arthur somehow summons a genie (or smth similar) and is given three wishes with some restrictions: can't wish for more wishes, can't wish for love, and can't wish to bring anyone back from the dead. after some deliberation, arthur’s first wish is to be able to see the truth, to see people for who they really are. he has been lied to and betrayed enough times, he wishes to see clearly. the genie grants him his wish. he doesn’t know what else he should wish for so he pockets the other two. he returns to camelot and notices how different people seem. there isn’t anything physically different with them, they look the same to him - same clothes, same hair, same face, etc., etc., but there are some who walk past surrounded with gold. as they pass by arthur, he feels safe and protected and knows that they’d make a good, loyal knight. he walks past some that bow to him as he passes but are shadowed in sludge. it makes arthur nauseous as he passes. they are not to be trusted.
arthur continues and sees a woman and man run into one another outside a shop. they shoot back with apologies that stutter off when they meet each others gaze. a red string ties around their ring fingers, connecting the two. they continue to converse, helping one another with what they dropped, their fingers brushing and causing them to blush. he walks past two women who also have a red string connecting them, but a man shuffles down the street and wraps an arm around one of the women. he kisses her cheek and both women look away from one another. the man doesn’t have a string.
he runs into a few of his knights who prove themselves to be as loyal as arthur believed them to be. though there is something different about them, their…auras? energies? are more fractured. they shift as the seconds pass them by. gwaine has a constant dark blue that curls around his gold. when arthur focuses on it, it pulls at his heart, an ache in his soul, some sadness he doesn’t fully understand. lancelot’s is fuzzy and shifting faster than the others. he has secrets, many, but the gold remains true. he has a red string wrapped around his finger. arthur doesn’t have to wonder who it's tied to for long, as guinevere strides around the corner a moment later. hers is golden with loyalty, but the dark blue of sadness lingers and grows stronger when she notices lancelot and arthur are together.
it hurts but arthur cares deeply for both of them. her red string isn’t tied to his finger. he’d be the man in the street disrupting the two women’s conversations. a heartache borne through loyalty. arthur will let her go. she and lancelot will be happy. arthur will survive. this is what he wished for after all.
arthur returns to his chambers to try and work through his headache but the silence doesn’t last long before merlin is bursting through his door and striding across the room towards him going on and on with some lecture about how arthur should really stop sneaking out and at least tell merlin or leon where he’s going. merlin is surrounded by gold, stronger and more vibrant than any of his knights. his energy is even more fractured than them too, shifting with each word he speaks. its fuzzy in the way lancelot's was, a lot more fuzzy. a lot of secrets. there's a dark blue, a deep sadness, that arthur hadn't been aware of. merlin reaches up to pull a leaf from arthur's hair and the king watches as the sadness ebbs and a rich pink pours over it.
arthur's eye catches on the red string around his finger that leads down to arthur's own.
merlin sighs and fiddles with the cape over his shoulder, babbling on and on as he takes care of arthur. the blue fades into almost nothingness as the pink and gold meld further and further together with each touch. his energy is also...bubbly? sparkly? it feels more alive than leon's, gwaine's, lancelot's, and even gwen's do. he wasn't entirely sure what it meant.
until he saw the same with gaius's. and audrey's. and mordred's. until he saw the same on the young man brought to his knees before arthur and accused of sorcery. until he ran into a camp of druids and saw the same energy so full of life surrounding each one of them, the energy of magic.
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It was common for a knight to wear their loved one’s favour. Uther had seen many of his knights wearing it through his days - even Uther himself wore one, after he started courting Ygraine.
But Arthur… Arthur had never worn a favour. Uther didn’t doubt he was offered them; he was the heir of Camelot, after all, and young and handsome, despite his lack of ability in courting. But he always entered the tournaments with his armour clear of them.
Until that day.
Uther almost missed it, more red among all of it he already wore. But it was there, wrapped around his left arm, discreet but firm; a silent statement.
Uther wondered who it was from. He had never seen Arthur with any girl. But he taught Arthur discretion, and he could have slipped this girl right under Uther’s nose.
The crowd cheered for Arthur, always for him, their favourite, as it should be. But one cheer was louder, more passionate, and Uther spotted his manservant by the tents, without his signature neckerchief on.
