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For @merthurmicrofic | Prompt: Party | Word Count: 3,088 | read on ao3
Arthur had never particularly minded masquerade balls in principle, because there was a certain uncomplicated pleasure in watching a room full of powerful people pretend, for one evening, that they were not quite as important as they actually were, and in being able to stand among them without the immediate weight of every bow and scrape and carefully measured address that normally accompanied his presence, though he suspected he was meant to find all of it tedious rather than strangely liberating, which perhaps said more about his current state of mind than he was willing to examine too closely.
The hall itself was a sweep of gold-lit grandeur, candles trembling in tiers along the carved stone walls and reflecting off gilded masks that turned every face into something slightly unreal, slightly softened, so that even the most severe-looking duke or most delicate-looking lady became something almost like a story rather than a fixed person, and Arthur found, somewhat against his better judgment, that he liked it, liked the anonymity of it, liked the way attention slid off him for once and landed elsewhere as though he were not the axis around which every other conversation usually turned.
Merlin, of course, had been less enthusiastic when they had arrived, muttering something about “pointless foreign traditions” and “suspiciously stabby nobles in decorative disguises,” though Arthur had insisted he wear the formal livery provided for attendants of visiting dignitaries, which was, to Arthur’s surprise, not entirely disastrous on him, though Arthur would rather have died than admit that out loud because Merlin already suffered from an entirely unjustified level of confidence.
It was meant to be simple: attend, observe, smile when required, ensure no political insult went unnoticed, and leave before anything tedious could escalate into something worse.
Instead, Arthur found himself watching Merlin far more than he watched anything else.
At first, it was almost amusing.
Without the usual dirt-smudged servant’s tunic or the constant suggestion of incompetence that Arthur had, over the years, grown used to challenging and relying upon in equal measure, Merlin blended into the crowd, his mask plain enough not to draw attention yet elegant enough that it did not repel it either, and Arthur noticed that people noticed him.
A noblewoman in silver lace laughed at something Merlin said near the refreshments table.
A young lord leaned in too close when Merlin replied, as though drawn by something Arthur could not immediately identify.
And then, as though the evening itself had decided to test Arthur’s patience for reasons it did not care to explain, a third figure arrived—masked in deep violet, posture loose with confidence, voice smooth in the way only someone used to being listened to could manage—and turned his full attention to Merlin.
Arthur told himself, at first, that it was nothing.
After all, Merlin, for all his irritating habit of existing in Arthur’s immediate orbit, was not without his own… peculiar charm, when one was foolish enough to look past the sarcasm and the endless complaints.
But then the stranger asked Merlin to dance.
And Merlin, after only a brief, almost conspiratorial glance at Arthur, accepted.
Arthur did not move at first.
He simply watched.
Which, he told himself firmly, was because it was useful to observe social dynamics in foreign courts, because understanding alliances and attention patterns could prove valuable, because—
Because Merlin was dancing.
With someone else.
The stranger’s hand rested far too comfortably at Merlin’s waist for Arthur’s liking, and Merlin was moving with a surprising ease that Arthur had not known he possessed, laughing at something the masked noble said, tilting his head in a way that suggested interest, or at least tolerance, or—
Arthur stepped forward before he had decided to do so.
“Interesting technique,” he said mildly, appearing at Merlin’s shoulder as though he had simply drifted there by coincidence rather than crossed half the ballroom with increasingly sharp steps, “I was not aware courtly dancing in this kingdom involved quite so much… leaning.”
Merlin did not look surprised.
Of course he didn’t.
Instead, he glanced at Arthur with eyes that glittered faintly with something dangerously close to amusement, even behind the mask. “My lord,” Merlin said smoothly, “I didn’t realize you were studying dance now. Should I curtsy first before you critique my footwork, or is that optional depending on how threatened you feel?”
The stranger laughed politely, though his attention flickered to Arthur with renewed curiosity, as though only now noticing that Merlin was not, in fact, a man of equal standing to the masked noble he stood beside.
Arthur felt something unpleasant tighten in his chest.
“I am merely ensuring,” Arthur said, carefully, because the alternative was to say something far less composed, “that my attendant is not being led astray by unfamiliar customs.”
“Attendant,” Merlin echoed, far too lightly, “how reassuringly romantic.”
