srin
in
mad_poetics
more prompt fic
Someday I will actually finish the proper fic I'm working on, but in the mean time here, have some prompt fic from this week's party at Camelot_fleet.
I could give these things proper titles instead of capslocked ridiculousness, but I feel like capslocked ridiculousness is fairly appropriate for all of these, so.
cherrybina gave me "Arthur catches Merlin flirting with a pretty girl from the kitchens (or whatever). Merlin is flirting because we all know he is easily distracted by the pretty, but Arthur gets all cranky and insecure." Merlin/Arthur, PG-13, ~1000 words.
Arthur does not care. Just because Merlin’s been smiling at him sort of shyly in between bouts of bickering, just because Arthur catches himself staring at that hideous new vase in Morgana’s room because it is the exact same colour as Merlin’s eyes, well, as Merlin’s eyes when they’re outside, in the bright sunshine, because when they’re in a dim forest Merlin’s eyes look more like one of Uther’s cloaks, and by candlelight - Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin’s eyes look like by candlelight, because - because he doesn’t care. That’s the point. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Merlin’s stupid eyes or his stupid smile or his stupid bony wrists or his stupid laugh. Just because Merlin kissed him a week ago, and now Arthur’s preoccupied with Merlin whenever they’re together and even more preoccupied when they aren’t, it doesn’t mean Arthur cares.
Arthur doesn’t care. Really. He doesn’t care that Merlin’s loitering in the kitchen instead of coming up to Arthur’s chambers. He doesn’t care that Merlin’s loitering because he’s talking to some girl, smiling his stupid smile at this stupid girl, leaning with his elbow propped against the wall right near her head, grinning and laughing and leaning in close as she whispers something with her stupid pouty lips - Arthur doesn’t care. His stomach doesn’t turn sour at the sight, and his chest doesn’t ache, and he doesn’t feel small and unwanted. And when he turns on his heel and strides right back out of the kitchen, well, that’s because he has no reason to be in the kitchen. It’s certainly not because he’s fleeing to lick his wounds like an injured animal. Definitely not.
And when Merlin wanders in later - without knocking, humming some offensively cheerful tune - Arthur is not sulking.
“What are you sulking about?” Merlin asks, first thing. (Arthur’s slouched in his chair, his head propped against his fist so his knuckles mash against his lips and he isn’t thinking about Merlin’s lips mashed against his instead, mashed, or pressed gently, tenderly, sweet little snippet of contact - No, he isn’t thinking about that. Because he’s thinking about Merlin’s lips and the pouty girl’s lips, and how apparently Arthur’s lips aren’t good enough for his good-for-nothing manservant-slash-friend-slash-flighty little idiot.)
“The state of my stables,” Arthur says. “It’s really quite appalling,” he adds, but even he can hear that his heart really isn’t in it.
“Your stables were mucked out yesterday,” Merlin says patiently, coming around to stand right in front of Arthur, “by the stable boys. As it is their job, not mine. And you haven’t even been there today.”
“How would you know?” Arthur snaps.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, frowning, uncertain, and Arthur almost feels guilty for it except - except Merlin hurt him first. (Maybe he cares. A little bit.)
“You wouldn’t know, because you’ve been off being a lazy git instead of-”
“Instead of what?” Merlin folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the table, shuffles his feet outward and slumps a bit; they’re not quite at eye level, but they’re closer than they were.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” It does matter, but damned if Arthur’s going to admit that. Arthur doesn’t care. He will repeat this to himself until it becomes true. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to see you?” Merlin says, inflection rising like a question, and the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. Arthur wants to smooth it out, possibly with his mouth.
“Why?” he demands, instead.
“Because? Arthur, what’s the matter with you?”
“You kissed me,” Arthur says accusingly. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out while he’s trying not to notice which exact shade of blue Merlin’s eyes appear to be right now. (There’s daylight in the room, but it’s slanting low through the windows, a warm quality to it, so the blue isn’t quite Morgana’s-hideous-vase blue, but it isn’t Uther’s-cloak-blue either, maybe the blue of the river in that one tapestry…)
“Yes…”
“You can’t do that.”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last week. Or this morning, for that matter,” Merlin tells him, confused frown etching itself more firmly into his features.
“You can’t do that if you’re only going to throw me over for some pouting kitchen girl!” Arthur shouts. Oh dear. He really didn’t mean to say that.
“Throw you over for … What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, you’re a dreadful actor. I saw you. Today. With that girl.”
“With… you mean Mary, in the kitchen this afternoon?” At Arthur’s curt nod, Merlin’s face clears, which is good, and then he laughs, which is not good at all.
“I’m glad you think making a fool out of your future sovereign is so funny, Merlin, maybe you’ll find it equally amusing in the-”
“Arthur, I’m not throwing you over for - I’m not throwing you over. Mary’s just - she’s pretty, yeah, and maybe I occasionally like to have a conversation that doesn’t consist primarily of verbal abuse but-” Arthur won’t look at him, not even when he drops to his knees in front of Arthur’s chair, not until he plants his hands on Arthur’s thighs and says, seriously, “Arthur. We were just talking, alright? It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you any more.”
“It doesn’t?” Arthur asks, very quietly, like maybe it doesn’t count if no one can hear him.
“No, it doesn’t,” Merlin says. “Don’t be an idiot, Arthur. I’m yours till the day I die, remember?”
