For @merlinmicrofic. Prompt "Starvation." Drabble. Merlin/Lancelot, Gen, No Warnings. AO3.
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After the dust settled, Merlin kept waiting for it to rise again. For the dirt to be shaken by Lancelot’s horse galloping away.
Lancelot pulled a piece off an orange and offered it to him. The tips of their fingers brushed over the cold fruit. He needed this, he decided, forever.
“I’d like it if you stayed,” he said, instead of, I couldn’t bear to watch you leave again.
Instead of, I wish you knew how much I
“I will stay. For you.”
love you.
He took another piece off the orange and held it to Merlin’s lips. He bit.
“I found something,” Lancelot said, a smile on his lips, and slid a hand into a pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a piece of black fabric.
A long, black piece of silk. Arthur swallowed as recognition dawned.
Remix of Black Satin by BeBraveDearHeart
Fic on AO3 and under the cut!
Arthur bit Lancelot’s lower lip, receiving a moan against his mouth as a reward. Without pulling away, Lancelot pushed him until the back of Arthur’s legs hit the mattress— then he pushed more until he was lying on his back. They shifted further into the bed and Lancelot straddled his lap. Arthur’s hands moved to his strong thighs as if on their own accord, groping the now familiar body. Lancelot took off his tunic, revealing that expanse of scarred skin he so loved to kiss. Arthur ran his fingers across his stomach, enjoying the way his muscles tensed, sensitive, how they glinted under the fireplace’s warm light.
“I found something,” Lancelot said, a smile on his lips, and slid a hand into a pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a piece of black fabric.
A long, black piece of silk. Arthur swallowed as recognition dawned.
“Well, technically, Merlin found it. You should have seen his face when I told him what we use it for, you would have loved it.”
Arthur was so focused on the blindfold that it took a moment for Lancelot’s words to make sense.
“Wait,” he said, “what was Merlin doing in your chambers?”
Lancelot grinned, as if Arthur’s jealousy was something to be amused at. Instead of answering, he claimed Arthur’s lips with his.
Arthur was about to protest, he was, but as soon as Lancelot pulled away, he placed the blindfold over Arthur’s eyes, quieting him instantly. Arthur raised his head from the mattress to allow him to tie it.
Arthur closed his eyes— not that it made any difference. He could feel every little thing, like this. Every shift of Lancelot’s body on top of him, how he sat back on Arthur’s lap, his thighs warm against his hips. Lancelot caressed Arthur’s face with the tips of his fingers, his touch feather-light. His cheeks, then his jaw, then his lips. Arthur kissed the fingers, tried to get them in his mouth, but Lancelot’s touch descended to his neck, then his bare chest. He barely brushed his nipples, yet the sensation made him buck his hips.
Then, Lancelot’s mouth all over his neck, just as light a touch, though warmer. Lancelot kissed a trail down his body, and Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, pulling his face closer. As his mouth wandered from Arthur’s chest to his navel, so did the rest of his body; his forearms brushed Arthur’s sides where he was supporting himself on the bed, and the inside of his thighs dragged against the outside of Arthur’s legs. He lapped and kissed his body continuously, tortuously. His lips and warm breath against the saliva-wet skin made Arthur squirm underneath him.
The bed dipped on one side of his hips. Lancelot had Arthur’s legs caged, and with an elbow resting on the mattress, he teased the laces of Arthur’s trousers. Arthur ran his fingers through Lancelot’s hair again, placed his palm against the back of his head, and gripped tightly. Lancelot panted in response. Then, Arthur guided Lancelot’s face to his crotch, exhaling a low moan as Lancelot rubbed his cheek against his clothed, aching, hard cock.
Lancelot started mouthing at it, lapping and sucking through his trousers. Arthur moaned, and he was unable to keep his hips from thrusting into the heat, and unable to let go of his grip on Lancelot’s hair. He couldn’t decide between pushing Lancelot’s face harder against his cock, or pulling him away to take off the damned clothes.
Eventually, thankfully, one of Lancelot’s hands trailed from Arthur’s hip to his front. He pulled the laces once, twice before they gave, and finally freed his cock. Lancelot’s mouth was immediately on it, without needing Arthur’s push. He licked it, sucked on the head, then slowly took it whole inside his mouth. A trail of saliva ran down its length, reaching the base and making him shudder.
Lancelot bobbed his head up and down, maddeningly slow. He sucked hard once, and Arthur’s hand flew to his mouth. He bit the back of his hand so as not to make a sound. Lancelot noticed, of course. He pulled away, dragging his tongue along the length of his cock as he did so.
“You don’t need to do that, my lord,” he said. The way his lips and hot breath brushed the head of his cock made Arthur squirm.
Arthur was about to remind him not to use his title when they were in his bedroom, but then Lancelot slid his cock back into his mouth, quickly, hitting the back of his throat. It punched a loud, shaky moan out of him, just as Lancelot wanted. With one hand still grasping Lancelot’s hair and the other moving to the back of his neck, he started guiding him. Carefully, up then down his cock, minding the way he couldn’t see the way Lancelot reacted to it.
Tonight, it seemed, Lancelot was taking none of his carefulness. He placed his hand on top of Arthur’s, the one in his hair, and pushed his own head down Arthur’s cock. Arthur groaned, all thoughts of being mindful leaving. He grabbed Lancelot’s hair tighter and pushed his head down at the same time he snapped his hips up. Lancelot took it willingly, sucking messily, the sounds of it filling the room. Arthur panted, whimpers leaving his mouth without his permission. He could feel the bed shift where Lancelot was humping against the mattress, his moans stifled by Arthur’s cock.
As he was reaching his orgasm, he held Lancelot’s head firmly against his groin. He thrust into his mouth, rough, fast, until he came buried deep in Lancelot’s throat with a loud moan. Lancelot choked, his throat tightening around his cock, and swallowed his come before pulling away. He rested his face on Arthur’s hip, stubble and soft strands of hair tickling his sensitive skin.
After a moment, Lancelot shifted, his warmth leaving him. The mattress sunk next to Arthur's legs, then there was the sound of trousers being stripped off. Anticipation filled Arthur’s chest, and he went to pull the blindfold off, but Lancelot’s hand on his stopped him.
“Keep it on,” he said, his voice rough.
Arthur swallowed, heat pooling on his stomach even after just coming. “Alright.”
Lancelot’s hands started to drag his trousers off, and he raised his hips to help him. Lancelot opened Arthur’s legs further to settle between them, running his hands up and down. As Arthur shifted the dark silk to cover his eyes better, he remembered something:
Merlin/Lancelot, 5k, Mature, No Warnings. Hanahaki disease.
“I’m fine,” Merlin repeats, clearing his throat. He wipes his mouth, but something—
Something’s on his lips. Something red, and Lancelot’s heart drops to his stomach at the sight of it.
But then Merlin gets closer to take the basket back, and Lancelot is able to see it better. Dumbfounded, he takes it from Merlin’s lip and holds it between his fingers.
“Is this—” He looks up at Merlin. Wide blue eyes are already on him. “Is this a petal?”
He wants to keep Stark. He wants to keep him forever.
It is not a thing that can happen. But he wants it, he wants it so frightfully, his chest aches as if he were the one with a star stuck in it.
For @merlinmicrofic. Prompt "Sweet." 500 words.
Merlin/Lancelot, Mature, No Warnings. Vampire AU. AO3.
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Merlin’s fingers dig into his scalp, and he pushes, pushes until the back of Lancelot’s thighs hit the table. His kiss is bruising, desperate. Starving, in a way only he hungers. Merlin keeps pushing, pressing their bodies flush, biting into Lancelot’s lip, until he manages to lift himself enough to sit on the table.
Merlin grabs Lancelot’s hips and pulls him closer. Lancelot’s gasp is swallowed by Merlin’s greedy mouth. He runs his hands up and down Merlin’s sides, urging him on. Merlin noses at Lancelot’s cheek, peppers kisses on his jaw, licks his neck. Merlin’s breath on the saliva-wet skin makes a shudder run up his spine.