Arthur ignored him.
Which was, in hindsight, an increasingly difficult habit to maintain.
The stranger, however, seemed unbothered by Arthur’s presence and instead inclined his head. “If I’ve overstepped,” he said, voice smooth, “I assure you it was not my intention. I simply found your companion… intriguing.”
“I’m sure you did,” Arthur said, though it came out sharper than intended, and he felt Merlin’s gaze slide toward him like a blade being turned idly in candlelight.
“Well,” Merlin said after a moment, still dancing, still entirely too comfortable, “since you’ve interrupted my very promising social development, I suppose I’ll have to resume my duties as your conveniently available servant instead.”
“That is not what I—”
“Come on then,” Merlin cut in, already stepping back from the stranger with a practiced ease that made Arthur’s irritation spike for reasons he could not quite name, “my lord seems to require my undivided attention.”
The stranger looked mildly disappointed but did not argue as Merlin disengaged, offering a small, polite bow before slipping away with Arthur in tow, though Arthur was entirely certain he had not physically taken hold of Merlin’s arm at any point and yet somehow found himself walking beside him anyway.
Only when they were out of immediate earshot did Arthur speak again.
“You were enjoying that,” he said flatly.
Merlin hummed. “Enjoying what, exactly? Being lightly interrogated by a masked noble who thinks I was born yesterday? Or being rescued by you, my ever-vigilant prince, from the terrifying danger of someone asking me to dance?”
Arthur glared at him, though it was somewhat wasted on a man wearing a mask.
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” Merlin replied lightly, “you keep me around.”
Arthur opened his mouth, found no immediate counterargument that did not sound uncomfortably like something he did not want to examine too closely, and instead turned away.
The rest of the evening did not improve.
If anything, it worsened in ways Arthur would later pretend he had not noticed.
Merlin was approached again.
And again.
And again.
Each time Arthur found himself intervening with increasingly flimsy excuses: a need for diplomatic clarification, a sudden question about court protocol, a reminder that Merlin was required elsewhere, though precisely where elsewhere might be changed depending on Arthur’s rapidly diminishing patience.
Merlin, infuriatingly, seemed to find the entire situation amusing.
“You’re hovering,” he murmured at one point, when Arthur had inserted himself between him and yet another overly familiar noble.
“I am not hovering. I am ensuring you are not taken advantage of.”
Merlin’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “By people asking me to dance?”
Arthur hesitated, just for a moment too long.
“Yes,” he said.
Eventually, the music softened, the crowd thinning as even the most dedicated revelers succumbed to exhaustion or political obligation, and Arthur found himself, without consciously deciding to, following Merlin out onto one of the quieter balconies overlooking the palace gardens.
The air outside was cooler, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and damp stone, and for a moment Arthur allowed himself to breathe without the press of bodies and expectation around him.
Merlin leaned against the railing, looking out.
“You know,” Merlin said after a while, voice quieter now, “he wasn’t that bad.”
Arthur frowned. “Who?”
“The masked noble,” Merlin replied, as though it should have been obvious, “he was polite. Attentive. Slightly desperate, but in a charming way.”
Arthur felt something unpleasant stir again in his chest.
“He was insufferable.”
Merlin snorted. “Of course he was, in your expert opinion on insufferable people.”
Arthur hesitated.
Then, without fully understanding why he said it, he added, “He was interested in you.”
Merlin tilted his head slightly.
Arthur continued before he could stop himself, words coming out more bluntly than intended, as though something inside him had finally given up on restraint.
“It is a shame he is a man,” Arthur said, almost absently.
Merlin did not respond immediately.
When he did, his voice was quieter than Arthur was used to hearing from him.
“If I were interested in anyone,” Merlin said slowly, carefully, as though each word had to be selected from somewhere deep and private, “it would be a man.”
The words did not immediately settle into meaning.
Then they did.
“Oh,” Arthur said.
It was not particularly eloquent.
Merlin watched him now, entirely still, as though bracing for something—laughter, disgust, confusion, perhaps even anger—and Arthur became suddenly, sharply aware of how much trust that quiet waiting contained.
Arthur shifted his weight.
“I see,” he said, after a moment that felt longer than it was.
“You don’t have to—” Merlin began.