“Oh,” says Arthur.
“Alright?”
“…Alright,” Arthur says, feeling deflated and, ok, more than a little relieved. Because he does care. Just because he won’t ever willingly admit it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Merlin leans forward, so Arthur bends down, and their lips brush together, soft sweet rush of contact, and just before Arthur hauls Merlin up into his lap, he decides that right now, Merlin’s eyes are blue like the sky at twilight, right as it’s about to turn black with the night. And then Arthur doesn’t think or pretend or decide anything, for quite a while.
miakun gave me "Arthur/Lancelot, sparring leading to sex up against walls in the castle." Arthur/Lancelot, NC-17, ~1100 words.
The last time they sparred in public, Gwen stared with her mouth hanging open, Morgana wolf-whistled in a thoroughly un-ladylike manner, and Merlin shouted “Get a room!” (And, more quietly, added “Preferably mine.”) Apparently two fit, muscular men in loosely-woven, light linen shirts and clinging trousers, leaping about and sweating artfully and thrusting at one another with long hard phallic objects is just too much for some people to take. As a result, Arthur and Lancelot are now sparring in a secluded spot out behind the castle, sans spectators.
Lancelot’s very good; he was good when he first came to Camelot, but since then he’s picked up some exotic fighting styles with which Arthur is unfamiliar, and at this point, though their specific strengths vary, they are overall quite evenly matched. Which means there are no easy wins; Arthur has to keep on his toes if he doesn’t want to land on his back, and it’s tiring. Tiring, and exhilarating in a way that the average sparring session isn’t.
They’ve been at it for a while now, both thoroughly sweat-drenched and breathing hard, and this could go on for hours but - but maybe their absent spectators had a point. So Arthur makes a few tactical missteps, allows Lancelot to press him backward, until they’re nearly at the wall. Lancelot’s expression is wary; he knows from experience that Arthur doesn’t make those sorts of mistakes, not unless he’s hoping to gain something from it. (Arthur is hoping to gain something from it, but probably not what Lancelot thinks.) Still, he takes the advantage when Arthur gives it, and a moment later Arthur’s trapped between Lancelot’s staff and the cool stone of the castle wall.
All of Lancelot’s concentration is on his upper body, on keeping his staff locked against Arthur’s. He’s expecting Arthur to push back, to try to get away.
“Do you yield-” Lancelot begins to say. He is not expecting Arthur to roll his hips, shoving their groins together, or to drop his staff.
“I do,” Arthur says, meeting his gaze. Licking his lips, which taste of salt, as Lancelot’s surely do as well; he can see the little beads of moisture collected on his upper lip.
“Sire?” Lancelot asks, a little unsure, though Arthur’s pleased to see that his eyes track the progress of Arthur’s tongue.
“I yield, Sir Lancelot,” Arthur says, dropping his voice into its deepest register. “Will you not-”
He doesn’t get to finish the question, because Lancelot catches on quickly, and his tongue cuts off Arthur’s sentence before it leaves his throat. Arthur’s distantly aware of the sound of Lancelot’s staff clattering to the ground, but it’s hardly a priority when Lancelot’s hands are cupping his face and Lancelot’s leg is shoving between his thighs and Arthur’s grabbing handfuls of his shirt to haul him closer, not caring that they’re both overheated and, audience or no, still technically in a public place. There’s hard stone at Arthur’s back and hard muscle all along his front; Lancelot’s skin is as hot and wet as his mouth, and Arthur has no desire to go anywhere.
Lancelot kisses like he fights, thoroughly, with passion and care and skill. And still and all, that unerring politeness - when one of his hands strays to the ties of Arthur’s trousers, he pauses for just a moment to ask, “May I?” though his voice is rough and wrecked.
Arthur answers by undoing Lancelot’s trousers and shoving his hand inside, where everything is impossibly even hotter and even harder. Understanding his assent, Lancelot frees Arthur too, and they work one another with sure grip and steady hand, every bit as capable in this as in handling other lengths.
Lancelot comes first, his groan muffled in Arthur’s mouth. Ever the gentleman, he takes only a moment to recover before redoubling his efforts and bringing Arthur off a moment later. Arthur’s head slams back against the wall, an instinctive jerk he may regret when the bruise blooms later, but he barely notices the pain for the release rushing through his whole body now.
Lancelot has his forehead pressed to the stone above Arthur’s shoulder, his breath hot and harsh in Arthur’s ear as he comes down, and they stay like that, too close and too warm and perfect, for a long moment before Lancelot finally steps back. He wipes his hand on his shirt - soaked with sweat and filthy, needs washing anyway - and fixes his trousers.
“A most satisfying session, your highness,” he says, and Arthur might almost take offence at the formality of his tone, if not for the thoroughly filthy smile curving his swollen lips.
“Indeed, Sir Lancelot,” he agrees. “Same time tomorrow?”
*
The next time, it’s Lancelot with his back against the wall, but after a short - though thorough - kiss, Arthur breaks off and drops to his knees, reaching for Lancelot’s trousers.
“Sire-” Lancelot begins, in a slightly more strangled version of his usual tone of extreme chivalry.
“I’m the prince, I do what I want,” Arthur interrupts, loosening the laces, “So unless you’re telling me you don’t want me to suck you, I’d advise you not to argue.”