“Come on,” he says. He tries to open the laces of his tunic, but he is clumsy in his want. He manages to writhe himself out of Merlin’s grasp for long enough to take off the damn thing.
Merlin immediately buries his face in his neck again. Lancelot wraps his arms around his shoulders to keep him there. He wants him there forever. Merlin grabs his waist, holding him firmly in place. For, they both know now, Lancelot tends to move when he is overcome. Tends to arch his back, to tremble, and that only makes the wound worse.
He opens his mouth, and his teeth graze Lancelot’s skin. He presses his fangs, and that —that moment right before the skin breaks, where Merlin stops for a second to just breathe him in— it always makes him feel weak, boneless. Tonight is no different, and he whimpers; a sound that transforms into a moan as Merlin bites down and draws blood.
It is intoxicating, in a way he knows it shouldn’t be. Merlin is doing nothing to him other than draining his life away, and yet—
He can feel his blood leave his body, he can feel it. He can hear Merlin swallowing, too, and his harsh breathing between each swallow. It makes him groan, and he wraps his legs around Merlin’s hips, trying to get him to grind against Lancelot’s hardness. For a moment, he can’t feel Merlin, and he isn’t sure if he’s hard, too. After all, Merlin draws no pleasure from his feeding, unlike Lancelot.
But then Merlin digs his fangs deeper, clutches his waist tighter, thrusts his hips— and Lancelot feels him. It gives him a different sort of satisfaction, because he did that. Not the drinking. Him.
Merlin pulls back, and Lancelot misses him immediately. With a flash of gold eyes, he feels the sting of the wounds closing.
“Keep going,” he protests, though he knows it’s useless. Merlin can never bring himself to drink more than a few mouthfuls from him.
Merlin groans and licks at the drops of blood that had escaped his lips and run down Lancelot’s chest.
“I can’t,” he says against Lancelot’s chest. “Your blood. It’s so sweet.”
Lancelot grabs Merlin’s chin and pulls him up into a kiss. It just tastes like iron, Lancelot decides, but Merlin’s lips are definitely sweet.
Freya/Lancelot (Background Freya/Lancelot/Merlin), 500 words, General audiences, No warnings.
Fic on AO3 and under the cut!
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A school of fish swims around them, a flutter of oranges and greens. Lancelot watches Freya reach out to them, and, as if moths to a flame, they circle her hand, giving her fingers little kisses. Not one to be outdone by fish, he takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles.
She smiles at him, that shy, beautiful smile that every moon becomes brighter. He has understood, since the very beginning, why Merlin would always talk about her in such a reverent voice. She lies down on the bed of moss, her dark hair and dress undulating above her.
“You were telling me about Merlin,” she says.
Lancelot lets himself fall beside her and rests his cheek in his hand to look at her. His elbow digs into the soft moss, and he runs his hand over it. What else is there to tell her about Merlin that he hasn’t already told? Every adventure, every secret, she has drunk them all as if the water they live in.
And he’s familiar, of course, with her one adventure with him in the land of the living.
“What did you love about him?” he asks instead. She wraps her arms around her middle and looks up to the bright surface above them. She sighs, though he can only tell because of the movement of her chest.
“He was very gentle”, she says after a moment. “When he found me, no one had shown me gentleness in a long time.” She reaches the water above her again. This time, she draws patterns in it. Wherever she touches, the sunlight shining down on them becomes brighter. From the glow, she conjures a rose. “I fell in love immediately.”
Lancelot smiles. Yes, Merlin has that effect on people. Freya offers him the rose, but it dissolves as soon as he takes it, bleeding red between them.
“What about you?” she asks, mirroring his position and setting her chin in her hand.
Lancelot needs to think about it, because there is not one thing he didn’t love about Merlin. Not one thing he doesn’t love, since the feelings are still there, as fresh as the day he died. He runs his fingers through Freya’s hair, watching it float up and down and around.
“The complete opposite of you, I think,” he finally answers. “I loved him most when he was brazen, when he was cheeky and bold and when he showed how powerful he was.”
Freya nods, a small smile on her lips. This must be nothing new to her, if the way Lancelot talks about Merlin is any clue as to what he loves about him. She presses a kiss to his lips, soft as the brush of a petal, and takes his hand.
“Let’s do something,” she says as she stands up, pulling Lancelot with her.
There's not much to do when you live in a lake, but he follows her anyway. It is peaceful down here, lovely. She makes it lovely.
Dear brother, she says, and she spits the word. She says it like it’s poison in her mouth, meant to kill. Like she means for it to hurt him as much as it hurts her.
Morgana, he says, as he has a thousand times before. Then, when the fear in her eyes can be denied by none, My Lady, and that, that is what poisons him, too.
In every way but the real one, the way that would end this, they both drive a blade into the other's flesh.
He, a sword. Mighty, just, imbued with the blood of innocents.
She, a dagger. To his back, because if she looked him in the eye, she would see her own vulnerability staring right back.
He blames himself for this, for all of this. All the death and the destruction she’s caused, all the suffering she bears, all the sleepless nights lying in pain. She blames him, too.
There is only one way this can end; they both know it. They are too deep in the war that they are for it to end any other way. One of them must die so the other can live.
(At the end, they both die.)
Most days, the one thing that drives her on is to see his blood running down her hands. Most nights, he fears he will never be able to wash her blood off his.
(It is not either their hands that wields the blade.)
But she can’t do it. She can’t kill him because it is not her fate to do so. It’s written in the stars that her sword won’t be the one to end him, and there is nothing she can do about it, as much as she tries.
Merlin runs his finger across the stone slab where Lancelot lies. The Isle of the Blessed is cold, colder each passing moment, and when the wind screams through the cracks in the temple, it brings with it the smell of still water. The lake’s mist, ever-present, seeps right to his bones. Merlin’s hands tremble as he lights up the last candle, yet he is not sure he can blame the place for it.
He looks up, and the full moon looks back, almost right above them. A few minutes until it is time. He takes the dagger from his belt and brings it to Lancelot’s chest.
Softly, carefully, he slides the dagger down. Thread by thread, Lancelot’s tunic rips open. His muscles twitch under the blade; Merlin can feel them. He almost tells him to stay still, or else he’ll draw blood, but, well. That is why they’re here.
Lancelot’s eyes remain on him, heavy, as he brushes the tunic to the sides, exposing his chest to the skies. Merlin looks up again; the moon is almost there, and the stars are starting to hide behind the mist. He takes a candle and holds it high over Lancelot’s chest. Then, he lets the wax drop.
Lancelot groans and his back arches at the burn, even though he had sworn he would be able to stay still. Not that Merlin had believed him. With his free hand, Merlin runs his fingers through Lancelot’s hair, shushing him. Tries to comfort him as he keeps the candle tilted and moves it down his front. Hot wax falls, drop by drop, chest to stomach.
He whimpers when the final drop burns further down, the sensitive skin where his trousers hang loosely. With one last glance at the moon, Merlin sets the candle in its place and leans over to whisper to Lancelot’s ear:
“You know,” he says, and has to clear his throat because he didn’t expect it to sound so rough. “You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”
Lancelot opens his eyes —when had he closed them, it is likely neither of them knows— and his eyes are so heated they could melt the wax again.
“I’m not,” he breathes, then swallows.
Merlin only hums in response, and gives Lancelot’s hair one last caress before he takes the dagger again. Two cuts, he must make, parallel at either side of the line of wax across his front.
The blade, sharp as the wind itself, slices easily. A shallow cut, only enough to coax drops of blood. As he draws it down Lancelot’s body, he chants the words in the language of the old religion. As he prays, the wax starts to glow golden.
Lancelot does not manage to stay still, but he’s still enough. Once the first cut is done, Merlin takes a moment to admire him. Lips parted, cheeks flushed. He makes the perfect sacrifice to the Goddess. Merlin places the dagger on the other side and drives it into his skin again.