“I’m not…” Arthur paused, searching for something that sounded like himself and not like a courtly performance, “concerned by it.”
Merlin exhaled slowly.
Arthur, unexpectedly, found that he meant it.
Then, because silence had never been something Arthur handled well when it contained too much unspoken meaning, he added, “He is still wrong for you.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Arthur gestured vaguely toward the ballroom. “He is too… smooth. Too practiced. He would not understand you.”
“That’s very generous of you, given you’ve spent years claiming I am entirely incomprehensible.”
Arthur ignored that. “You deserve someone better.”
Merlin watched him carefully now.
Arthur continued, momentum building in a way he did not fully recognize as revealing.
“Someone who is not trying to impress you with performance,” Arthur said, “someone who actually listens when you speak instead of simply waiting for their turn, someone who does not assume they know you after one conversation—”
He stopped.
Frowned.
Then added, more quietly, “Someone who would notice things properly.”
Merlin’s expression shifted slightly.
Arthur, slowly, began to realize that most of what he was describing sounded, inconveniently, like standards Arthur himself had not always met, or perhaps had been trying to meet without knowing why he cared.
He swallowed.
Then, with growing unease that had nothing to do with politics or kingdoms or diplomacy, Arthur realized something else.
The thought of Merlin with someone else—anyone else—was not simply irritating.
It was… wrong.
Not in a moral sense.
In a visceral one.
As though something familiar had been displaced and he had not been informed where it had gone.
Merlin spoke again, softly.
“You’re thinking very hard,” he said.
Arthur huffed. “Someone has to.”
Merlin smiled faintly.
And Arthur, standing there under the cold night sky, with music still faintly echoing through the open doors behind them, found himself thinking—entirely unhelpfully and without permission—that Merlin’s mouth looked absurdly expressive when he smiled like that, and that it would be profoundly inconvenient if someone else ever had the right to make him do it so easily.
Merlin shifted then—just slightly, just enough for the candlelight spilling through the balcony doors to catch on the edges of him, and Merlin said, “You’re staring again.”
Arthur blinked once, and replied, perhaps a little too quickly, “I am not staring.”
Merlin hummed in that maddening way of his, the sound half amusement and half disbelief, and pushed off from the balcony railing, turning to face him properly, and Arthur became uncomfortably aware of the fact that Merlin’s hair, slightly loosened from the constraints of the evening, carried the faint scent of warm air and crushed herbs and Arthur’s attention, traitorous thing that it was, registered it with far too much clarity.
“You are,” Merlin said simply, as though this were an undeniable fact of nature, like gravity or the rising of the sun, “and you look like you’re thinking again, which is rarely a good sign for anyone involved.”
Arthur exhaled through his nose, and he replied, “If I am thinking, it is because someone is standing there looking unbearably pleased with himself.”
Merlin’s mouth twitched.
“Unbearably pleased,” he repeated, savoring it. “That’s new. I’ll add it to the list of things you’ve called me this week. I think I’m up to ‘insufferable,’ ‘idiotic,’ ‘distracting,’ and now apparently ‘unbearably pleased.’ I’m building quite the reputation.”
Arthur should have stepped away.
Instead, he found himself saying, almost without intention, “You were enjoying it.”
“The dancing?” Merlin asked.
“Yes,” he said, though it came out quieter than he meant it to.
Merlin shrugged, the movement loose and unbothered, but his eyes did not leave Arthur’s face. “It was fine,” he said. “Nothing spectacular. He was polite. Not terrible at leading. Smelled a bit like expensive cologne and poor decision-making, but I suppose that’s half the nobility in there.”
Arthur huffed despite himself.
“And yet,” Arthur said, more carefully now, “you accepted immediately.”
“I was asked to dance,” Merlin replied simply. “It would have been rude to refuse.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“You are not a courtier,” he said.
“No,” Merlin agreed, far too easily.
“You are my servant,” Arthur continued, and immediately regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
Merlin did not flinch.
He only looked at Arthur for a long moment, long enough that Arthur became acutely aware of the way the night air had cooled the stone beneath his hands, of the distant music still drifting faintly from the hall behind them, of the stars above them scattered like quiet witnesses who had no interest in intervening.
Then Merlin said, very softly, “Yes.”
And somehow that single word carried more weight than anything else in the conversation so far.
