, "yes," and so many choked-off things that Arthur could listen to for a thousand years and still never tire of hearing. He slips a third finger into her, curls them slightly inside as he curls his tongue hard against her clit, and she's gone, sighing as her cunt flexes tight around him.
Arthur strokes her through it, waiting until she's stopped shuddering so hard to pull his fingers out and stand. Merlin's hands, still caught fast in his hair, pull him into a kiss, and she loosens one of them free to move down and pull at the hem of Arthur's breeches. Arthur can't help the way his hips press up at the slight pressure of her palm against his cock when she shoves his trousers down, can't help the way he moans into her kiss when she squeezes him once, firm and not even close to what he needs, not when she's wet and licked-open and ready for him.
Merlin pushes him back, and Arthur knows he should probably be embarrassed at the noise he makes when he loses contact with her skin. He knows he should probably find it hilarious, or at least really stupid-looking, when she half-bends awkwardly to try and pull her trousers all the way off her left ankle. They keep getting caught on her boot, and Arthur can see her frustration growing in the stretch of her shoulders, the sharp way her fingers jerk at the fabric, and he thinks he should be finding this amusing, and not something to make his stomach clench tight with another flash of just how much he wants her.
Eventually, Merlin gives up. Arthur hears her mutter, “Oh, fuck it,” and then she’s kicking off the whole boot and shaking her leg free of the last of her breeches and pulling him back in to kiss him again as she does so. Arthur grips her left leg and pulls it up, hand holding her thigh around his waist. He shifts his hips until his cock is lined up, and then he pushes into her with one thrust, knowing she can take it, this and more and everything he wants to give her.
She's hot around him, just like he knew she would be, and her muscles feel slick as she clenches against the intrusion. Arthur ends the kiss to bury his head against her neck, forehead shoving aside the fabric of his shirt to find the skin he wants to lick at. Merlin smells like both of them, her sweat and his clothes, and Arthur moves his hips a little faster at that, at how she's chosen this, him.
He gets his hand back down between her legs, fingers pulling over her clit roughly, all his rhythm in the movement of his hips, and he's amazed at how it still makes her gasp his name like it's something too powerful to comprehend.
"Come on," she says again, hips pushing up and down with him and hand not in his hair shoving around to grab at his arse and pull him impossibly deeper into her. Arthur goes because he can't not, tries to get in more and faster and harder because it's what she wants, and Merlin whimpers in approval.
Arthur’s breath comes in increasingly-short pants against her neck, and he's still licking circles against her throat and rubbing them against her clit when she bites his earlobe, sharp and sudden and just what he wasn't expecting. It's enough to push him over, and he shudders against her as he groans out her name, “Merlin!” rough and heavy on his tongue, and comes.
He's dazed after, but he can feel that her hips are still pushing against him, frustrated little noises coming from her as she tries to move against his fingers just so and can't. Arthur kisses her softly, laughs into her mouth at how desperate she tastes and feels against him. He keeps stroking her clit, increasing the pressure enough to make her sigh again (he'll never tire of hearing that, he thinks, not ever), and when he shifts his hand to cup and squeeze one of her breasts, she bucks up as she comes again.
Things don't feel quite so urgent now -- they feel more sticky, actually. The air is humid today, thick autumn fog low on the horizon and weaving through the trees, and they're both sweaty and still fully-clothed, skin sticking in the places they manage to touch each other bare.
Arthur can feel Merlin's fingers running through his hair, combing out the tangles as best they can and doing a far better job of slicking themselves with his sweat. He kisses her once more before pulling back, away from and out of her, enough to give them both some room to at least try to make themselves presentable before heading back to camp.
When he looks at her, Arthur sees that Merlin is horribly sweaty, face flushed red and shining with it. On the back of her neck, he can see scratches from the tree bark, and her hair is tangled with flakes of it, mid-brown in black. His clothes fit her even more awkwardly than before, sticking where they shouldn't and probably wholly uncomfortable. Somehow, all Arthur can do is smile at her, the only thought he can put together how much she looks like his, how very much he wants that to never stop.
So I'm on another no-sleep-ever kick, which means I'm up at all hours of the night with nothing better to do with my life than annoy people on IM programs. And write some ridiculously cliched PWP, apparently. Even when I still have Kirk/Spock Advent fic to write. Yeah, idek, sorry.