Title: Tethered
AO3 username: Personaje | @kairenn-n
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Warnings Apply
Word Count: 7000 words
Pairing/main characters: Merlin/Lancelot
Up to 10 tags: Angst, Fluff, Post-Episode: Lancelot Du Lac, Came Back Wrong
Summary:
Merlin has brought Lancelot back to life. They start courting, and they're finally happy together. But Lancelot's soul is not intact.
Merlin/Lancelot, 1k, General audiences, No warnings.
Fic on AO3 and under the cut.
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Lancelot’s steps echo as he edges down the stone stairs. It is cold down there. Dark and poisoned with the distinct smell of humidity. There is a sudden mockery of a breeze, and the torch in his hand flickers. He stops, praying it doesn’t die. The darkness there is all-consuming, the steps uneven. It doesn’t die. He continues his way down.
After an eternity submerged in that darkness, he steps on the rocky bottom. The walls open into a cavern. A great cavern, bigger than he has ever seen. The ground expands into a short platform; and there, at the end of it, chained to the ground like a dog, lies a man.
No— not a man. He raises his head as soon as Lancelot arrives, sharply, and the sight that greets him steals the air from his lungs. Black horns crawl their way up from the crown of his head, twisting back in sinuous spikes. Scales, as if a snake’s, slither all over his naked chest and neck in winding patterns, up to his face, reflecting the fire’s light. Big, strong black wings, bat-like, extend from his back.
Most unsettlingly, bright, molten gold eyes with slit for pupils stare right back at him.
It is the most beautiful sight his eyes have ever lain upon. It brings bile to his throat and knots his stomach. And something else— something he recognises, intimately, but cannot bring himself to name.
“I have been waiting for you,” the not-man says. His voice is low, rumbling like rocks down a landslide. Lancelot was in one, once. It almost killed him.
“Who are you?” Lancelot asks, gripping his torch tighter. “Why did you call me here?”
“You know who I am.”
He stands, slowly, with difficulty. As if he hasn’t done it in a long time. The chains attached to his wrists and ankles rattle, the sound loud and echoing in the enormity of the cavern. As he draws himself to his full height, his wings extend, the span of them the length of his body. Against all his instincts— or, perhaps, following them too intimately, Lancelot steps closer.
The Great Dragon. The one King Uther captured during his Purge, around thirty years ago now. He does not look old enough for that, doesn’t even look older than Lancelot himself.
The man— the dragon— Emrys, he’s heard the druids whisper, he rakes his eyes up Lancelot’s body, from his boots to the forgotten sword strapped to his belt, up to the chain mail covering his chest, ring by ring. They stop at the embroidered emblem on his red cape. His lips stretch into a sneer at it, or maybe it’s an attempt at a smile. His teeth are sharp.
“Camelot’s first commoner knight,” he says, then moves his eyes from the emblem to Lancelot’s. His animal pupils widen from slits to circles. “The noblest of them all.”
Lancelot looks away, his gut clenching. He is not so sure about that. He has to force himself to look back at Emrys.
“The one who will free me.”
“Why would I do that?” Lancelot asks, and it comes out rougher than he intended. Emrys doesn’t seem to mind. His smile widens.
“It is as the Fates dictate.”
“The Fates do not control me,” Lancelot says, though they both know it is not true.
The Fates have been the ones to guide his hand ever since his family was not there to hold it anymore. But Emrys must have been imprisoned down here for a reason. He was captured back then, and remained here when King Arthur ascended to power. And he will not betray his King.
Emrys narrows his eyes and closes the distance between them, the chains rattling behind him. He smells of smoke— but no, that’s not right. He smells of heat, of fire. It is intoxicating.
“What is it you want?” he asks, inching closer. “Power? Glory? I can give you anything.”
Lancelot shakes his head. From this close, he can see each one of Emrys’ dark eyelashes, each speck of gold in his eyes, the way scales sprout from his cheekbones and weave delicately down to his neck. They shine beautifully under the fire. All of him does.
“There is nothing you could offer—“
Emrys grabs his jaw, and the sudden movement makes Lancelot drop the torch. Sharp nails— claws— dig into his skin, and the chains shriek, pressed against his chain mail.
“I will right all the wrongs in this land,” he says, righteous beneath the smoke. “And even if you don’t think you want it, I will give it all to you,” he whispers, his words like a love letter, his tone like a threat. “But first, you will free me.”
Lancelot does not move; he can’t. He knows Emrys is powerless down here. He knows if he steps back, pushes his hand and frees himself from his grip, Emrys will not be able to pursue him. But he can’t move.
He could lie to himself, the way he had the whole time he walked down the stairs in that oppressive darkness that lies beneath the earth. There, he could hide himself. Could tell himself that this would not be a betrayal to his King, that he would not find anything down there, that the voice in his head telling him where to go was his imagination.
Under the bright stare of Emrys’ gaze, he can’t hide any longer, not from him and not from himself. This, this is why the Fates wanted him in Camelot. This is what he has fought for all these years. Someone greater than himself. A purpose greater than himself.
Still holding his face tightly, one of Emrys’ fingers drags across his cheek until they dig painfully into his bottom lip. All the air leaves his lungs.
“Will you do it, my knight?”
Emrys’ eyes are so blown wide, so dark he can barely make out the ring of gold around them.
Merlin/Lancelot, 1k, General audiences, No warnings.
Fic on AO3 and under the cut!
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Merlin’s boots slide through a patch of mud, and his gut clenches for the second he loses control— he stumbles, but thankfully recovers his balance before his face has a chance to meet the forest floor. He grabs the medicine bag hanging precariously on his shoulder tighter and keeps running.
Lancelot is still ahead of him, and the thought of using magic to get a branch in his way to make him lose his lead crosses his mind. But Lancelot would notice; he always notices his magic. That, and Merlin wouldn’t be able to live it down.
So he keeps running downhill, no cheating, the forest treacherous with its knotted roots and smooth rocks. Merlin jumps over them and runs, and runs, and runs behind Lancelot, close but not close enough to crash into him. His legs ache, his feet hurt horribly every time he lands on small stones. The almost-spring breeze hits his face, cold and biting and exhilarating.
As he rushes down the path they had taken up, Merlin sees again the places they had stopped to rest. A log no-longer-covered in mushrooms, because those taste great in a soup. A burrow Merlin had coaxed a bunny out of. A mossy rock with a mossless patch where Lancelot had grabbed a bunch and thrown it at Merlin. It was only fair; He had looked up at Merlin with a smile that made his heart skip a beat, and Merlin had wanted to kiss him. So instead, he started throwing berries at him.
He fantasises about it, more often than not. Kissing Lancelot. Merlin pictures it, now, how he’d do it. He’d catch up with Lancelot, grab his shoulder to make him stop, then grab his face and crash their mouths together.
Maybe Lancelot feels Merlin’s eyes on his back —a chilling thought— because just then, he loses his balance. He stumbles and skids on a wet patch. He doesn’t fall, of course he doesn’t, damn him, it would have been hilarious. But he does slow down to a stop.
At the top of the hill —a very, very tall hill they had taken too many hours to climb— Lancelot had dared him to a race to the bottom. Merlin didn’t want to, at first. He had gone up all the way for some stupid medicinal flowers, and if he lost them because he tripped and his bag flew open, he’d be extremely upset. But then Lancelot had goaded him with a ruffle of his hair and a hand to his elbow and, well, Merlin was terrible at denying him anything.
Merlin had almost kissed him, then. (There are many times Merlin has almost kissed him. He never has the guts to do it.)
“Are you giving up?” Merlin, out of breath, manages to choke out as he catches up.
“Not— not at all,” Lancelot replies, just as breathless. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning with his hands on his knees.
Merlin has to support himself on the nearest tree to recover, the bark rough on his scraped palm. His heartbeat grows louder in his ears and his throat tastes of iron. For no reason at all, Merlin is just— he's unable to control his laughter. It crashes on him like a wave. He starts laughing and then choking on his laughter. He can feel his face red and the sweat begin to cool on his back. He can’t stop laughing. He hasn’t run for the sake of it— without someone chasing him, or him chasing someone, since he was a child. He hasn’t felt this alive since then, either.