Then everything clicked. Of course. Arthur had shown a strange interest in the boy since the day they met, and the boy gave him a fierce loyalty in return. He should have seen it sooner.
He would never let Arthur marry the boy, obviously, but… the boy was good for Arthur. For now, it wouldn’t be a problem to let them be.
Five Times the Knights Lied to Protect Merlin (and One Time Arthur Did, Too)
for day 2 of @merthurweek2025 | childhood memory and/or protective!others | 11k words on ao3 — the first segment is also continued under the cut!
The bandits come out of nowhere.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, seeing as they’re riding through the Valley of the Fallen Kings— and as Merlin has pointed out, at least half a dozen times today, “Nothing good ever happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, Arthur.”
Still, the onslaught catches them all off guard. One moment, Gwaine is in the middle of an animated retelling of the time he escaped a mercenary’s dungeons using one parrot, two moldy crackers, and his charms (“There is no way,” Elyan interrupts skeptically, “that that actually happened.”), and the next, they’re vaulting off of their horses and scrambling for their swords as men race at them from all sides.
It’s only the six of them— seven, if you count Merlin— and there are easily forty bandits. Seriously, Gwaine wonders as he stabs a man, how did they miss forty bandits? He doesn’t have any time to ponder the question, though, because there’s another man coming at him.
“There are too many!” he hears Leon shout somewhere to his left. His words are almost lost in the clash of blades.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed!” Arthur shouts back.
Gwaine parries a blow, then finds himself ducking out of the way of a blade that belongs to a completely different bandit. He can’t turn to glance at the others, but there’s no doubt in his mind that they aren’t doing any better.
Gwaine loves most situations when the odds are stacked against him, but he’s not a fool. He knows that there’s no way for them to hold off this many men. It’s not a question of if they’ll fall, but of who will fall first.
Perhaps it’s cowardly, but Gwaine hopes that it’s him, if only so that he doesn’t have to see his friends— his family— die.
Still, he fights with all he has, a whirlwind of steel and strength because if he’s going to go, he’s taking as many of these bastards as he can with him— and then Merlin cries out a warning.
“Arthur!”
What happens next is this:
The three bandits trying to take Gwaine’s head off go flying backwards, thrown by an invisible force. One of them crashes into a tree with a sickening snap, and the other two hit the ground hard enough that he doubts they’ll be getting up anytime soon, if at all. The forest goes jarringly silent, and when Gwaine turns, it’s to see that all the bandits, not just the ones he was fighting, have been thrown about in a perfect circle around them. The knights and Arthur are on their feet, unharmed, and Merlin—
There is gold fading from Merlin’s eyes.
Gwaine has never seen Merlin do magic before, but he isn’t an idiot. When a wise guy on a bridge calls your friend Magic with a capital M, it stands to reason that he’s pretty powerful. This, though, is something that he never would have imagined. Merlin isn’t just powerful— he’s masterful. Not only did he throw forty fucking people back like it was nothing, but he did so with so much precision that the rest of them are fine.
Admittedly, Gwaine doesn’t know all that much about magic. But this? This is something that takes skill. Practice.
His awe gives way very quickly to fear when he sees the look that flashes across Merlin’s face. Merlin inhales sharply, eyes fixed on Arthur, and—
It’s no secret what the prince thinks about sorcery. He stands beside Uther at each execution and condemns the practice of magic without a second thought. Gwaine has never seen him hesitate to drive his sword through a sorcerer; has never seen him moved by the pleas of those on trial.
And now Merlin has used magic in front of him.
Gwaine knows that he swore an oath to uphold the laws of Camelot. He swore an oath to Arthur. But Merlin is his oldest friend, and if it comes to keeping those oaths or protecting him, it’s no choice at all. Gwaine will stand by Merlin whatever the consequences, the same way Merlin would for him. He readjusts his sword, and—
Arthur isn’t looking at Merlin. As a matter of fact, his eyes have been fixed somewhere beyond Leon this whole time. Merlin is completely out of his line of sight— which means that Arthur doesn’t know who did the magic. It could have been anyone behind him; Merlin, Elyan… or Gwaine.