Lancelot’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click, and Arthur takes a moment to feel smug before freeing Lancelot’s cock. Already hard, which is gratifying, as is the choked sound Lancelot makes when Arthur licks up the length of it; the noises when Arthur wraps his lips around the head and hums are even better. Still, it’s a little unsettling how still Lancelot holds himself, rigid and unmoving as though he were carved from the stone he’s pressed against. He’s trying to be considerate, of course, not thrusting into Arthur’s mouth or letting his hips jerk to force his cock down Arthur’s throat, and under other circumstances Arthur might take it as a challenge, draw this out and see what it takes to make him break, but this isn’t the place for it.
Arthur pulls off with a wet pop, draws his thumb under Lancelot’s balls, and says, “You can move, man, I take no particular joy in ministering to statues.” Which earns him a breathless little laugh, and he looks up, trading smiles with Lancelot, before returning to his task. Lancelot’s still controlled, thereafter, but he lets his hips stutter a little, and tentatively threads a hand through Arthur’s hair, calloused fingers catching in the strands, and that’s enough for Arthur. When Lancelot’s body starts rocking a bit harder, and his fingers tighten on Arthur’s scalp, he’s unsurprised to hear Lancelot hiss,
“Arthur, I - I’m about to-”
Arthur ignores him, just takes him down as deep as he can and fingers his balls again and swallows.
…He doesn’t object to Lancelot’s excessive politeness when it moves him to return the favour, though.
And then there was talk of the series 2 trailer, and relationship developments, which led to this. No actual series 2 spoilers, just more absurdity. Arthur/Gwen/Merlin, PG-13, ~1600 words.
After Guinevere’s walked away down the hall, Merlin’s still standing there, arms folded, leaning against the wall, grinning in that excessively broad, slightly smug way that always makes Arthur wary.
“What?” Arthur demands.
Merlin smirks at him some more and then says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself,
“Now who’s in love with Gwen?”
“What,” Arthur says, drawing himself up and attempting to look stoic and imposing.
“You are. You like her. You reeeally like her.”
“I - she’s a very lovely -”
“It’s aaaalright,” Merlin interrupts, in a horrible imitation of Arthur’s inflection. “You can admit it.”
“I am not - you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur sputters.
“Come now, Arthur, there’s no sense in denying it. I think she likes you too.”
“Really?” Arthur asks, before he can stop himself.
“Really,” Merlin says. He claps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, and manages to lead him halfway down the corridor - chattering about how Gwen’s wonderful, much too wonderful for a prat like him, really, but there’s no accounting for taste - before Arthur composes himself enough to shrug the arm off and move away.
“Don’t you have something to clean inefficiently? Or one of Gaius’s potions to bungle?” Arthur demands. Merlin just smiles at him again, and scampers away, leaving Arthur to wonder how much of what he said about Gwen’s feelings is true.
*
“So you and Arthur,” Merlin says, while he’s helping Gwen bring a stack of clean laundry up to Morgana’s room.
“I’m sorry?” Gwen says.
“You like him.”
“Um,” says Gwen, “I suppose? He’s a good man, and he’ll, um, he’ll be a good king, he-”
“No,” says Merlin.
“You don’t think so?” Gwen asks, surprised. “I know you like to complain about him but I really do think-”
“No, I meant - of course he’ll be a good king, I meant you like him. As in like him,” Merlin clarifies, waggling his eyebrows for emphasis.
“Oh,” says Gwen, and then, very firmly. “No I don’t.” Then she starts walking faster.
“Yes you do,” Merlin insists, quickening his pace to keep up.
“No I don’t,” Gwen repeats.
“Come on, Gwen, you can admit it. Just because you used to call him a bully-”
“You used to call him a prat,” Gwen points out, shouldering open the door to Morgana’s room.
“I still call him a prat, and we aren’t talking about me,” Merlin says, following her inside.
“Merlin, I have no idea what you are talking about. I appreciate your help, but I can manage from here, thank you,” she says, relieving him of his laundry, and then bundles him out the door before he can argue further.
*
“You should give him flowers,” Merlin says, the next time he sees Gwen.
“Excuse me?”
“Arthur. You should give him flowers. Those little pink ones that grow behind the stables.”
“He hates those, they make him sneeze,” Gwen says, and then immediately regrets it because that really isn’t the best answer she could give under the circumstances. Merlin’s smirk indicates that he’s well aware of this.
“Yes they do, but if you give them to him, he’ll accept them graciously and be forced to keep them in his chambers anyway.”
“And then he’ll sneeze and be miserable,” Gwen says.
“He made me exercise his dogs yesterday. His dogs hate me. He deserves it.”
“He’ll probably sneeze on you,” Gwen says. “Deliberately.”
Merlin’s face scrunches up in an expression of disgust. “Maybe you shouldn’t give him those flowers.”
“I’m glad we’re agreed on something, Merlin.”
“You should still give him flowers, though. You gave me flowers.”
“I give Morgana flowers. You were just - I was just being polite,” Gwen says, slightly flustered.
“I could give him flowers, and say they’re from you,” Merlin offers.
Gwen considers him seriously, and says, “Merlin, if you would like to give Arthur flowers, you needn’t use me as an excuse to do it.” Then she walks away, smiling to herself, while he sputters.
*
Arthur shoves a bunch of wildflowers into Merlin’s hands. Some of them have apparently been ripped whole from the ground, with little bunches of roots and soil still clinging; others appear to have been slashed off with roughly with a dagger.