Lancelot had straightened up at some point while Merlin was busy laughing, and he looks at Merlin with narrowed eyes and a poorly contained smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“Sorry,” Merlin gasps, resting his forehead on the back of his hand, the one on the tree. “Nothing, sorry.” But he still can’t stop laughing. There are tears in his eyes.
It calms down to chuckles, so he feels stable enough to look at Lancelot, and the first thing he notices is the way his lips are parted, red and taking in gulps of air. The second thing he notices is a little stick with a leaf stuck in his hair. It’s so inane, so little. It sends Merlin into another fit, bending forward and all.
Lancelot’s soft punch on his shoulder makes him open his eyes again. Merlin doesn’t —can’t— take his eyes off him again as he straightens up. There’s this— this something coursing through his veins, because of the running that’s causing all the laughing. It’s the same thing he feels when he’s with Lancelot, in moments like this. The moments after. After running down a hill, after a battle, after a touch of his skin.
It only ever happens because of Lancelot. It makes his stomach tighten with anticipation. He never dares name the feeling in his chest, the cause of it. Lancelot hasn’t said anything, done anything, so Merlin hasn’t, either. He does it now, fuck it, he takes a step towards Lancelot, places a hand on his shoulder. Every inch of his body is humming with something that is not magic, but feels close to it. And, as he catches Lancelot’s eyes flicker down to his lips, every time he stopped himself from doing this seems stupid in hindsight.
Lancelot smiles at him, he eyes the hand on his shoulder like he expects it to be a trick, for Merlin to lunge and run and try to win the race. Merlin thinks about it; it’s what he would do, normally. But he’s alive, and doesn’t want to waste any more time, so he grabs Lancelot’s cheek with his other hand and presses their lips together.
Lancelot makes a sound at the back of his throat in answer. His hands grab at Merlin’s waist, then sneak up his chest to his face, as if they have always been doing this. They should have, Merlin thinks.
Lancelot watches Merlin grind the poppy seeds in the mortar, transfixed. The way his hand wraps tightly around the pestle, the way his forearm muscles shift with each push of rock against rock. Whenever his right arm tires, he changes to his left and continues instead of using magic or asking Lancelot for help. Lancelot would have offered —he has, many times in the past— but, well. He also enjoys the show.
Sadly, the show ends when the last of the seeds is ground into a powder. Merlin brushes it into a goblet where the rest of the powder sits, topping it off.
Merlin asks Lancelot for the rainwater as he retrieves a cauldron from where it hangs over the hearth. Many potions require rainwater, Lancelot has found out, and it is stored in barrels on the castle’s ceiling. Lancelot often finds Merlin hauling down buckets of it. The bucket next to the door, filled with the water, is surprisingly light when Lancelot picks it up. He suspects magic at play, but he knows if he asks Merlin, he’ll just smirk and play dumb.
Merlin pours the seed dust into the cauldron, three big spoonfuls of powder— lime, reads the sack, and four goblets of rainwater. He mixes the ingredients, creating a grey liquid. He then hangs the cauldron over the hearth and under it stashes four pieces of lumber.
“Is that the oak wood?” Lancelot asks.
“Yes,” Merlin answers, eyeing the wood with disdain.
Lancelot had been there the day before when Gaius had scolded Merlin for bringing fresh oak wood. The potion demands a foot’s length of quartered oak wood, which must be dried for a year beforehand. Merlin had grumbled about it, saying he would spark it with magic anyway, so what was the point? Lancelot, personally, finds it a bit weird that even the firewood comes with instructions. But he doesn't know enough about potion-making to argue the court's physician.
Merlin lights the fire and gives the liquid one last mix. He then turns, a smile on his lips as he wraps his arms around Lancelot’s neck. “And now we wait.”
“How long?”
“Until the wood turns into white ash.”
Lancelot eyes the hearth. The fire is already burning high. He slips his hands under Merlin’s tunic.
“How terrible. Whatever will we do in this long wait?”
“I have a few ideas,” Merlin murmurs against his lips.
Lancelot grabs onto Merlin’s skin and leans until there is no space between them. Merlin’s mouth is hungry on his. He pushes Merlin back until he hits the table, and he lifts him onto it. Their hips press flush, and Lancelot swallows the sound Merlin makes.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” Merlin says, running his hands down Lancelot’s chest.
Lancelot hums, opening Merlin’s breeches. “Let’s go to your chambers then.”
Neither makes a move to leave the table.
Lancelot loves to hang around when Merlin prepares potions. He could play it as a selfless act and say it is because he likes to help. Which— he does. He’ll give Merlin a hand with the chopping and the stirring and the weighing. But truthfully, it is because most of the process of preparing draughts is waiting. They get to have moments like this.
Lancelot gets to run his mouth down Merlin’s neck. To slide a hand inside his breeches and feel him hot and hard under his fingers. He gets to drop down to his knees and suck Merlin off slowly and tortuously, until his thighs are trembling and he's pulling on Lancelot’s hair, demanding. And then he gets to have Merlin do the same to him. They get to spend the rest of the time like that, entwined, until the oak wood turns into ashes.
Still over the hearth, Merlin pours a foul-smelling liquid into the cauldron and what Lancelot guesses is salt. He has Lancelot stir the thing while he cleans up the table and gathers more ingredients. He places a linen cloth over a bowl, and Lancelot pours the now grey, gross-looking and gross-smelling paste over it. Merlin wraps it up and squeezes the liquid out of the bundle. Lancelot eyes Merlin’s arms as he wrings out the cloth harder and harder. He’s never getting tired of this.
Merlin collects the ash from the hearth and places it in yet another bucket, which is full of ashes. To make lye water, Merlin had told him when he had noticed it the first time. The sleeping potion requires lye from oak wood ashes.
“You know,” Lancelot says, leaning on the table and watching Merlin place logs on the hearth again. His breeches hug his thighs beautifully when he kneels. “Before coming to Camelot, I would have never imagined potion making would be so… like this.”
Merlin pours the liquid back into the cauldron, over the fire. Oh, that was going to smell.
“Boring?”
“Seeds, water, ash. By the manner people talk about it, I always imagined more mystical ingredients.”
Merlin snorts, coming to stand between Lancelot’s legs. “Eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog?” He’s mocking Lancelot, but his smile is contagious.
“Exactly.”
“Those are great for magical potions.” Lancelot runs his fingers up and down Merlin’s naked forearms. Bless the early summer for her heat. “But this potion is just the poppy. The seeds hold the sleepiness in them, and all we’re doing is extracting it.”
“So you do normally use eye of frog and tongue of newt?”
Merlin rolls his eyes before kissing him. After a while of his teeth abusing Lancelot's lips, he steps back to check on the cauldron. He stirs it once more and adds a small bottle’s content of lye. He adds another log and kindling to the fire, and once it grows high enough to lick the sides of the cauldron, he pours oil— olive oil, Lancelot can see on the label. He stirs for long enough Lancelot becomes bored and walks up to him to hug him from behind. He rests his chin on Merlin’s shoulder and watches the rhythmic swirling of the potion.
He considers taking a nap right there, standing behind Merlin. The potion no longer smells putrid, and the fire makes him warm, and Merlin is very comfortable. Maybe some of that poppy sleepiness escaped the water and reached him through the air. Eventually, and devastatingly, Merlin pulls away to grab more things from the table. When he returns, Lancelot is waiting for him in the same spot, and goes back to wrapping his arms around him as Merlin pours the last ingredient.
“Is that lemon juice?” Lancelot asks. Merlin hums in response. “Seeds, olive oil and lemon juice. Are you preparing a meal instead of a draught?”
“You’re hilarious,” Merlin deadpans. “Truly, you should become the court jester.”
“Oh, no, my love. I wouldn’t dare take your job from you.”
Merlin reaches back and pinches Lancelot’s side. Lancelot yelps a laugh, holds Merlin tighter and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.