Arthur turns, and there’s an expression on his face that Gwaine can’t read. His mouth opens as he looks to Merlin, and—
“Whoops,” Gwaine says loudly. “Got a little carried away there. My bad.”
Six pairs of eyes snap to him.
“You,” Arthur says, frowning, “got ‘a little carried away.’”
Gwaine grins at him, like an idiot. Which he very well may be. “Yeah. With the magic.”
Merlin’s jaw drops. His eyes flit rapidly between Gwaine and Arthur.
Arthur, to his credit, does not fly into a murderous rage like Gwaine was afraid that he would. Instead, he opens his mouth once, turns toward the unconscious-or-dead bandits, turns back to Gwaine, then shuts it.
“You,” he says eventually, “did this.”
If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Gwaine would be offended that Arthur doesn’t think him capable. He’s Gwaine. He has lots of talents.
Gwaine wiggles his eyebrows. “Courage, Strength, and Magic, remember?”
Arthur’s frown somehow becomes even more befuddled. “You’re telling me that Merlin,” he says, skeptical, “is meant to be Strength?”
“Absolutely,” Gwaine says without missing a beat. “After all, he has to put up with you.”
Percival snorts, then quickly catches himself and sobers.
“And,” Gwaine continues, because Arthur doesn’t look convinced, “with hair this luscious? Definitely magical. Many a woman— and many a man— say that I’m magical in bed.”
Leon sighs deeply.
“I’ve used magic since long before coming to Camelot,” Gwaine says, growing solemn, “and I just used it to save all of our lives. Do what you will with me, Prince Arthur.”
Something flashes across Arthur’s face. It’s gone before Gwaine can work out what it is.
It’s dead silent, save for the gentle sway of the trees. Everyone’s eyes are on Arthur, waiting for his judgement.
Arthur looks to Merlin.
The fear in Gwaine’s chest flares. He’s certain that Arthur didn’t see who did the magic— if he still suspects Merlin…
“This stays between us,” Arthur says at last. “None of you are to breathe a word of this upon our return to Camelot.”
Gwaine lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Merlin is safe— and so is he. Had Arthur burned or banished him, Gwaine would have gone, but he’s desperately relieved to not have lost the life and family he’s made for himself.
“Good choice,” Gwaine says, instead of thank you. “I would have had to hex your mead stores to run dry.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “You make the mead stores run dry anyway.”
“Yup. Magically.”
Arthur gives him an odd look. His eyes widen slightly, and his jaw works for a moment before he starts, almost accusative, “You don’t ac—“
“Well,” Merlin says abruptly, “we should probably make camp soon. Gwaine, do you think you could set everything up with your—“ He wiggles his fingers.
Gwaine grins roguishly at him. “And put you out of a job? Never.”
“Gwaine,” Arthur interrupts, and makes it no further.
“I hardly think you would be putting Merlin out of a job,” Percival says. “Arthur’s always coming up with things for him to do.”
“Gwaine—“
Gwaine smirks lasciviously. “I’m sure he is.”
“No wonder Merlin is always so exhausted,” Elyan quips.
Arthur sputters, whatever he was trying to say before forgotten. “Now hold on—“
“Oh, gods,” Leon says. “I’m surrounded by children.”
Lancelot pats Leon on the shoulder in a way that’s probably meant to be consoling, but his amusement is obvious.
Merlin has gone bright red— Pendragon red, to be specific, and Gwaine will absolutely tease him about it later. Despite the banter of the others, his gaze lands on Gwaine. It softens slightly, and Merlin mouths the words, thank you.
Gwaine’s grin softens in turn and he nods. Of course, he doesn’t say. It’s what friends do.
Speaking of what friends do…
“Merlin,” Gwaine calls, drawing the attention of the knights. “Lovely blush you’re sporting. It wouldn’t be Pendragon red, would it?”
The knights cackle, Arthur sputters some more, and Merlin somehow goes even more red.
“I will banish you,” Arthur threatens once he remembers how to string sentences together.
Gwaine raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Defending your princess’ honor, are you?”
The knights howl, and all is right with the world.
———
Once Arthur finishes defending Merlin’s honor, they find a place to set up camp, only traveling as far as they need to be sure that any surviving bandits won’t stumble across them in the middle of the night. They make quick work setting up, and before they know it, Merlin is ladling out bowls of stew that they eat around the fire, joking jovially about whatever comes to mind.