Arthur looked away.
Out over the balcony.
At the gardens below, dark and silvered under moonlight, where the hedges curved like sleeping shapes and the fountains caught starlight in broken pieces.
And then, almost without meaning to, he said, “I do not like it.”
There was a pause, and then Merlin said, “What don’t you like?”
Arthur hesitated.
“When you are looked at like that.”
Then Merlin, carefully, “Like what?”
Arthur’s fingers tightened slightly on the stone railing.
“As though,” Arthur said slowly, “you are something to be… acquired.”
Merlin did not respond immediately.
When he did, his voice was softer still.
“And what do you think I am?” he asked.
Arthur turned back then.
And the moment he did, something in his chest shifted, because Merlin was looking at him with an expression that was far less amused now, far less guarded, and far more open than Arthur was used to being on the receiving end of, and Arthur became abruptly aware of how close they were standing, of how the night seemed to have narrowed everything down to just this space, just this breath between them.
Arthur’s answer, when it came, surprised even him.
“Someone who should not be acquired,” he said.
Merlin blinked once.
Then, after a beat that felt like it stretched the world slightly off balance, Merlin said, almost under his breath, “That’s very noble of you.”
Arthur frowned.
“I am always noble.”
“That,” Merlin said, a faint smile returning now but not fully replacing the softness in his eyes, “is debatable.”
And then, as if something had finally given way in the quiet tension between them, Merlin stepped back half a pace and tilted his head toward the open balcony space.
“There’s still music,” he said.
Arthur frowned. “So?”
Merlin’s gaze flicked toward the hall behind them, where the faint rhythm of a slower, gentler piece was beginning to emerge, something meant for fewer bodies, for closer steps, for people who were not trying to be seen by anyone but each other.
“So,” Merlin said, with deliberate lightness returning to his voice like a carefully rebuilt wall, “you look like you’ve been holding court in your own head for the last hour and I am, unfortunately, the only available audience, so I’m going to solve this problem before it becomes unbearable.”
Arthur stared at him.
“You are not making sense.”
“I rarely do,” Merlin replied.
Then he extended a hand.
Not like the noble had done earlier.
Not like a courtly invitation polished by etiquette and expectation.
“Dance with me,” Merlin said.
Arthur froze.
Arthur looked at the hand.
Then at Merlin.
Then, quietly, “That is not necessary.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “It’s not an attack, Arthur.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched slightly at the echo of earlier words.
“I am aware.”
“Good,” Merlin said. “Then stop looking like I’ve just suggested we go duel in the gardens and just take my hand.”
Arthur hesitated.
Then, with the same careful control he used when stepping into situations he did not fully understand but could not afford to refuse, he reached out and took it.
Merlin’s fingers were warmer than expected.
And when Merlin stepped closer, guiding him gently into the open space of the balcony where moonlight pooled across the stone like spilled silver, Arthur found that the world narrowed again, not into tension this time, but into something quieter, something that felt dangerously like stillness.
“I don’t know how to dance,” Arthur muttered.
Merlin snorted softly. “You know how to dances. You just pretend you don’t when it suits you.”
“That is not—”
“It absolutely is,” Merlin said, and then, without further ceremony, placed his other hand lightly at Arthur’s side.
Arthur’s breath caught.
And as they began to move—slowly, carefully, not quite in time at first but finding it together anyway—Arthur became aware of everything at once: the brush of Merlin’s hand, the faint scent of him carried on the night air, the way the stars above them seemed suddenly closer, as though leaning in to watch something they had already decided was important.
And for a little while, neither prince nor servant said anything at all as they danced together beneath the constellations, moving through silver moonlight as though the rest of the world had quietly stepped aside.
STARING PROBLEM | CANON!RAFE CAMERON | IMAGINE | SECRET RELATIONSHIP
PAIRING: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Pogue!reader, Bestie!Kiara x Reader
SYNOPSIS: Kiara warns you about Rafe not knowing about your secret relationship with the kook
WORD COUNT → 504
WARNING(S): Rafe's Staring, Canon!Rafe, you ignore your friends advice, you run to a red flag, Secret relationship?