Merlin smothers the fire with a wave of his hand and starts scooping out the oil sitting on top of the potion. There’s not much liquid left by now, probably only enough for one or two doses. Another thing Lancelot didn’t know about potions until recently was that it could take months to make them. He had been there with Merlin, collecting the poppies exactly the day after their first flowering. He had watched as the first batch was hung on the kitchen walls to dry for two moon’s turns, and had helped Merlin and Gaius pluck out seeds. They save the rest of the flowers for other potions. Probably to make more ash.
The part where Merlin bottles and labels the draughts is Lancelot’s least favourite. It means their time together for the day is over. He presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Are you going somewhere now?”
“I have duties to attend to,” Merlin says, then raises an eyebrow. “As do you.”
Lancelot sighs.
“I’ll see you tonight in my chambers?” he asks.
“So forward, sir Lancelot. How scandalous,” Merlin smiles. “I’ll be there.”
“Are you ready?” Merlin asked, ignoring Lancelot’s perfectly good chairs and sitting on his table.
“Yes, ready to set my chambers on fire again.” Merlin rolled his eyes. That had been a long time ago, and Merlin had placed enchantments on the curtains to keep them from burning. They hadn’t tried them out yet, though. “What do I do?”
Merlin opened the book on the marked page, as if he hadn’t dedicated the past few nights to memorising this chapter.
“Come here,” Merlin said. Lancelot stepped in front of him, way closer than necessary. Merlin’s mind went blank at the sight of Lancelot between his thighs. He swallowed before continuing. "Hold your hands like you’re holding water, like this. Yes, keep them like that.”
Merlin took the Amulet of the Dragon from where it lay on the table and placed it in the middle of Lancelot’s hands. He then made the same gesture with his own and held them over Lancelot’s. His skin tingled where it touched Lancelot’s, and he couldn’t blame the ritual yet.
“Repeat after me,” Merlin said. He started chanting in the language of the old religion: “The power harnessed in the Dragonlord’s soul, channel it to he who holds the shield.”
Lancelot repeated it perfectly. Merlin lit a fire in his palms. It made Lancelot’s eyes glow with its flickering light.
“Let the fire run in both veins.” Merlin watched Lancelot’s lips move, forming the words of old as if it were his native tongue. “Let the blaze be born from both hands.”
Merlin’s fire glowed the colour of wine, and he opened his palms, letting it fall to the coin in Lancelot’s.
“Let the channel be created.”
It absorbed the flame, glowing bright with harmless heat until it faded. Merlin stared at it, sitting innocuously in Lancelot’s hands. He didn’t dare breathe. His only thought was, ‘Come on, work.’ But nothing kept happening.
He sighed, resigned to spend more sleepless nights translating the stupid book they stole from the stupid vaults that wasn’t even in stupid English. And then his head exploded in pain.
He screamed— or he thought he did, because even though he could feel it in his throat, he couldn’t hear anything. Only a ringing in his ears. He tried to open his eyes and— no, they weren’t closed. He couldn’t see. Distantly, he felt Lancelot’s hands on him, keeping him upright. An eternity passed until he could hear again, but he didn’t lift his face from where it was buried in the crook of Lancelot’s neck.
“Lancelot?” Merlin breathed when the pain became bearable.
“Merlin?” Lancelot leaned back, grabbing Merlin’s face with one hand to look at him. “What happened? Are you well? Do you want me to—”
“Just…” The movement made him dizzy, and he dropped his head on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Just hold me. For now.”
Lancelot wrapped his arm tighter around him and ran his fingers through his hair. That was great. Once he began feeling normal again (or as close to normal as he was going to get; his body felt… weird), he noticed Lancelot was shivering. Merlin pulled back to look at him.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.” Lancelot didn’t let Merlin go, even though he didn’t look much better than Merlin himself. “It doesn’t hurt. I… I think it’s your power. Coursing through me. It’s so much.”
Merlin’s cheeks burned, and he was both desperate to push Lancelot away and get him to hold him for the rest of the night.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said with a frown. His hand was on Merlin’s neck now, stroking lightly. Then his face lit up with a smile that could put the sun to shame.
…And now he was waxing poetic about Lancelot in his mind, which meant he must be back to normal.
Lancelot whispered through his smile, all excited: “I can do magic now.”
Very specific and potentially dangerous to his well-being magic, yes. But Merlin didn’t try to go over that again. It was Lancelot who had pressed until Merlin had accepted. Granted, it hadn’t taken much pressing because he couldn’t resist Lancelot’s brown, pleading eyes. But he firmly believed this was either going to be one of their best ideas yet or one of the very worst.
Merlin smiled back, unable to be unaffected by Lancelot’s glee. “Try it out.”
Lancelot stepped away from him. He had been very warm, and Merlin was left cold sitting there on the table. Lancelot stared at his hands for a good while before saying:
“I don’t know what to do.”
Merlin looked around the room until he found a candle, which he summoned to his hand.
“Let’s start small,” he said.
“I remember you telling me the first fire you lit was as tall as your house.” He raised an eyebrow at him.
“The more reason to do as I say, not as I do.”
Lancelot snorted and took the candle. He looked at the wick intently, even narrowing his eyes until they were almost closed, but it remained unlit.
“Try to, um…” Merlin started, but he wasn’t sure how to explain it. How do you teach a man to breathe? “Try to imagine the candle burning. And push the magic towards it.”
“Push it… how?” Lancelot didn’t take his eyes off it. Merlin wanted to answer, ‘Just push it,’ but he was aware that would not be helpful at all.
“What about we try with a spell first?” he said instead. Lancelot looked at him and nodded. “Forbearnahn.” The candle lit up instantly, and just as quickly, he extinguished it.
“Forbearnahn,” Lancelot repeated.
Merlin felt it a fraction of a second before it happened: His magic being pulled, as minuscule a spell as it was. And then the candle was lit between them. Lancelot laughed, his eyes seeking Merlin, full of exhilaration. Merlin laughed with him, giddy.
It worked. He almost couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t allowed himself to believe it, to let it sink in until he saw the gold fading from Lancelot’s eyes. Lancelot had magic. His magic.
Lancelot moved to stand in front of the fireplace, he raised his hands and said the spell out loud. It came to life with a roar and a flame so tall that Merlin worried for a moment. Lancelot laughed again and started lighting every single candle in his chambers, one by one.
Merlin stayed at the table, keeping an eye on the fires, but mostly watching Lancelot. With each new candle lit, he felt the pull of magic inside him, deep in his belly and crawling down his body like a shiver.
“When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail,” Merlin said when Lancelot started looking around the room for more things to light up. “And I guess when you have fire magic, everything looks like kindling.”
Lancelot laughed again and went back to stand in front of Merlin. Not between his legs this time, which he was grateful for since he would like to keep his remaining sanity for today.
“What else can I do?” Lancelot asked. Merlin honestly didn’t know. He wasn’t certain what the binding counted as ‘Dragonlord’ powers and what as Merlin’s own.
“Try making something with the smoke.” He gestured with his head to the fireplace. “Like an animal.”
Lancelot stared at the hearth, his eyes narrowed. When nothing happened for too long, Lancelot raised his hands towards it. Merlin felt his magic shape something amidst the smoke, but it didn’t leave yet. It was terribly intimate, in a way he hadn’t known to prepare for. The feeling of Lancelot using his magic, coaxing it from him. As if Lancelot were inside him. It was as addictive as it was terrifying.
A bird made of smoke flew from the fireplace. At first, the flap of its wings was too slow for its speed, making it look uncanny. Then it was too fast. As Lancelot made it circle the room, his hand guiding it or following it or both, it began to gain a better form. The flaps aligned with the speed, it oscillated up and down rhythmically, and it even got a more defined shape.
“You’re a natural,” Merlin congratulated him, unable to take his eyes off it. “It took me days to get mine to look that good.”
“I think it’s you.” Lancelot dropped his hand and looked at Merlin. The bird dissolved not long after. “I can feel it, I think. How the magic is all yours.” He shifted closer to Merlin and —oh, Goddess— took his hand between his. “I would remain tethered to you for the rest of my life, if you’d let me.”