It’s with satisfaction that Gwaine observes that “his” magic reveal hasn’t changed anything. He’s had the impression for a while that the rest of the knights knew at least abstractly that there was something about Merlin, and though this doesn’t confirm that, it does confirm that they still care for him as one of their own. Being brothers with these men makes pride flare somewhere in Gwaine’s chest, especially when he sees Leon lean over to ruffle Merlin’s hair and Lancelot lean over to whisper something to Merlin that makes him snort.
The only thing out of the ordinary about tonight is the way Arthur keeps glancing at Gwaine over his stew, like he’s trying to figure him out. It’s not an openly hostile look which is something, but there is a weight to it that Gwaine has to make himself ignore.
Arthur also keeps glancing at Merlin, which raises Gwaine’s hackles at first, but those looks are more awed than anything, which is how Arthur normally looks at Merlin (when he’s not threatening to sack him, at least), so Gwaine figures that it’s probably fine.
The day catches up with them eventually; by the time they’ve finished eating, Elyan is stifling yawns and Leon is gazing longingly at his bedroll. Merlin disappears to take care of the dishes, and the rest of their party gets ready to retire for the night.
“I’ll take first watch,” Arthur volunteers.
No one argues.
Gwaine lays down on his bedroll, and closes his eyes.
He drifts off fairly quickly, but isn’t asleep for long before the sound of voices wakes him.
“— never seen something that powerful before,” Arthur says. It’s not a whisper, but it’s certainly not meant for Gwaine’s ears.
Gwaine wills himself to stay awake to eavesdrop anyway.
“I hope you don’t… hate Gwaine, for it,” Merlin says, almost tentatively. “He only meant to protect you.”
“Well. I could never hate Gwaine,” Arthur says. Though his tone is teasing, there’s a somber undercurrent to it.
“He’s very lovable,” Merlin agrees amiably. And then he sputters. “Don’t shove me, you prat!”
Gwaine stops listening then. It’s clear that Arthur doesn’t suspect Merlin of anything— and Arthur sounds almost open to the idea of magic, if perhaps a bit wary. As much as Gwaine wants to, he can’t fault Arthur for not immediately embracing it, especially when he’s been taught his whole life that it is a force for evil. Arthur not immediately condemning magic is more than Gwaine hoped for.
Maybe, he thinks, this charade of his will help. If Arthur thinks one of his knights, sworn to protect him with their lives, can use magic for good, maybe he’ll change his mind. Maybe one day, Merlin will be able to do magic without that horrible look of fear following it; maybe in his own time, he’ll be able to come clean about it all. Arthur has let Gwaine stay, which means there is hope.
Until then, Gwaine will keep up the act. As they ride back to Camelot, he’ll regale his friends with “true” stories of how he’s used magic to save the kingdom and get free mead, and Merlin will be safe until Arthur has figured out what Gwaine already knows:
Magic isn’t good or evil. It’s what you do with it. And Merlin?
"Come on Merlin, don't be such a girl!" Being used as a moving target in the early morning was really high on Merlin's list of reasons he should quit his job. The soon to be servant-less prince was using axes this time, aiming his (way too powerful) throws to the center of the small shield Merlin was holding on for dear life.
"I have seen Morgana fight and how Gwen can outsmart you in one sentence, so calling me a "girl" really—Christ, slow down!— really isn't the insult you think it is!" Merlin just managed to let out as the second axe came hurling. He then struggled to take it off the shield as it had, of course, wedged itself deep in the wood.
Arthur stopped, considering what Merlin had said "That's fair, I guess" Merlin barely had the time to sigh with relief as the third axe came crashing just slightly off from the center of the target, making Arthur click his tongue. Merlin had to retain himself very hard from cursing, and he thought a bit too hard about a resignation letter he wouldn't actually ever write, while he pulled off this axe.
"So what should I call you then?" Arthur called as he grabbed the fourth axe, polishing it with a rag. "What?" Merlin was out of breath now, and had trouble keeping up with a conversation while simultaneously trying to stay alive.
"If I can't call you a girl, what should I call you then?" Arthur rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious and Merlin was the one being ridiculous in this situation.