“Oh Arthur you shouldn’t have,” Merlin says, deadpan. Arthur glowers at him.
“Give those to Guinevere,” he barks.
“You want me to give Gwen flowers?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not, I’m happy to give her flowers, she deserves someone giving her flowers for once, but - Should I say they’re from you?”
“No, Merlin, from her secret admirer Gaius. Yes from me!”
Merlin grins, and Arthur stomps away, blushing furiously.
*
“Are these really from Arthur?” Gwen asks dubiously, staring at the clumps of soil.
“Please, Gwen, I’m Gaius’s sort-of apprentice, I know how to properly cut plants.”
“Mmm. Fair enough. Tell him thank you.”
“That’s all?”
“Well.” Gwen considers this, and gets a speculative gleam in her eyes. “If you wanted, you could pass on another message for me.”
“What’s that?”
She hooks her fingers in his neckerchief, tugs him down, and places a very brief kiss on his cheek, then draws back, smiling, while his eyes get very large.
“Oh! You want to me to-”
“Do you think you’ve got that down, Merlin? I could repeat it for you if you’d like,” she says, blinking at him innocently. He turns pink, and promptly runs away.
*
“Um. Gwen says thank you for the flowers. And, um. Another thing. Um.”
“Well? Come on, Merlin, spit it out,” Arthur says.
“Um. Not exactly a spitting thing. Exactly. Um, well, there might be spit involved, actually, but that’s not really the-”
“Merlin.”
“Right. Um. Right. Don’t yell at me, this is all Gwen, alright?” At Arthur’s curt nod, Merlin steps up to him, kisses his cheek, and retreats quickly.
“Well that’s all I think I hear Gaius calling goodbye!” Merlin says, and runs away again.
Arthur blinks, and then flushes a little, and then presses one hand to his cheek right where Merlin’s lips touched it.
*
A week later, Merlin wanders into the gardens in search of Gwen, only to find both Gwen and Arthur. They’re strolling along, side by side, and upon closer examination - holding hands. Holding hands and Arthur’s smiling, his face very young and boyish, and Gwen’s smiling too, a private little quirk of her lips, and both expressions warm Merlin’s heart. There’s a flower tucked into her hair, and another one behind his ear. Merlin watches them for a long moment, then turns away.
*
A week after that, Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers one afternoon to find Gwen there, sharing Arthur’s lunch, both of them laughing.
“I knew it!” Merlin proclaims triumphantly, because he’s managed to restrain the urge to tease them individually, but he’s not about to hold back when they’re both here together.
“You know something? Congratulations, that must be a first for you,” Arthur says blandly. Gwen suppresses a snicker and shoots Arthur a mildly chastising frown.
“Ha ha,” Merlin says. “You two. You’re all…” he gestures wildly, encompassing them both.
“Well. Yes,” Gwen says carefully. “Is that a problem?”
“No! No, of course not, I’m happy for you,” Merlin says quickly.
Arthur glances to Gwen and they exchange some kind of secret look, then Arthur says,
“You’re not jealous, Merlin?”
“Jealous? What? No, why would I be-”
“Because it would be perfectly understandable,” Arthur goes on, in his excessively reasonable voice.
“Yes, I mean, Arthur and I, we’re two of your closest friends,” Gwen puts in, and now Merlin’s getting a little worried, because Arthur on his own is one thing, but if he’s got Gwen backing him up...
“And now we’re going to be spending a great deal of time together,” Arthur says.
“Yeah, well, I mean,” Merlin says, non-committal.
“And we’re both very attractive,” Arthur adds.
“Um,” says Merlin, articulately. Gwen stands up, and circles around the table to where Merlin’s standing.
“So we’d understand, if you felt left out,” she says.
“Um,” Merlin repeats. Arthur stands too, and joins them.
“We wouldn’t want you to feel left out, Merlin.”
Merlin swallows hard and looks between them, a little wildly.
“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” he manages after a moment.
“Oh really?” Arthur asks.
“I really don’t,” Merlin says. His ears feel warm, though.
“Perhaps we can clarify,” Gwen says. “Arthur, didn’t you have a message you wanted delivered?”
“Why yes, Guinevere, I did,” Arthur says cheerfully. “Merlin, I need you to deliver a message for me. To Gwen.”
“But Gwen’s - she’s standing right there,” Merlin says, sounding kind of helpless.
“Nevertheless. Would you like to know what the message is?”
“Alright?”
Arthur shoots Gwen a quick look - triumphant, it seems to Merlin - and then he cradles Merlin’s cheeks in his hands, and kisses him, very gently, on the mouth.
“Oh,” says Merlin, after Arthur pulls back.
“Do you understand, now?” Arthur asks, his voice suddenly very soft, almost pleading.
“I, um. I think I’d better - um, deliver the - deliver the message?”
Arthur breaks into a broad smile, like the one he wore in the garden, and nods.
“That would be good.”
Merlin turns to Gwen, swallowing again, and she’s watching him, pleased and expectant.
“You have a-” she starts to say, but gets cut off by Merlin’s kiss, a little wetter and a little more over-eager than Arthur’s, but it’ll do.
Message delivered.
(and in case anyone's sad about Morgana being left out, I'll just tell you that in another day or so Gwen's going to go, "....So, boys, I kind of promised Morgana a foursome if this worked out. I hope that isn't a problem for you.")