Title: My Clothes Scattered
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing/Rating: Arthur/always-a-girl!Merlin; NC-17
Word Count: 2,750
Date Completed: 14 December 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: For itachitachi, for putting up with all my late-night ramblings and doesn't judge me. Much.
This one year, autumn comes to Camelot slowly, crawling like the pace of the sun as it inches its way past the tree line each morning. It takes longer than normal to bring the harvest in ripe, which means it takes longer than normal for the celebratory feast to arrive, which means it takes more men than normal to hunt the traditional boar with Arthur, the peak of boar season long since passed.
The camp they have erected is accordingly larger than any they’ve set up in previous years. It’s Arthur and closer to twenty knights than ten this time, so things are a bit more crowded, and also a bit more enjoyable for all the additional company. Most evenings, Arthur stays out late by the fire with his men, laughing and trading songs and stories until the last glowing chunks of embers fade. And most mornings, Arthur rises early to do the same, shrugging on clothes for the day and pressing a quick kiss to Merlin’s shoulder where she’s curled up in their shared bedroll before heading out to claim his spot by the fire.
This morning, when Merlin finally drags herself out of bed and their tent, Arthur almost chokes on the bite of bread he’d been chewing. She’s dressed in his clothes for some reason, pieces he can identify on sight no matter how odd they look on her. Yesterday's shirt slips off her left shoulder and lies loose just under her collarbones, pushed out just enough over her breasts for Arthur to make the outline of them out. The breeches he was planning to wear tomorrow are slung low on her hips, slightly too-big on her thighs and shins, and his old boots are way too big on her feet, making her shuffle and almost stumble with every step. Her hair is rumpled from sleep and last night's sex, waves in the back that Arthur remembers knotting his fingers in, and every bit of her looks dishevelled and strange and really ridiculously appealing.
Merlin moves across the camp to get water, stretching as she walks by. Her arms reach up over her head and her hands clasp together and she makes a happy-sounding groan as her back flexes and pulls, Arthur's shirt riding up to show off the thinnest strip of pale skin and sharp hipbone, and also the fact that she definitely has nothing on under those breeches of his.
Arthur can feel the back of his neck start to burn with flush, but she does this like it's nothing, like it's a normal occurrence for them and how they work, like she can't feel the eyes of every man in this camp tracing over the faint push of her breasts, the sloped angle of her shoulders.
Arthur sees them, though, and he feels it when the knights turn to watch him watching Merlin. He can see that some of them look embarrassed, eyes sliding away from him quickly and flush light on their cheeks. And he chooses to be gracious and label that as shame, even when he knows that for a good many of them, it's something else entirely, something that makes his stomach clench like Merlin isn't already marked plainly as his by everything she's chosen to wear.
The thought of that, that she’s choosing to show herself as his, sends a flash of want down Arthur’s spine, hot and brilliant. Before he’s fully thought about it, he’s up and walking across the camp to get to Merlin, weaving through the rows of seated and staring knights. When he’s close to her, Arthur grabs her wrist and leads her out of the camp behind him. Merlin smirks slightly, just enough to let Arthur know that this is exactly what she'd wanted when she tugged on his clothes this morning, and fuck, but that's a great idea, Merlin thinking about this and all the ways she'd know Arthur would react because she can read him like a fucking book, much as he hates to admit it.
Arthur walks a little faster now, Merlin's wrist still caught in his hand. His grip is loose enough for her to get away if she wanted to, only she isn't trying to, is instead only just following him with that stupid, stupid smirk on her face, and Arthur doesn't even care if they've reached a far enough distance from camp to preserve some semblance of their modesty. Fuck modesty, he decides, although he thinks he'd rather just fuck Merlin, and from the way she smiles at him and reaches her hands up to push into his hair and pull him into a kiss when he presses her against the nearest tree, he's going to.
The kiss is messy, sloppy and wet and sour from the after-sleep taste in both their mouths. Arthur licks at Merlin's lips, at the inside of her mouth and along the backs of her teeth when she opens to let him in. His hands move down her sides, and his fingers catch in the too-big folds of his shirt on her abdomen. Arthur knows how this shirt feels on his skin -- a little rough and scratchy, too new for him to have worn it in properly. Now, he wonders how it is for Merlin, if she likes the way it must itch slightly where it pulls across her nipples, how the grain of the fabric and raw newness of the fibres feel against the soft skin of her shoulder blades, the small of her back.