"Since when did you need my help to come up with insults?" Merlin let out, still struggling to stand straight but being grateful for this short moment of rest.
"I'm feeling generous today," Arthur's words certainly didn't match his actions as he all but thrust the fourth axe in Merlin's direction. Merlin raised his shield, wavering a bit with the strength of the throw.
"My sire is too benevolent" how Merlin still managed to be chatty in this state of exhaustion he could never tell; he really was amazed by the strength of his mind, he thought as he pulled off the axe from the shield.
"Arh Arh," Arthur rolled his eyes, grabbing yet another axe—how many did he have?— "Now give it to me, what's a good name for you".
"This is a new level of twistedness, even for you" Merlin mumbled, his words only intended for himself.
"I try my best thanks for noticing!" Arthur yelled back. The prince really had too good of a hearing for Merlin's sake. Merlin just sighed as he readied himself, raising his shield as he waited for the next throw.
"How about chicken?" the fifth axe burrowed itself in the wood.
"I mean I do like chicken," Merlin pulled out the axe and threw it on the ground.
"Invertebrate coward then!" sixth now, Merlin swore Arthur kept throwing them harder and harder.
"My bones are very hard actually," Merlin had to use both hands to get this axe out.
"Gutless rabbit!" Arthur yelled while throwing the seventh.
"You don't need to cut me open to check on the existence of my guts!!" Merlin cried out, raising his shield barely in time.
At that Arthur barked a true laugh, smiling wide as he threw the eighth axe, which was maybe why he didn't notice the previous axe that was still stuck in the shield. He did however notice when the axe he just threw hit the still lodged axe, bounced back on it, came hurling toward him and when the wooden handle smacked him scared in the head.
As Arthur fell to the ground, Merlin asked himself if Gaius would be willing to write the resignation letter while he packed his bags.
for @merthurmicrofic ︱"bite" ︱1368 words ︱bingo fills at end
Not for the first time, Arthur wondered what the prophecy really meant when it spoke of the Golden Age. Arthur generally pictured a Camelot at peace, without threats of war or invasion, bountiful meals for all its citizens, strong alliances with the kingdoms of Albion. Which were all things that he had, he supposed, but his picture of a Golden Age did not include… this.
This being, of course, Arthur's Court-Sorcerer-Née-Manservant looking up at Arthur guiltily from on top of Arthur's own bed, surrounded by all of the objects that had mysteriously gone missing over the course of the week— Arthur's favorite soft tunics, Gwen's candles scented with dried flowers, Gwaine's warm leather overcoat. Merlin ducked his head as if to hide, which was preposterous, because there was absolutely no hiding the shining obsidian horns curling up from his mop of black curls. Or the scattered scales over his cheekbones, with a shift of blue when caught in the light. His arms were crossed over his body, and he refused to meet Arthur's eyes. Occasionally when Merlin would blink his eyes would change to slitted eyes of gold, and then change back to Merlin's regular blue as if it were a trick of the light.
Arthur turned to look at the entrance to his chambers. The entrance which was currently blocked by Arthur's wardrobe, which had slid itself over before Arthur had even a chance to say a word. Arthur took a deep breath. "Merlin," he said. Very kingly. "Care to explain what just happened?"
Merlin made a soft noise that could have been akin to a growl. Kingly, Arthur reminded himself. "Merlin," Arthur repeated.
Now, that was definitely a growl. The kind of noise Arthur had only heard from Aithusa when Merlin told her she wasn't allowed to snack on the shepherd's flock. Arthur didn't want to think about what might have been the analogous situation for Merlin. "Fine," Arthur said, with exemplary patience. "I am going to return to my council meeting, which you threw me over your shoulder and carried me out of, and try to regain some of the respect of my subjects you seem determined to destroy."
Arthur ignored the hiss-like noise behind him as he turned and stomped back over to his barricaded chambers entrance. He braced a shoulder against the wardrobe, planted his feet, and pushed with all his might.
The wardrobe did not budge. Which was frankly offensive, as Arthur knew damn well that Merlin kept spelling his training sword heavier when he thought Arthur wasn't looking. Arthur grunted and redoubled his efforts, muscles straining.
He may as well have been pushing against the castle walls. Arthur finally gave up with a gasp of exertion, whirling around. "Merlin!"