I could give these things proper titles instead of capslocked ridiculousness, but I feel like capslocked ridiculousness is fairly appropriate for all of these, so.
cherrybina gave me "Arthur catches Merlin flirting with a pretty girl from the kitchens (or whatever). Merlin is flirting because we all know he is easily distracted by the pretty, but Arthur gets all cranky and insecure." Merlin/Arthur, PG-13, ~1000 words.
Arthur does not care. Just because Merlin’s been smiling at him sort of shyly in between bouts of bickering, just because Arthur catches himself staring at that hideous new vase in Morgana’s room because it is the exact same colour as Merlin’s eyes, well, as Merlin’s eyes when they’re outside, in the bright sunshine, because when they’re in a dim forest Merlin’s eyes look more like one of Uther’s cloaks, and by candlelight - Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin’s eyes look like by candlelight, because - because he doesn’t care. That’s the point. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Merlin’s stupid eyes or his stupid smile or his stupid bony wrists or his stupid laugh. Just because Merlin kissed him a week ago, and now Arthur’s preoccupied with Merlin whenever they’re together and even more preoccupied when they aren’t, it doesn’t mean Arthur cares.
Arthur doesn’t care. Really. He doesn’t care that Merlin’s loitering in the kitchen instead of coming up to Arthur’s chambers. He doesn’t care that Merlin’s loitering because he’s talking to some girl, smiling his stupid smile at this stupid girl, leaning with his elbow propped against the wall right near her head, grinning and laughing and leaning in close as she whispers something with her stupid pouty lips - Arthur doesn’t care. His stomach doesn’t turn sour at the sight, and his chest doesn’t ache, and he doesn’t feel small and unwanted. And when he turns on his heel and strides right back out of the kitchen, well, that’s because he has no reason to be in the kitchen. It’s certainly not because he’s fleeing to lick his wounds like an injured animal. Definitely not.
And when Merlin wanders in later - without knocking, humming some offensively cheerful tune - Arthur is not sulking.
“What are you sulking about?” Merlin asks, first thing. (Arthur’s slouched in his chair, his head propped against his fist so his knuckles mash against his lips and he isn’t thinking about Merlin’s lips mashed against his instead, mashed, or pressed gently, tenderly, sweet little snippet of contact - No, he isn’t thinking about that. Because he’s thinking about Merlin’s lips and the pouty girl’s lips, and how apparently Arthur’s lips aren’t good enough for his good-for-nothing manservant-slash-friend-slash-flighty little idiot.)
“The state of my stables,” Arthur says. “It’s really quite appalling,” he adds, but even he can hear that his heart really isn’t in it.
“Your stables were mucked out yesterday,” Merlin says patiently, coming around to stand right in front of Arthur, “by the stable boys. As it is their job, not mine. And you haven’t even been there today.”
“How would you know?” Arthur snaps.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, frowning, uncertain, and Arthur almost feels guilty for it except - except Merlin hurt him first. (Maybe he cares. A little bit.)
“You wouldn’t know, because you’ve been off being a lazy git instead of-”
“Instead of what?” Merlin folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the table, shuffles his feet outward and slumps a bit; they’re not quite at eye level, but they’re closer than they were.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” It does matter, but damned if Arthur’s going to admit that. Arthur doesn’t care. He will repeat this to himself until it becomes true. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to see you?” Merlin says, inflection rising like a question, and the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. Arthur wants to smooth it out, possibly with his mouth.
“Why?” he demands, instead.
“Because? Arthur, what’s the matter with you?”
“You kissed me,” Arthur says accusingly. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out while he’s trying not to notice which exact shade of blue Merlin’s eyes appear to be right now. (There’s daylight in the room, but it’s slanting low through the windows, a warm quality to it, so the blue isn’t quite Morgana’s-hideous-vase blue, but it isn’t Uther’s-cloak-blue either, maybe the blue of the river in that one tapestry…)
“Yes…”
“You can’t do that.”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last week. Or this morning, for that matter,” Merlin tells him, confused frown etching itself more firmly into his features.
“You can’t do that if you’re only going to throw me over for some pouting kitchen girl!” Arthur shouts. Oh dear. He really didn’t mean to say that.
“Throw you over for … What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, you’re a dreadful actor. I saw you. Today. With that girl.”
“With… you mean Mary, in the kitchen this afternoon?” At Arthur’s curt nod, Merlin’s face clears, which is good, and then he laughs, which is not good at all.
“I’m glad you think making a fool out of your future sovereign is so funny, Merlin, maybe you’ll find it equally amusing in the-”
“Arthur, I’m not throwing you over for - I’m not throwing you over. Mary’s just - she’s pretty, yeah, and maybe I occasionally like to have a conversation that doesn’t consist primarily of verbal abuse but-” Arthur won’t look at him, not even when he drops to his knees in front of Arthur’s chair, not until he plants his hands on Arthur’s thighs and says, seriously, “Arthur. We were just talking, alright? It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you any more.”
“It doesn’t?” Arthur asks, very quietly, like maybe it doesn’t count if no one can hear him.
“No, it doesn’t,” Merlin says. “Don’t be an idiot, Arthur. I’m yours till the day I die, remember?”
“Oh,” says Arthur.
“Alright?”