And Merlin— how was he supposed to answer to that? He swallowed, and as he gripped Lancelot’s hand with his and pulled him closer, he scorned himself for ever doubting this.
Lancelot’s face was rough where his stubble grazed Merlin’s skin, but his lips were soft. As soft as the first time they kissed, but this actually felt real. This was real, not a lie, not an excuse. This wouldn’t go away in the morning.
Merlin wrapped his arms around his neck and drew them closer to each other, trying to get as much of Lancelot’s body on him as physically possible. Lancelot found again his place between Merlin’s legs and dragged Merlin closer to the edge of the table, hips pressing flush. Lancelot swallowed the sound that escaped Merlin’s lips, attacking his mouth as he was.
Merlin unfastened Lancelot’s belt and started tugging at his tunic, and on the third tug, Lancelot got the message and pulled it off.
“Why haven’t we been doing this before?” Merlin asked. He ran a hand down Lancelot’s chest, touch feather light, relishing in the way he shuddered.
“Right now, I cannot think of a single valid reason,” Lancelot answered, which was a prettied-up way of saying, ‘because we’re both stupid and cowardly,’ probably. Merlin dug his fingers into Lancelot’s pectoral, feeling the muscle under them.
Lancelot kissed him again. Then his cheek and his neck, his hands sneaking under Merlin’s tunic. Merlin helped him pull it off. And though Lancelot’s skin was hot against his, it washed him with the same relief of cold water in summer.
Merlin ran his hands through Lancelot’s hair and stressed his bottom lip with his teeth. He wanted to say something, something kind of sappy and romantic like, ‘I don’t want to ever let you go.’ He was going to say it. Really. He pulled away and took a deep breath—
And the door to Lancelot’s chambers banged open.
“Lancelot, do you know where Merlin i— oh. Oh.” Gwen stood right there at the door, gaping at them.
“Gwen.” Lancelot cleared his throat and retrieved Merlin’s tunic from the floor. Merlin hastily put it on, trying to will away the burning of his cheeks. And of the rest of his body.
“I can’t believe it.” Gwen put her hands on her hips and scowled at Merlin. “Everyone kept saying you two were courting, but I insisted that couldn’t be true, since that would be something my best friend would bother to tell me, isn’t it?”
“Um,” Merlin said. Grandiloquently.
“I can’t believe I had to catch you making out to find out you were finally together!”
“Witchcraft,” Gwen deadpanned. Lancelot pinched Merlin’s leg. When Merlin glanced at him, his eyes were wide on him.
“Yes. Sorcery. Magic. We actually lit all these candles with spells. And such.”
“Aha.”
“I’m so, so serious.”
“I’m sure.”
“Because you’re my best friend and I’d tell you if we were, you know. Courting.”
Maybe it was the way the word left his mouth, maybe it was the way he couldn’t keep himself from looking at Lancelot when he said it, but Gwen seemed to understand. He had, after all, talked her ear off about his feelings for Lancelot, time and time again. Keeping some compromising details out, of course. Honestly, if she and Arthur had started courting and either of them hadn’t told him, he would have reacted the same.
“Alright,” she said, offering him a smile. He smiled back. Courting.
“Why were you looking for Merlin?” Lancelot asked after an appropriate amount of silence.
“Oh! Yes, sorry. Gaius needs you, Merlin. People are dying.”
Merlin cursed under his breath and jumped off the table. Before he could get too far, Lancelot grabbed his hand.
“Witchcraft, really?” he whispered. Merlin shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m starting to regret a few things,” he said, but he had trouble hiding the smile from his voice.
“I’ll see you later?” Merlin asked.
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
With that, they had a last (for now!) chaste kiss, and Lancelot let him go. He no longer felt cold where they stopped touching. Lancelot’s warmth remained all the way across the castle, and until he returned to his arms late at night.
It was entirely too early for someone to be knocking at Merlin’s door. ‘Go away,’ he mumbled against his pillow. Or maybe he dreamed he did. Either way, the knocking did not go away.
When he heard Arthur’s voice on the other side of the door he did startle, completely awake.
He sat up, and only then did he notice the arms wrapped around his middle. They tightened their grip in protest at his movements. Right. Lancelot. Right.
Right.
He tried not to freak out at the thought of Lancelot in his bed, sleeping next to him. Sleeping with him. In the literal sense. They had been exhausted last night, and it had been very cold, and clearly, Merlin wasn't thinking straight when he had asked him to stay.
So they stayed in Merlin’s room, and they both refused to let the other sleep on the floor and, well. Here Merlin was, crawling over Lancelot to get out of bed and trying his best not to wake him up.
Also trying his best not to stand there and stare at him like a creep. Because obviously, obviously, Lancelot slept without a shirt on.
He slipped out of his room, gently closing the door, and he had to close his eyes and rub them at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. When he opened them, it was to the cheery view of Arthur standing there, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Merlin glanced at the window. It was well past breakfast time.
“Do you want me to fetch your breakfast, sire?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. Merlin didn’t understand why he was there at all, dressed up and ready to scold Merlin. He knew for a fact Arthur had gotten quite drunk at last night’s Yule feast, since he had even released Merlin early from his duties. The last he saw of him, Arthur had been deep enough in his cups to flirt with Gwen in public— right at the royal table, in fact. Quite awfully, if Merlin was being honest, but it somehow charmed Gwen nonetheless.
“Oh! Do you need hangover medicine?” Merlin asked, already moving to the bench. If he made Arthur’s hangover go away, there was a chance he’d forget about the breakfast thing, and Merlin wouldn’t have to muck the stables or be a practice dummy or—
“That’s not why I’m here,” Arthur said. When he saw Merlin stop mid-way with the vial in his hand, he gestured at him to hurry. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. I’m going to need it to deal with this.”
Arthur drank it all quickly, with his whole face scrunched up at the taste. Merlin was certain they didn’t need to taste that horrendously; Gaius just enjoyed their suffering. Arthur sighed, suddenly looking as tired as Merlin felt. Then he straightened up and called to the door:
“Come in.”
Two guards entered the physician’s chambers, which made Merlin think, ‘Oh no.’ Then Agravaine stepped in, with the vicious smirk of the cat that got the cream, the canary and the whole feast, which made Merlin think, ‘Oh, shit.’
“Lord Agravaine claims last night you entered his chambers while he attended the feast and stole his jewellery,” Arthur said. Which… was not what he was expecting at all.
Out of the things he did last night— most of them illegal or at least frowned upon, and out of all the things he had stolen from the castle, Agravaine had managed to accuse him of the one thing he hadn’t done.
Arthur must have seen it in his face, because he continued: “I already told him you have been at my service for many years, and the only things you dare steal from the crown are my sausages.” Arthur sounded more offended about the sausages than about the Agravaine thing. Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but then thought about it and closed it.
“I know it was you.” Agravaine pointed a finger at him. “My manservant and these two guards saw you enter my chambers late at night. And when I woke up this morning, I noticed many of my things were gone.” Agravaine smiled and then extended his hands as if he were offering Merlin a blessing. “Give them back now, and I’ll only ask for your banishment instead of your execution.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. It warmed Merlin’s heart, a little. Knowing he trusted Merlin more than he believed his uncle. He probably thought someone else was blaming Merlin, and after they searched Merlin’s rooms and found nothing, they’d go and find the real thief.
“I didn’t steal them. I was nowhere near your chambers. My lord.”
And they probably hadn’t been stolen at all, had they? He tried to eye the guards. They must have the jewellery hidden beneath their armour. It wasn’t the first time something like this happened to him, but he’d very much like it for it to be the last. It was already getting tiring.
“Where were you, then?” Agravaine asked, his smile broadening.
It hit Merlin, then. Like a bucket of ice-cold water. He knew. He knew where he had been last night. Not only that— he knew what he was, who he was. Of course he did, it was no coincidence that he was desperately trying to rid of him right now.
“I didn’t see you before the feast,” Agravaine goaded.