Finally, Merlin met Arthur's eyes. His own gold and reptilian. "What?!"
"Stop it!"
"I'm not doing anything!"
"Yes you are!"
Arthur lunged for the nearest object, which in this case was a half-eaten pastry on his desk, still bearing the bite marks from where Merlin had stolen his taste. He flung the tart at Merlin's head with all the force of launching a deadly weapon.
It smacked Merlin in the cheek, leaving a red sticky residue of strawberry jam. Merlin's offended squawk was almost worth the situation Arthur had found himself in.
"I have done my best to accommodate your little problem," Arthur fumed. "One would think that the 'Greatest Warlock to Walk the Earth' would be capable of casting a spell about dragons without turning into a dragon himself, but I digress—"
Merlin's lips pulled back, showing elongated canines. "I was trying to send a message to any dragons across the sea, which required amplifying the spell beyond the entire length of Albion, do you have any idea how difficult—"
"I have endured you making a godsdamned hoard in my chambers. I have ignored the sudden scales on your back ruining my bedding. I have graciously allowed you to gorge your way through a week's supply of roast chicken. But I draw the line," Arthur said, with every inch of kingly might he could muster, "at being held hostage by my own Court Sorcerer."
Golden Age, Arthur's arse.
Merlin glared at Arthur. Arthur glared at Merlin. Merlin's nostrils flared, and a small puff of smoke floated out.
Then Merlin deflated, looking away from Arthur, shoulders sagging. "I'm really not doing it on purpose," he grumbled. "My magic's been more… volatile since," he waved a hand to generally indicate the horns on his head, scales on his cheekbones, ridges on his neck, "this."
Arthur fought the urge to pinch his brow. "Splendid. Is your magic also responsible for you kidnapping me?"
He expected another stroppy reply from Merlin, but instead a pink blush crossed the warlock's face. Stark against the blue-black scales scattered over his cheekbones. "It's not just my magic that's been more volatile," Merlin mumbled, suddenly very interested in the weave of Arthur's sheets. He plucked at a blanket tossed over his legs— a faded blue one that Arthur recognized as one that had come for Merlin from Ealdor last Yule. "It's been harder to control my. Um. Instincts, as well."
"Your instincts want to kidnap me?" Arthur said dumbly.
The blush on Merlin's cheeks intensified. "Lord Echols," he said miserably, as if that explained everything.
It explained exactly nothing. "Lord Echols?"
"He's been quite." Merlin stopped, eyes flashing reptilian gold for a second. "Friendly with you."
"He's a young lord taking over his father's seat." Arthur was utterly confused, dawning upon the feeling that there was something he was missing. "I offered him my mentorship and support."
"Does mentorship require him to gawk every time you have training with the knights?"
"You show up every time we have training."
Merlin continued as if Arthur had never spoken. "And he's always so familiar with you. It's not proper from one of your subjects," he sniffed.
"You spent all of the last feast drinking from my goblet as you couldn't be arsed to get your own."
"The scabbard, Arthur," Merlin said. Something inhuman had edged into his voice, the low rumble of a predator. "The one he presented to you at the meeting."
Arthur cast his mind back to the intricate scabbard Lord Echols had offered Arthur at the close of the council meeting. It was a beautiful thing, leather with gold accents, with the roaring dragon of Arthur's family crest embossed. Arthur had scarcely had the chance to appreciate it before Merlin had snarled, swept Arthur up into his arms, and carried him out of the room. "What of it?"
"It was a courting gift, you clotpole," Merlin said viciously. He huffed, and a tiny spark of fire burst into the air.
"Ah." Arthur paused, and considered. "I suppose it was."
All at once Merlin burst from the bed (hoard, really), standing in front of Arthur with clenched fists. "You can't marry him," Merlin said. "He's still green in battle. He's barely able to manage a granary, much less a kingdom. He only knows you as a king, not the man that you are. And you're— you're—"
Arthur stepped up into Merlin's space, until he could feel the shimmering heat that emanated from Merlin's body. "I'm what, Merlin?"
"Mine," Merlin snarled, and then he was upon Arthur.