His hands reach the hem, which falls almost to her knees, and he pushes it up so slowly, pauses to tease his fingers at the waistband like she's done to him so many times before. Merlin groans at that, the brush of Arthur's fingers at her navel and waist, and she pulls Arthur's bottom lip between her teeth, biting it softer than he likes in retaliation. Arthur hisses just a little and shoves his hands up quickly, fabric of his own shirt spilling over his forearms so he can't see what he's doing. It’s okay, though; he knows Merlin's body by heart now, the planes of her stomach and the dip between her breasts. He finds those, her breasts, warm and heavy against the palms of his hands when he cups them lightly, and he rubs his thumbs in circles across her nipples just to feel her shiver.
Merlin breaks the kiss and presses her mouth to Arthur's neck, breath falling hot and damp in the hollow where it meets his shoulder. She keeps one hand tangled in Arthur's hair, holding his throat close enough for her to bite and lick at, which Arthur knows she will at any second. The other she moves down to grip his hip and pull him tighter against her, enough that Arthur gasps as his cock presses against her thigh.
His hands are still busy with her breasts, fingers pressing them and stroking them, and Arthur wants to get his mouth there, only Merlin's holding his head too tightly for him to move it down.
"Merlin," he says, stilted as she bites what he's sure will be a lovely bruise come tomorrow morning into his neck. "Merlin, let me," and she hums against the spot before pulling back and readjusting her grip to guide his head down.
Arthur goes eagerly, more than happy to press his lips against her breast, his tongue against her nipple. Merlin makes a soft noise at that and Arthur smiles into her skin, knows she'll be able to feel it even if she can't see his face or head for the fabric of his shirt she's wearing pushed up under her armpits. He pulls back a few inches, just enough for him to blow across her nipple, dark pink and shiny with spit from his mouth. Merlin's hand clenches tightly in his hair, so tight it almost hurts, and Arthur smiles wider.
He reaches a hand back to grip her wrist again, fingers tracing the thin bones in her hand as he slowly untangles it from his hair. Merlin looks like she wants to protest, but Arthur's already starting to kiss his way down her stomach as soon as he gets his head free, lowering slowly to his knees as he goes. She doesn't try to stop him, eyes widening slightly because she knows where he's headed.
Arthur stops when he gets to the waistline of her (his) breeches, taking a few seconds to appreciate the way they sit on Merlin's hips. It should be awkward, fabric stretched too-tight on the outside edges and bunching strangely in the front, down between her thighs, only it's not.
He undoes the button fastening and shoves his hand inside, fingers stretching to find her already wet. Merlin's hips buck up when he touches her and Arthur's breeches on her slip down a bit more, and Arthur thinks that he'd drop to his knees in front of her just for that if he hadn't already done so. He has, though, and the dew-wet soil soaks into the fabric of his trousers as his fingers slide against Merlin, rubbing small circles that have her hands fisting back in his hair again and her voice whispering his name like she doesn't mean to. She probably doesn't (she never does, even if it happens every time), but it's no matter; it means the same thing, and the want laced through it has Arthur's other hand pushing the breeches down to pool loose at her ankles.
Merlin shifts her legs open as far as she can with the new restriction of trousers around them, and either way, it's enough room for Arthur to get his head in between her thighs, already moving in before he feels her fingers tugging at him.
She tastes like she always does, bitter and strange no matter how often they do this, and Arthur laps at the heat of her eagerly, even more so when he hears her panting above him. He shifts in closer, parts her with already-wet fingers and licks firmly against her clit, tongue pressing insistently and making her curse. He can feel her legs shaking where they press against his shoulders, and Arthur brings his other hand to rest on her left thigh, steadying it. He's still licking, sucking at her clit and teasing at her entrance with his fingertips, dipping two inside just to tease them both.
"God, Arthur," Merlin says. Arthur hums questioningly, already knowing what she wants and looking to make her hips jerk forward again like that, yes.
"Come on," she says, fingers tugging sharply at his hair, and Arthur does.