Merlin had left to hunt down the sorceress that Morgana had sent to poison the food. Merlin had gotten to the kitchens just in time to find her with a vial in her hand, hovering over a barrel of wine.
It had been a very dramatic fight, but thankfully very quick. As they threw magic at each other, she made as much of a mess as possible. Merlin, well, he tried not to, but did it anyway. He had managed to hold her down with magic, and that’s when she realised who he was. Surprisingly, she gave up instead of doubling down. Merlin appreciated it, it would have been a whole mess to kill her.
Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know how she had managed to get the kitchen to empty the moment it usually was at its busiest. He hoped she had done something nasty to Cook. Boils in her hands, or something.
“I was helping in the kitchens,” Merlin answered.
“Instead of dressing me?” Arthur questioned with a raised eyebrow. He leaned against the table and grabbed an apple from it.
“Did you enjoy the venison or not?” Merlin shot back, and Arthur just shrugged and bit the apple. It would be funny how much he wasn’t taking this seriously if Merlin weren’t so nervous.
“You left the feast early,” Agravaine said. “I saw you. Where did you go?”
The sorceress had told him to meet outside the northern wall, that she needed to show him something. Lancelot had caught him on his way out and called him rude names for walking willingly into a trap. So instead, they both went and walked willingly into a trap.
And it turned out not to be a trap! She showed them that underneath the snow, right before the forest, she had planted a small army of evil tree-creatures, and they were making their way towards the castle. She had said Morgana had given her the seeds, and she didn’t know how to stop them. She had said, ‘I believe in you, Emrys,’ and promptly left him to deal with it by himself.
Which he did. Setting them on fire had been hard, cold and soaked with snow as they had been. But with Lancelot cutting them in half with his hastily enchanted sword and him throwing balls of fire at them, they had managed.
“I was here.”
“Here,” Agravaine raised an eyebrow. Merlin nodded. Agravaine scoffed.
He must have seen them. The royal wing’s windows oversaw the northern forest. He must have been waiting for the creatures to take over while everyone was incapacitated by the poisoned wine. Morgana made the most awful plans. He was sure if she really wanted to kill them all, she could just summon lightning and zap them all to death. She didn’t only because she loved the theatrics.
“It is your word against three.” To the guards, he said, “search his rooms.”
Merlin hurried to stand in front of his door. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t steal anything.”
If they entered his room, the first thing they’d see, lying right in the middle of his desk, would be the clearly magical tome he stole from the vaults months ago.
“Where’s Gaius?” Arthur asked, looking around as if just noticing the physician’s absence from the physician’s chambers.
“He spent Yule with his girlfriend.”
“He has a girlfriend?” Arthur almost choked on the apple.
“Alice!” Merlin said, exasperated. “I told you about her. Multiple times!” Honestly.
“Ohh.” Arthur’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know they were serious.”
“They’re getting serious, he can’t stop talking about her—”
“Enough,” Agravaine said. Right. He had forgotten. “So you’re saying there is no one who can vouch you weren’t in my chambers?”
“Um,” Merlin said. Before he could become any more eloquent, the door behind him opened.
“What about me?” Lancelot’s soft footsteps stopped right next to Merlin. “Am I witness enough?” His tone was tinted with laughter, and when Merlin looked at him, he saw he was wearing one of Merlin’s tunics. Goddess save him.
Arthur’s eyebrows were at his hairline, but he didn’t seem surprised at all. Merlin would appreciate he at least pretended to be as shocked as Merlin was.
“You’re trying to tell me you were with him here last night?” Agravaine scowled.
Lancelot pressed closer to Merlin and wrapped an arm around him. He pulled Merlin flush to his side and gave his waist a quick squeeze. Merlin struggled to breathe.
“All night,” Lancelot said, putting an emphasis on all. Agravaine caught on and turned a hilarious shade of red.
“I don’t believe you.” He pointed a finger at Lancelot. “The both of you stole from me, then—”
“Uncle, enough,” Arthur said. He pushed off the table and tossed his half-chewed apple there. “Merlin has my trust in these matters, and Lancelot is the most honourable of my knights. Your sources must be mistaken.” Arthur glanced at the guards behind Agravaine, who suddenly looked very interested in the wall decorations.
“But, my Lord—”
Arthur raised a hand, silencing him. “I will have my best men looking for the culprit, day and night if necessary.”
And that was it. Agravaine sent Merlin a last glare, to which Merlin answered with a shallow bow. Arthur left last. With a hand on the door’s pommel, he looked back at them and said:
“Don’t let this between you make you slack on your duties.”
Merlin said, “Don’t worry” at the same time Lancelot said, “Of course not, my Lord.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Merlin. You’re already terrible at your job.”
“Hey!” Merlin shouted, but he was already gone. He felt more than heard Lancelot’s chuckle, and that was when he realised they were alone, and Lancelot still had them pressed against each other.
Merlin didn’t move away, but didn’t dare to pull him even closer, either. And wasn’t that the essence of how he had been dealing with his feelings for Lancelot for months now? Their one kiss outside the vaults notwithstanding. They hadn’t talked about it, after all. Hadn’t even mentioned it. Maybe for Lancelot, it had just been like what he had done now, a fun little lie to throw others off their scent.
With a last squeeze to his waist, Lancelot let him go. Merlin felt the loss immediately.
“Did you see his face?” Lancelot laughed. Merlin forced himself to smile. He went to Merlin’s room, and as he stepped up the stairs, he looked back at him. “Are you going back to sleep?”
Merlin considered it for a moment. He should be getting ready to leave to tidy Arthur’s rooms, get his clothes for the laundress, fetch his lunch… But Arthur did just say he was terrible at his job. So he might as well.
They lay back in bed. He rested his head on Lancelot’s shoulder and threw an arm over his stomach. Lancelot pressed his face to Merlin’s hair. He could feel his heart in his throat.
Lying in bed, Lancelot’s breathing soothing him, his scent surrounding him… he could get used to this. He really, really wanted to get used to this.
Maybe for Lancelot, it was only a fun little lie to throw them off their scent. But right now, Lancelot pressed closer to him, and breathed deeply into his hair, and his fingers traced patterns on his skin. And maybe— maybe not. Maybe he was not so wrong for thinking it was something more for Lancelot, too.
Merlin needed to steal something from the vaults. Again.
It wasn’t as bad as it sounded, really. It was only a book. A very powerful and very magical in nature book, but still a book nonetheless. It wasn’t like he was stealing ingots of gold or anything, so really, the King should be thanking him for ridding his beautiful vault of such a not-vault-worthy thing.
That’s how he justified it to Lancelot when he asked for his help to get in. Not that Lancelot needed any justification— he heard the words ‘steal’ and ‘magic’ and didn’t even hesitate to agree. Like a dog wagging its tail upon hearing the word ‘walk.’
Merlin needed to stop thinking such things about Lancelot.
Back to the thievery: Merlin had even planned this one out. See, a part of a knight’s duties was standing guard at the most critical locations inside the castle, such as the royal chambers, armoury, or the vault. The day it was Lancelot’s turn to take the post, Merlin handed him an enchanted waterskin. Whoever drank from it would develop a cold immediately. A mild one. Hopefully. He was pretty certain it would be mild.
That night, he stood by the stairs leading down to the vaults, waiting silently. When he heard steps climbing up, he started walking away as if he were passing through. Even though it was too late for servants to be wandering these parts of the castle.
“Oh, Merlin, thank God.” Merlin turned at the voice, feigning surprise. Sir Galahad looked sweaty and feverish, his eyes glazed, and Merlin became a little less certain it would be a mild cold. “Please inform Prince Arthur I must leave my post, I need to go to see the physician. I fear whatever curse is afflicting me is contagious.”
Merlin grimaced at the word ‘curse.’ He hoped Sir Galahad wouldn’t remember it come morning. He also hoped Gaius didn’t suspect he had a hand in this. He hoped for many things.