Several minutes later Arthur found himself with his back pressed against the wardrobe, a rip down the front of his tunic. "I do still need to leave eventually," he mumbled against Merlin's lips. "It isn't proper for the king to spend all day in his chambers."
Merlin growled one more, but now it sounded less angered and more like a purr. Like an affronted kitten, Arthur thought. Merlin bit down on Arthur's lower lip, and Arthur felt the brief sharp sting of pain, followed by the taste of blood.
Only then did Merlin pull away, eyes bright as he licked his lips. The wardrobe fell away from Arthur's back as it shoved itself back into place. "Fine," Merlin huffed. His eyes dropped to Arthur's mouth, watching the bead of blood he had drawn. He took a stilted breath. Hungry.
"Actually, to hell with propriety," Arthur said, and dragged Merlin over to the bed.
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Chat I was thinking about the period of time where Gandalf left the Company.
Like, he leaves just before Mirkwood where Bilbo and Thorin are only just starting to become friendly and comes back at Erebor… this is how I imagined it
Gandalf: Uh, Bilbo my boy, what is that?
Bilbo: Oh this old thing? Yeah it’s called Mithril or something, Thorin gave it to me :D
Gandalf:
Bilbo: He also gave me some jewels, gold, a crown, a throne, a share to his kingdom, the adoption papers for Fili and Kili, and his hand in marriage.
Dennis the baby of the fam who’s never told no. Who doesn’t know what physical boundaries are. Who doesn’t understand why he wasn’t able to do certain things and would hold his breath until he got what he wanted.
Jack who watches Robby tell Dennis no one night and watches the absolute fit that Dennis throws. Huffing and puffing and whining and he’s getting hard because that’s Robby twenty years ago. He has a whole new brat to tame and he’s so fucking excited and Robby’s just glad to be on the other side of it for once.
Dennis can’t walk normally the next day but it’s hard to decide who’s happiest about it - him or Jack & Robby
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The sky was not yet blue when Merlin awoke; the sun, languid in its attempts to rise, cast only a faint peach-pink glow into the grey of dawn.
He woke with the queer sense that something was amiss, but as he hadn’t yet rid himself of the sleep-addled fog blanketing his morning brain, it was a moment before he placed the cause of the sensation.
He was not in his own bed, and there was a weight—or two, if you wanted to be particular about it.
The first, of the more physical variety, was the solid and not unwelcome weight of Arthur’s arm around his middle, loose and heavy with sleep. His fingers curled into Merlin’s chest like he’d fallen asleep with his hand splayed against the skin there, to feel the steadying beat underneath.
The second was similarly warm, but of the more internal sense. It was a weight he had never before carried, that of a knowledge that once it is known cannot be unknown. Try as he might to quell the spread of it within him, if only for the sake of Arthur’s overgrown ego, it persisted, and, helplessly, he’d fallen victim to its siren song.
Merlin turned carefully in Arthur’s arms so as to not wake him. Looking upon his peaceful, vulnerable face, Merlin was overcome with the embarrassing urge to kiss it, not once but again and again, with all the tender feeling Arthur’s stupid, lovely face inspired in him.
He hesitated.
It was odd, he thought, to have only last night had Arthur’s tongue in places he never would have imagined his tongue to be, and now be afraid of something so small, so simple. But lust was different. Lust didn’t give voice to the fragile, tremulous truth that sang in him like a frayed nerve. It was easy to be blind to it in the throes of passion, with eyes squeezed shut and mouths otherwise occupied. To lean in now, to kiss Arthur’s face so gently, would be to admit that this was something altogether more.
His lips first found Arthur’s brow, smoothed of all tension that his station daily carved into it, then his temple, the hollow under his eye, the side of his nose.
With each kiss he felt braver, a little more okay with giving over a little more of himself.
“This is nice,” Arthur murmured against his lips, voice muffled and sleep thick.
Merlin, with a soft noise of affirmation, continued to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his throat.
“Mm, different. Less violent than the typical wake-up call.”
Merlin looked up. “Would you prefer that? It can be arranged—“
Arthur responded by pulling Merlin bodily on top of him, and Merlin could only grin into the warmth of his neck like the lovesick fool that he was.
And Merlin realised, with Arthur’s fingers finding and entwining with his, and with a pang of dizzying affection, perhaps this is what it was to love and be loved in return.