“…Alright,” Arthur says, feeling deflated and, ok, more than a little relieved. Because he does care. Just because he won’t ever willingly admit it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Merlin leans forward, so Arthur bends down, and their lips brush together, soft sweet rush of contact, and just before Arthur hauls Merlin up into his lap, he decides that right now, Merlin’s eyes are blue like the sky at twilight, right as it’s about to turn black with the night. And then Arthur doesn’t think or pretend or decide anything, for quite a while.
miakun gave me "Arthur/Lancelot, sparring leading to sex up against walls in the castle." Arthur/Lancelot, NC-17, ~1100 words.
The last time they sparred in public, Gwen stared with her mouth hanging open, Morgana wolf-whistled in a thoroughly un-ladylike manner, and Merlin shouted “Get a room!” (And, more quietly, added “Preferably mine.”) Apparently two fit, muscular men in loosely-woven, light linen shirts and clinging trousers, leaping about and sweating artfully and thrusting at one another with long hard phallic objects is just too much for some people to take. As a result, Arthur and Lancelot are now sparring in a secluded spot out behind the castle, sans spectators.
Lancelot’s very good; he was good when he first came to Camelot, but since then he’s picked up some exotic fighting styles with which Arthur is unfamiliar, and at this point, though their specific strengths vary, they are overall quite evenly matched. Which means there are no easy wins; Arthur has to keep on his toes if he doesn’t want to land on his back, and it’s tiring. Tiring, and exhilarating in a way that the average sparring session isn’t.
They’ve been at it for a while now, both thoroughly sweat-drenched and breathing hard, and this could go on for hours but - but maybe their absent spectators had a point. So Arthur makes a few tactical missteps, allows Lancelot to press him backward, until they’re nearly at the wall. Lancelot’s expression is wary; he knows from experience that Arthur doesn’t make those sorts of mistakes, not unless he’s hoping to gain something from it. (Arthur is hoping to gain something from it, but probably not what Lancelot thinks.) Still, he takes the advantage when Arthur gives it, and a moment later Arthur’s trapped between Lancelot’s staff and the cool stone of the castle wall.
All of Lancelot’s concentration is on his upper body, on keeping his staff locked against Arthur’s. He’s expecting Arthur to push back, to try to get away.
“Do you yield-” Lancelot begins to say. He is not expecting Arthur to roll his hips, shoving their groins together, or to drop his staff.
“I do,” Arthur says, meeting his gaze. Licking his lips, which taste of salt, as Lancelot’s surely do as well; he can see the little beads of moisture collected on his upper lip.
“Sire?” Lancelot asks, a little unsure, though Arthur’s pleased to see that his eyes track the progress of Arthur’s tongue.
“I yield, Sir Lancelot,” Arthur says, dropping his voice into its deepest register. “Will you not-”
He doesn’t get to finish the question, because Lancelot catches on quickly, and his tongue cuts off Arthur’s sentence before it leaves his throat. Arthur’s distantly aware of the sound of Lancelot’s staff clattering to the ground, but it’s hardly a priority when Lancelot’s hands are cupping his face and Lancelot’s leg is shoving between his thighs and Arthur’s grabbing handfuls of his shirt to haul him closer, not caring that they’re both overheated and, audience or no, still technically in a public place. There’s hard stone at Arthur’s back and hard muscle all along his front; Lancelot’s skin is as hot and wet as his mouth, and Arthur has no desire to go anywhere.
Lancelot kisses like he fights, thoroughly, with passion and care and skill. And still and all, that unerring politeness - when one of his hands strays to the ties of Arthur’s trousers, he pauses for just a moment to ask, “May I?” though his voice is rough and wrecked.
Arthur answers by undoing Lancelot’s trousers and shoving his hand inside, where everything is impossibly even hotter and even harder. Understanding his assent, Lancelot frees Arthur too, and they work one another with sure grip and steady hand, every bit as capable in this as in handling other lengths.
Lancelot comes first, his groan muffled in Arthur’s mouth. Ever the gentleman, he takes only a moment to recover before redoubling his efforts and bringing Arthur off a moment later. Arthur’s head slams back against the wall, an instinctive jerk he may regret when the bruise blooms later, but he barely notices the pain for the release rushing through his whole body now.
Lancelot has his forehead pressed to the stone above Arthur’s shoulder, his breath hot and harsh in Arthur’s ear as he comes down, and they stay like that, too close and too warm and perfect, for a long moment before Lancelot finally steps back. He wipes his hand on his shirt - soaked with sweat and filthy, needs washing anyway - and fixes his trousers.
“A most satisfying session, your highness,” he says, and Arthur might almost take offence at the formality of his tone, if not for the thoroughly filthy smile curving his swollen lips.
“Indeed, Sir Lancelot,” he agrees. “Same time tomorrow?”
*
The next time, it’s Lancelot with his back against the wall, but after a short - though thorough - kiss, Arthur breaks off and drops to his knees, reaching for Lancelot’s trousers.
“Sire-” Lancelot begins, in a slightly more strangled version of his usual tone of extreme chivalry.
“I’m the prince, I do what I want,” Arthur interrupts, loosening the laces, “So unless you’re telling me you don’t want me to suck you, I’d advise you not to argue.”
