#amitcod

holy FUCK yes

@elesars so the fic is Accidental Memory in the Case of Death by derryere and it changed my brain chemistry it made me think of nothing else for months it made me so unwell then cured me (hands down, my favourite reincarnation au)

my brain rot makes me relate everything and anything to this dumb fic but here's a scene that feels relevant

Arthur doesn't quite give up. He sits next to Merlin the entire afternoon, either nagging insistently or wildly attempting to distract him by breathing hotly against his neck in the moments before being pushed off or replying to just about everything with shameless innuendos. It serves only to annoy Merlin even further. As the day progresses, the staff's nervousness increases, they're running behind or things go wrong, and Merlin—even though he's there with the intention to help, not because he has to—feels it rub off on him, too. Arthur flitters behind him as he works, following him around with that stupid grin, chewing on the fruit and asking what's that ("A spatula." "Oh, right."), what was that? ("Dunno." "Felt like—the ground was, uh, shaking." "They're probably just taking down the chandelier upstairs."), and once, when they're alone, sliding close with a hey, hey, what're you doing?

"Washing the cutlery, Arthur."

"Is the cutlery dirty, then?"

"What?"

"Is it very, very dirty, Merlin?"

"What?"

"Is it very, very—"

Merlin scoops up a cup of stale, shaded water and throws it unceremoniously in Arthur's general direction. Half of it is caught by his face, dripping down his front, staining his shirt. They both stare at the damage for a long moment, open-mouthed and disbelieving—did that actually just happen?—before Arthur starts laughing. Incredulous at first, a bit gasping, but soon it's a genuine laugh—rolling, loud, and Merlin can only give a weak smile as he picks up a piece of dry washcloth and tosses it at Arthur with the command to get himself cleaned. Arthur continues by tossing the cloth right back and following that movement, saying, "Oh, I'll get myself cleaned," trapping Merlin with two arms and rubbing his damp and dirty face into his neck and over his shirt.

Merlin protests, trying for serious but not exactly managing anything more than cut off exclamations of laughing disapproval, pulling Arthur's hair to get him off but quietly liking the stolen touches of grazing teeth to his neck. But then the amusement gives way to a more gasping sensation when there's sudden suction on his skin, a tongue, and Merlin tries to really mean it when he shoves at Arthur's shoulders—sending him stumbling back a step.

"He had a mark," Anthony says, lifting his hand to gently put it to the skin behind Emory's ear. "Right here." He rubs his thumb to the spot, fingers light in the nape of his neck. "Like you do. And a dimple, when he laughed, just one, right—" He lowers his hand over Emory's jaw, fingers soft as they stop at the side of his chin, below his mouth. "—Here. And a scar, from when he climbed a tree as a child, right . . . " His hand drops from Emory's face and comes to rest high on his thigh, fingers softly inching up and down the seam as he adds a whispered, "Here."

"Look, I—what do you want to hear? I saw it, thought of the obvious, thought—yeah, I thought it'd be funny, thought it'd be—"

"I'm not him. It's not funny." Emory looks up, serious. "It's a bad joke."