He pushes both fingers into her easily, finds her too wet from his saliva and herself to make this anything but that, smooth and quick. Merlin curses again -- heavens, but she's a mouth on her, and God only knows how Arthur loves it -- and moves her hips down, riding his fingers as he slides them in and out of her. "Please," she's saying, and, "yes," and so many choked-off things that Arthur could listen to for a thousand years and still never tire of hearing. He slips a third finger into her, curls them slightly inside as he curls his tongue hard against her clit, and she's gone, sighing as her cunt flexes tight around him.
Arthur strokes her through it, waiting until she's stopped shuddering so hard to pull his fingers out and stand. Merlin's hands, still caught fast in his hair, pull him into a kiss, and she loosens one of them free to move down and pull at the hem of Arthur's breeches. Arthur can't help the way his hips press up at the slight pressure of her palm against his cock when she shoves his trousers down, can't help the way he moans into her kiss when she squeezes him once, firm and not even close to what he needs, not when she's wet and licked-open and ready for him.
Merlin pushes him back, and Arthur knows he should probably be embarrassed at the noise he makes when he loses contact with her skin. He knows he should probably find it hilarious, or at least really stupid-looking, when she half-bends awkwardly to try and pull her trousers all the way off her left ankle. They keep getting caught on her boot, and Arthur can see her frustration growing in the stretch of her shoulders, the sharp way her fingers jerk at the fabric, and he thinks he should be finding this amusing, and not something to make his stomach clench tight with another flash of just how much he wants her.
Eventually, Merlin gives up. Arthur hears her mutter, “Oh, fuck it,” and then she’s kicking off the whole boot and shaking her leg free of the last of her breeches and pulling him back in to kiss him again as she does so. Arthur grips her left leg and pulls it up, hand holding her thigh around his waist. He shifts his hips until his cock is lined up, and then he pushes into her with one thrust, knowing she can take it, this and more and everything he wants to give her.
She's hot around him, just like he knew she would be, and her muscles feel slick as she clenches against the intrusion. Arthur ends the kiss to bury his head against her neck, forehead shoving aside the fabric of his shirt to find the skin he wants to lick at. Merlin smells like both of them, her sweat and his clothes, and Arthur moves his hips a little faster at that, at how she's chosen this, him.
He gets his hand back down between her legs, fingers pulling over her clit roughly, all his rhythm in the movement of his hips, and he's amazed at how it still makes her gasp his name like it's something too powerful to comprehend.
"Come on," she says again, hips pushing up and down with him and hand not in his hair shoving around to grab at his arse and pull him impossibly deeper into her. Arthur goes because he can't not, tries to get in more and faster and harder because it's what she wants, and Merlin whimpers in approval.
Arthur’s breath comes in increasingly-short pants against her neck, and he's still licking circles against her throat and rubbing them against her clit when she bites his earlobe, sharp and sudden and just what he wasn't expecting. It's enough to push him over, and he shudders against her as he groans out her name, “Merlin!” rough and heavy on his tongue, and comes.
He's dazed after, but he can feel that her hips are still pushing against him, frustrated little noises coming from her as she tries to move against his fingers just so and can't. Arthur kisses her softly, laughs into her mouth at how desperate she tastes and feels against him. He keeps stroking her clit, increasing the pressure enough to make her sigh again (he'll never tire of hearing that, he thinks, not ever), and when he shifts his hand to cup and squeeze one of her breasts, she bucks up as she comes again.
Things don't feel quite so urgent now -- they feel more sticky, actually. The air is humid today, thick autumn fog low on the horizon and weaving through the trees, and they're both sweaty and still fully-clothed, skin sticking in the places they manage to touch each other bare.
Arthur can feel Merlin's fingers running through his hair, combing out the tangles as best they can and doing a far better job of slicking themselves with his sweat. He kisses her once more before pulling back, away from and out of her, enough to give them both some room to at least try to make themselves presentable before heading back to camp.
When he looks at her, Arthur sees that Merlin is horribly sweaty, face flushed red and shining with it. On the back of her neck, he can see scratches from the tree bark, and her hair is tangled with flakes of it, mid-brown in black. His clothes fit her even more awkwardly than before, sticking where they shouldn't and probably wholly uncomfortable. Somehow, all Arthur can do is smile at her, the only thought he can put together how much she looks like his, how very much he wants that to never stop.