Lancelot’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click, and Arthur takes a moment to feel smug before freeing Lancelot’s cock. Already hard, which is gratifying, as is the choked sound Lancelot makes when Arthur licks up the length of it; the noises when Arthur wraps his lips around the head and hums are even better. Still, it’s a little unsettling how still Lancelot holds himself, rigid and unmoving as though he were carved from the stone he’s pressed against. He’s trying to be considerate, of course, not thrusting into Arthur’s mouth or letting his hips jerk to force his cock down Arthur’s throat, and under other circumstances Arthur might take it as a challenge, draw this out and see what it takes to make him break, but this isn’t the place for it.
Arthur pulls off with a wet pop, draws his thumb under Lancelot’s balls, and says, “You can move, man, I take no particular joy in ministering to statues.” Which earns him a breathless little laugh, and he looks up, trading smiles with Lancelot, before returning to his task. Lancelot’s still controlled, thereafter, but he lets his hips stutter a little, and tentatively threads a hand through Arthur’s hair, calloused fingers catching in the strands, and that’s enough for Arthur. When Lancelot’s body starts rocking a bit harder, and his fingers tighten on Arthur’s scalp, he’s unsurprised to hear Lancelot hiss,
“Arthur, I - I’m about to-”
Arthur ignores him, just takes him down as deep as he can and fingers his balls again and swallows.
…He doesn’t object to Lancelot’s excessive politeness when it moves him to return the favour, though.
And then there was talk of the series 2 trailer, and relationship developments, which led to this. No actual series 2 spoilers, just more absurdity. Arthur/Gwen/Merlin, PG-13, ~1600 words.
After Guinevere’s walked away down the hall, Merlin’s still standing there, arms folded, leaning against the wall, grinning in that excessively broad, slightly smug way that always makes Arthur wary.
“What?” Arthur demands.
Merlin smirks at him some more and then says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself,
“Now who’s in love with Gwen?”
“What,” Arthur says, drawing himself up and attempting to look stoic and imposing.
“You are. You like her. You reeeally like her.”
“I - she’s a very lovely -”
“It’s aaaalright,” Merlin interrupts, in a horrible imitation of Arthur’s inflection. “You can admit it.”
“I am not - you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur sputters.
“Come now, Arthur, there’s no sense in denying it. I think she likes you too.”
“Really?” Arthur asks, before he can stop himself.
“Really,” Merlin says. He claps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, and manages to lead him halfway down the corridor - chattering about how Gwen’s wonderful, much too wonderful for a prat like him, really, but there’s no accounting for taste - before Arthur composes himself enough to shrug the arm off and move away.
“Don’t you have something to clean inefficiently? Or one of Gaius’s potions to bungle?” Arthur demands. Merlin just smiles at him again, and scampers away, leaving Arthur to wonder how much of what he said about Gwen’s feelings is true.
*
“So you and Arthur,” Merlin says, while he’s helping Gwen bring a stack of clean laundry up to Morgana’s room.
“I’m sorry?” Gwen says.
“You like him.”
“Um,” says Gwen, “I suppose? He’s a good man, and he’ll, um, he’ll be a good king, he-”
“No,” says Merlin.
“You don’t think so?” Gwen asks, surprised. “I know you like to complain about him but I really do think-”
“No, I meant - of course he’ll be a good king, I meant you like him. As in like him,” Merlin clarifies, waggling his eyebrows for emphasis.
“Oh,” says Gwen, and then, very firmly. “No I don’t.” Then she starts walking faster.
“Yes you do,” Merlin insists, quickening his pace to keep up.
“No I don’t,” Gwen repeats.
“Come on, Gwen, you can admit it. Just because you used to call him a bully-”
“You used to call him a prat,” Gwen points out, shouldering open the door to Morgana’s room.
“I still call him a prat, and we aren’t talking about me,” Merlin says, following her inside.
“Merlin, I have no idea what you are talking about. I appreciate your help, but I can manage from here, thank you,” she says, relieving him of his laundry, and then bundles him out the door before he can argue further.
*
“You should give him flowers,” Merlin says, the next time he sees Gwen.
“Excuse me?”
“Arthur. You should give him flowers. Those little pink ones that grow behind the stables.”
“He hates those, they make him sneeze,” Gwen says, and then immediately regrets it because that really isn’t the best answer she could give under the circumstances. Merlin’s smirk indicates that he’s well aware of this.
“Yes they do, but if you give them to him, he’ll accept them graciously and be forced to keep them in his chambers anyway.”
“And then he’ll sneeze and be miserable,” Gwen says.
“He made me exercise his dogs yesterday. His dogs hate me. He deserves it.”
“He’ll probably sneeze on you,” Gwen says. “Deliberately.”
Merlin’s face scrunches up in an expression of disgust. “Maybe you shouldn’t give him those flowers.”
“I’m glad we’re agreed on something, Merlin.”
“You should still give him flowers, though. You gave me flowers.”
“I give Morgana flowers. You were just - I was just being polite,” Gwen says, slightly flustered.
“I could give him flowers, and say they’re from you,” Merlin offers.
Gwen considers him seriously, and says, “Merlin, if you would like to give Arthur flowers, you needn’t use me as an excuse to do it.” Then she walks away, smiling to herself, while he sputters.
*
Arthur shoves a bunch of wildflowers into Merlin’s hands. Some of them have apparently been ripped whole from the ground, with little bunches of roots and soil still clinging; others appear to have been slashed off with roughly with a dagger.