AUTHORS NOTE: Saw this tiktok and loved it so here you go.
| RAFE CAMERON MASTERLIST | OUTERBANKS MASTERLIST | TAG LIST |
Amidst the vibrant glow of the bonfire and the joyful chatter of friends, you found a moment of solace with Kiara. Sitting on a log, you both watched the flickering flames and the silhouettes of people dancing around them.
The air was alive with excitement, and the scent of burning wood hung in the night.
Kiara's eyes wandered across the scene, and a scower tugged at her lips. "Jesus, what does he want?"
Following Kiara's gaze, you spotted Rafe by the bonfire's edge. His gaze was fixed on you, intense and unwavering. Your heart skipped a beat at the way he looked at you, his attention more focused than ever.
"Rafe?" you inquired, curiosity tingling.
"Its like he has a staring problem when it comes to you" she complains.
A blush crept onto your cheeks as you turned your attention back to Rafe, feeling his gaze like a warm touch. There was something in his eyes, something that made you feel both vulnerable and exhilarated.
"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice soft.
Kiara's eyes sparkled with a mix of warning and insight. "It's as if he's obsessed with you. Like he's fixated on you in a way that's not healthy."
Her voice changed to concerned, "I've never seen any man look at a women the way that fucker looks at you" A shiver of unease danced down your spine, and you tore your gaze away from Rafe to look at Kiara.
Her words weighed on your mind, and the intensity of Rafe's gaze took on a new, unsettling significance.
"How is he looking at me?" you wondered, your eyes returning to Rafe's figure.
Kiara's smile held a touch of concern. " Like he'll die if he doesn't. As if he'll do anything to have you. It's like he's possessive, like you're a prize he wants to claim."
A mixture of excitement and caution swirled in your chest as you absorbed Kiara's words.
You shifted your focus to Rafe once more, a sense of unease settling over you like a shadow.
"He's just a friend," you murmured, though your conviction wavered lying to your friend.
Kiara's laughter was tinged with worry. "Maybe, but that's not normal for him. Just be careful around him, okay?"
Your gaze met Rafe's again, and a charged energy passed between you. Could it be that Kiara was right? Could there truly be something unsettling beneath the surface of your interactions with Rafe? You realized that while Kiara's concerns were valid, knowing him.
Cause you and Rafe had been secretly dating for a while now, keeping your relationship hidden from Kiara and your other friends.
But just as Kiara continued to talk, you both failed to notice that your boyfriend had had enough of the distance between you.
Determination flickered in his eyes, and he rose from his seat, making his way through the crowd towards you. He had reached his limit of simply watching you from afar; he wanted to be with you, beside you, where he truly belonged.
Finally exposing your relationship to the world.
Sorcerer who can't cum without accidentally casting something, and so they can only edge when they masturbate, because otherwise their neighbors will very quickly know something is up.
Next door, a paladin's harboring the worst case of blue-balls because their hot neighbor keeps unintentionally projecting mental images of their jerk off sessions.
I am always getting distracted by random subconscious things or messages from my peripheral vision, and I can tell it’s intimidating when my corneal attack lands on another person’s face. I tend to start glancing over at the people who stare back at me, but it’s out of compulsion. This leads to me making the person uncomfortable, they avoid me in the hallway, start putting their head down, turn away when they realize they’re in my open view, etc. I genuinely feel bad for all of these people and wish I could easily put a stop to this bad habit on a dime, but I slip up sometimes when I forget to consciously track my eye movements. While it’s never happened to me, and likely never will, feeling/being objectified or sexualized by someone I don’t want that from would make me very intimidated, irrationally upset and uncomfortable. It would be very easy for me to say “Well, you’re gonna get looks from people sometimes and you just have to deal with it.” but I don’t think that thinking applies well to my specific situation. My looking at people is very compulsory and happens way more often than is appropriate or that I am even okay with (Imagine how OTHERS feel). SO, while I wish I could lend a hand to the people I accidentally stare at from time to time, I don’t have any idea on how to build a net wide enough to cast on everyone I’ve effected with my staring. If anybody has any tips, they would be greatly appreciated. Keep in mind I am very socially anxious, so I plan on just working on this habit myself rather than talking to these people individually.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Wandering around Marshall’s when I realized a bunch of random creepy older men were ogling me. I thought I was just in my head about it but Liz came over and mentioned it and it creeped me out enough that we just left.
