Fic: Eyes, Dreams, Lips (Lancelot/Merlin/Arthur, NWS)
Summary: Traditionally after a tournament there is a feast. Lancelot/Merlin/Arthur. Future!fic.
AN: This was infinitely improved by my patient and marvelous betas, p_zeitgeist and bewarethesmirk.
Eyes, Dreams, Lips
The hall is brilliant with torches, music and voices overlapping in wild confusion. The roar of the crowd still echoes in Lancelot's ears hours later.
Lancelot has won honour and fame across two countries, served great lords and fought in great battles. Why then does this city and this King matter so much? Why does this favour sit so near his heart?
Merlin offers him another cup of rich bitter ale, leaning in until Lancelot feels the warmth of his body like a touch.
"He hates not fighting himself." Merlin's voice drops to a whisper. "But he likes watching you."
Moonlight spills over the stone floor of the hallway. Merlin presses Lancelot up against the wall with his body, with his frank open gaze.
Merlin's eyes are dark and his skin is flushed with drink and lust.
Lancelot thinks of how his hands would look against the pale skin of Merlin's sides and chest, against the inside of Merlin's thighs.
It's an open secret that the King is not eager to take a wife.
A glossy sheen makes the world seem bright and uncomplicated, but Lancelot feels clear-headed enough to understand that what's being offered here is far from simple.
He almost balks at the door to the King's chambers, pulling Merlin to a halt.
Lancelot has travelled far and tasted too much of life to be provincial. It's not that. But he learned long ago the awful danger of over-reaching.
For a dizzying moment he thinks of Arthur, the man and the King, how desire blurs, spills over.
There is something here in Camelot, in these people, that draws all his wanderings into a circuit.
Merlin turns and waits, offering no persuasion, no subtle tug, and it is this patience that makes Lancelot willing to take the last steps.
The room is dim with the glow of a banked fire. Merlin kisses him once, lightly and with a startling sweetness, touching his cheek as he pulls back. And then it's Arthur's hands and mouth: Lancelot feels the skill and passion and force which he has matched himself against so often on practice fields.
Merlin speaks magic and the fire springs to life, painting Arthur with flickering golds.
Lancelot is aware of Merlin, the flex of his back and shoulders as he pulls the tunic over his head, even as his mouth opens under the challenging press of Arthur's tongue.
The mattress is soft against Lancelot's knees. Arthur's hands curl around his hips. Merlin presses against his back, biting his shoulder and then soothes the mark with his lips. Arthur tugs Lancelot down, closer, into the fierce contest of a kiss.
Merlin's fingers are cool and slick as they press in. Lancelot dares to close his hands around Arthur's wrists--hears Merlin groan and sway forward even as his fingers continue carefully sliding in and out.
"Who do you want?" Merlin asks.
Lancelot shakes off the choice.
For a moment he can't tell which of them is filling him up.
Dawn sends fragile changing colours across the sky. Merlin sleeps pressed tightly against Arthur, a possessive arm thrown across Arthur's body. Lancelot doubts that this is something he is meant to see, but as soon as he moves to leave Merlin stirs.
Merlin's hair is sleep-ruffed. There are bite marks on his throat and in a vivid flash Lancelot feels again Merlin arching up under him, his body hot and open, moaning Lancelot's name against Arthur's lips.
Merlin watches him--calm and kind and serious--before pressing him back down and kissing him again, lightly, with that same surprising sweetness.
AN: This was infinitely improved by my patient and marvelous betas, p_zeitgeist and bewarethesmirk.
Eyes, Dreams, Lips
The hall is brilliant with torches, music and voices overlapping in wild confusion. The roar of the crowd still echoes in Lancelot's ears hours later.
Lancelot has won honour and fame across two countries, served great lords and fought in great battles. Why then does this city and this King matter so much? Why does this favour sit so near his heart?
Merlin offers him another cup of rich bitter ale, leaning in until Lancelot feels the warmth of his body like a touch.
"He hates not fighting himself." Merlin's voice drops to a whisper. "But he likes watching you."
Moonlight spills over the stone floor of the hallway. Merlin presses Lancelot up against the wall with his body, with his frank open gaze.
Merlin's eyes are dark and his skin is flushed with drink and lust.
Lancelot thinks of how his hands would look against the pale skin of Merlin's sides and chest, against the inside of Merlin's thighs.
It's an open secret that the King is not eager to take a wife.
A glossy sheen makes the world seem bright and uncomplicated, but Lancelot feels clear-headed enough to understand that what's being offered here is far from simple.
He almost balks at the door to the King's chambers, pulling Merlin to a halt.
Lancelot has travelled far and tasted too much of life to be provincial. It's not that. But he learned long ago the awful danger of over-reaching.
For a dizzying moment he thinks of Arthur, the man and the King, how desire blurs, spills over.
There is something here in Camelot, in these people, that draws all his wanderings into a circuit.
Merlin turns and waits, offering no persuasion, no subtle tug, and it is this patience that makes Lancelot willing to take the last steps.
The room is dim with the glow of a banked fire. Merlin kisses him once, lightly and with a startling sweetness, touching his cheek as he pulls back. And then it's Arthur's hands and mouth: Lancelot feels the skill and passion and force which he has matched himself against so often on practice fields.
Merlin speaks magic and the fire springs to life, painting Arthur with flickering golds.
Lancelot is aware of Merlin, the flex of his back and shoulders as he pulls the tunic over his head, even as his mouth opens under the challenging press of Arthur's tongue.
The mattress is soft against Lancelot's knees. Arthur's hands curl around his hips. Merlin presses against his back, biting his shoulder and then soothes the mark with his lips. Arthur tugs Lancelot down, closer, into the fierce contest of a kiss.
Merlin's fingers are cool and slick as they press in. Lancelot dares to close his hands around Arthur's wrists--hears Merlin groan and sway forward even as his fingers continue carefully sliding in and out.
"Who do you want?" Merlin asks.
Lancelot shakes off the choice.
For a moment he can't tell which of them is filling him up.
Dawn sends fragile changing colours across the sky. Merlin sleeps pressed tightly against Arthur, a possessive arm thrown across Arthur's body. Lancelot doubts that this is something he is meant to see, but as soon as he moves to leave Merlin stirs.
Merlin's hair is sleep-ruffed. There are bite marks on his throat and in a vivid flash Lancelot feels again Merlin arching up under him, his body hot and open, moaning Lancelot's name against Arthur's lips.
Merlin watches him--calm and kind and serious--before pressing him back down and kissing him again, lightly, with that same surprising sweetness.