“Oh Arthur you shouldn’t have,” Merlin says, deadpan. Arthur glowers at him.
“Give those to Guinevere,” he barks.
“You want me to give Gwen flowers?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not, I’m happy to give her flowers, she deserves someone giving her flowers for once, but - Should I say they’re from you?”
“No, Merlin, from her secret admirer Gaius. Yes from me!”
Merlin grins, and Arthur stomps away, blushing furiously.
*
“Are these really from Arthur?” Gwen asks dubiously, staring at the clumps of soil.
“Please, Gwen, I’m Gaius’s sort-of apprentice, I know how to properly cut plants.”
“Mmm. Fair enough. Tell him thank you.”
“That’s all?”
“Well.” Gwen considers this, and gets a speculative gleam in her eyes. “If you wanted, you could pass on another message for me.”
“What’s that?”
She hooks her fingers in his neckerchief, tugs him down, and places a very brief kiss on his cheek, then draws back, smiling, while his eyes get very large.
“Oh! You want to me to-”
“Do you think you’ve got that down, Merlin? I could repeat it for you if you’d like,” she says, blinking at him innocently. He turns pink, and promptly runs away.
*
“Um. Gwen says thank you for the flowers. And, um. Another thing. Um.”
“Well? Come on, Merlin, spit it out,” Arthur says.
“Um. Not exactly a spitting thing. Exactly. Um, well, there might be spit involved, actually, but that’s not really the-”
“Merlin.”
“Right. Um. Right. Don’t yell at me, this is all Gwen, alright?” At Arthur’s curt nod, Merlin steps up to him, kisses his cheek, and retreats quickly.
“Well that’s all I think I hear Gaius calling goodbye!” Merlin says, and runs away again.
Arthur blinks, and then flushes a little, and then presses one hand to his cheek right where Merlin’s lips touched it.
*
A week later, Merlin wanders into the gardens in search of Gwen, only to find both Gwen and Arthur. They’re strolling along, side by side, and upon closer examination - holding hands. Holding hands and Arthur’s smiling, his face very young and boyish, and Gwen’s smiling too, a private little quirk of her lips, and both expressions warm Merlin’s heart. There’s a flower tucked into her hair, and another one behind his ear. Merlin watches them for a long moment, then turns away.
*
A week after that, Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers one afternoon to find Gwen there, sharing Arthur’s lunch, both of them laughing.
“I knew it!” Merlin proclaims triumphantly, because he’s managed to restrain the urge to tease them individually, but he’s not about to hold back when they’re both here together.
“You know something? Congratulations, that must be a first for you,” Arthur says blandly. Gwen suppresses a snicker and shoots Arthur a mildly chastising frown.
“Ha ha,” Merlin says. “You two. You’re all…” he gestures wildly, encompassing them both.
“Well. Yes,” Gwen says carefully. “Is that a problem?”
“No! No, of course not, I’m happy for you,” Merlin says quickly.
Arthur glances to Gwen and they exchange some kind of secret look, then Arthur says,
“You’re not jealous, Merlin?”
“Jealous? What? No, why would I be-”
“Because it would be perfectly understandable,” Arthur goes on, in his excessively reasonable voice.
“Yes, I mean, Arthur and I, we’re two of your closest friends,” Gwen puts in, and now Merlin’s getting a little worried, because Arthur on his own is one thing, but if he’s got Gwen backing him up...
“And now we’re going to be spending a great deal of time together,” Arthur says.
“Yeah, well, I mean,” Merlin says, non-committal.
“And we’re both very attractive,” Arthur adds.
“Um,” says Merlin, articulately. Gwen stands up, and circles around the table to where Merlin’s standing.
“So we’d understand, if you felt left out,” she says.
“Um,” Merlin repeats. Arthur stands too, and joins them.
“We wouldn’t want you to feel left out, Merlin.”
Merlin swallows hard and looks between them, a little wildly.
“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” he manages after a moment.
“Oh really?” Arthur asks.
“I really don’t,” Merlin says. His ears feel warm, though.
“Perhaps we can clarify,” Gwen says. “Arthur, didn’t you have a message you wanted delivered?”
“Why yes, Guinevere, I did,” Arthur says cheerfully. “Merlin, I need you to deliver a message for me. To Gwen.”
“But Gwen’s - she’s standing right there,” Merlin says, sounding kind of helpless.
“Nevertheless. Would you like to know what the message is?”
“Alright?”
Arthur shoots Gwen a quick look - triumphant, it seems to Merlin - and then he cradles Merlin’s cheeks in his hands, and kisses him, very gently, on the mouth.
“Oh,” says Merlin, after Arthur pulls back.
“Do you understand, now?” Arthur asks, his voice suddenly very soft, almost pleading.
“I, um. I think I’d better - um, deliver the - deliver the message?”
Arthur breaks into a broad smile, like the one he wore in the garden, and nods.
“That would be good.”
Merlin turns to Gwen, swallowing again, and she’s watching him, pleased and expectant.
“You have a-” she starts to say, but gets cut off by Merlin’s kiss, a little wetter and a little more over-eager than Arthur’s, but it’ll do.
Message delivered.
(and in case anyone's sad about Morgana being left out, I'll just tell you that in another day or so Gwen's going to go, "....So, boys, I kind of promised Morgana a foursome if this worked out. I hope that isn't a problem for you.")