Merlin told him he’d do it immediately and wished him a swift recovery. As soon as Galahad turned to leave, Merlin went in the opposite direction of the royal chambers.
Lancelot was waiting for him downstairs. He greeted Merlin with a smile that almost made him trip and fall down the last steps. They didn’t say a word. With a murmured spell, Merlin unlocked the heavy doors and slipped in.
It felt like he spent hours in there. Not only was it a big room, it had endless shelves and crates filled with trinkets over trinkets over even more trinkets. Many of them were humming with magic, begging Merlin to take them with him.
He only took what he had come for, though. When he finally found it. An old tome bound in leather. A gilded dragon on the front looked at him with eyes made of emeralds.
Just then, Lancelot half-stepped into the vault, standing in the space left by the ajar door. With a panicked expression and hurried hand motions, he mouthed at Merlin, ‘hurry up.’
Merlin got out as silently and quickly as he could. There was no one else there, but he could hear footsteps slowly descending the stairs. A guard or a knight, by the clinking of armour.
He closed the door and, with another spell, locked it. It made a sound. Just an itty, tiny bit, way too loud sound. The footsteps above stopped, and Merlin heard a sword slowly being drawn. Great.
He looked at Lancelot with wide eyes. He was a hair’s breadth away from him, so close Merlin was touching Lancelot’s armour with the back of his hands, which held the book to his chest. Lancelot hadn’t backed away when Merlin exited the vault.
Lancelot mouthed something, but Merlin couldn’t decipher it. He was distracted by the movement of Lancelot’s lips so close to him.
And that’s when the terrible idea popped into his mind.
‘Kiss me,’ he mouthed. Lancelot stared at his lips, a confused frown on his face. Not good at reading lips either. Merlin heard the knight’s heavy footsteps quicken their approach. He grabbed Lancelot’s neck and almost— almost cut the distance between them completely. A single twitch and their lips would be touching.
Lancelot was too close for him to be able to read his expression. He could only tell his eyes widened and his lips parted. Merlin had stopped breathing, and Lancelot too, because he didn’t feel his breath on his face.
They didn’t need to kiss, not really. There were already rumours about them, spread through the castle like wildfire. Started by them, more or less on purpose— though truthfully less. It was convenient for when they were found in odd places at odd times, or in… curious situations. Arthur would ask, ‘Where were you last night?’ and Merlin would answer, ‘With Lancelot,’ and they’d leave it at that. They didn’t confirm anything, they didn’t deny anything.
It wasn’t real, though. As much as he wished it was, it was only a cover. An excuse better than the tavern, a lie he wanted to become truth.
Lancelot’s lips brushing his, though… that felt real. It felt all much too real, when the feather-light touch became more of a pressure. And then Lancelot’s lips were unquestionably on his. Slightly parted, wet with saliva, breath hot on his face. It was so real and so much better than what Merlin had imagined.
Lancelot pressed closer, making Merlin’s back hit the doors. His whole body was against Merlin’s now; his legs, his mailed chest, and his hands scorching hot where they grabbed Merlin’s hips. Lancelot tilted his head, deepening the kiss, pressing to Merlin even more. As if he wanted to fuse their bodies together. Merlin was unable to do anything but hold onto him with his free hand and kiss back with the hunger of a man who had never known sustenance.
He wasn’t even able to hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. Until the whirring of a sword being sheathed startled them both enough to jump from each other, hitting their noses in the process.
Leaning against the wall in front of them was a very smug-looking Gwaine.
Merlin didn’t know how to feel about that. Because on one hand, even if they straight up told Gwaine he had just stolen from the vaults, he would not rat them out, so they were safe. On the other hand, he had just interrupted his first —and probably only— kiss with Lancelot. So he kind of wanted to throw the stupid book at his face.
“Gwaine.” Lancelot cleared his throat, stepping back from Merlin, but not completely facing away from him.
“No, no. Don’t stop on my behalf.” He smirked, placing his arms behind his head and making himself comfortable.
“I should go,” Merlin murmured. He clutched the book to his chest and slowly stepped around Lancelot. Reluctant to get out of there, but unable to look at him in the eye.
He wanted Lancelot to stop him. To ask him to stay. To kiss him again. Merlin kept walking, no fingers around his wrist or a wait stopping him.
Sometimes, Merlin got the feeling Lancelot, too, liked him like that. Wanted him like that. He had kissed him just now, hadn't he? He thought sometimes Lancelot’s eyes lingered a bit too long on him, or touched him when there was no need, or sought his company out over that of others. But it may just be that they were close friends and people are, you know, friendlier with their close friends.
Goddess, he should never have kissed him. It was going to drive him insane.
“I’ll, um, see you later,” Lancelot called after him.
Merlin nodded and hurried without looking back. He also ignored Gwaine’s cheerful goodbye, and later felt kind of bad about it. It wasn’t his fault Merlin was physically unable to think before doing things. To be fair, it was extremely hard to think when Lancelot was as close as he had been right then and there.
As he rushed up the stairs, he heard Gwaine say: “I heard a noise down here, like a door closing. I was worried.”
Lancelot answered: “You should have worried somewhere else.”
Gwaine laughed at that, but Merlin— it made his heart beat a little bit faster. It may have been his wishful imagination, but Lancelot had sounded as upset as Merlin felt.
For @mercelotweek day 3: “whether you like it or not, i’m not giving up on you” + pre-season 4 AU
AO3. 3/6
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They were always on some damned mission or quest someplace.
This time, it was that damned Labyrinth Merlin had thought he’d never have to be in again. It wasn’t even because of something Arthur did, for a change. They had all gotten dragged to these lands in search of an amulet that was lost at sea, but King Uther, in his demented wisdom, demanded to be brought to him.
As he walked, he half-heartedly kicked a rock. And as he watched it roll away over some dandelions, he felt the urge to grab it and smash someone’s head with it. He forced himself to breathe and count down from ten. He didn’t actually want to hit anyone with a rock, at least not right now— that was the Labyrinth talking.
It was cursed, or enchanted, or something. Maybe it had always been like this, but Merlin hadn’t noticed the first time he’d been here. At first, the knights had just been antsy. Twitchy. But gradually, they had started looking ready to bolt.
Merlin almost clashed with Elyan in front of him because of how abruptly he stopped. Lancelot, beside him at the end of the group, stood close and glanced around. Not even in missions that were meant to be life or death, he had seen Lancelot so… disoriented. Like he didn’t know where up was and where down was. Merlin’s hand itched to hold his.
“We should split up,” Arthur told them. He stood before two identical-looking paths that forked from theirs.
“Are you actually stupid?” Merlin heard himself say.
This was the thing about the labyrinth: it wasn’t affecting Merlin the same as the rest. Because of course it wasn’t. Everything irritated him, he snapped at the smallest things, and he had the ever-present urge to… to hurt. He hated it.
Everyone turned to look at him with wide eyes.
“This is exactly what the Labyrinth wants. It wants to separate us—”
He couldn’t even fucking finish speaking before Arthur bolted for one of the paths. Unbelievable.
“Arthur— wait—” he tried, but it was to no use. Leon followed after Arthur. Gwaine, Elyan and Percival went for the other path.
Lancelot tried to follow, but Merlin grabbed his wrist before he could get too far. He was cold, under the weak autumn sun.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Merlin said. He immediately regretted it when Lancelot started trembling under his touch.
Lancelot tried to shake his hand off, but Merlin clung to it. It wasn’t the Labyrinth’s curse this time. It was something deeper, something he was well familiar with by that point. He just needed Lancelot close to him.
“I’m sorry— hey, Lancelot, wait.” He put his other hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. Which failed spectacularly at calming him down.
Lancelot tried to escape, stepping back as Merlin stepped forward until his back touched a leafy wall. He had been looking directly at Merlin, eyes wide with terror. The moment his back hit the shrub, he started looking around, desperately searching for… something. The exit, probably.
“I’ll never get out,” Lancelot panted. “I— you should leave me here. Save yourself, Merlin.”
Lancelot sank to his knees. Merlin went down with him; the relief of hearing his name escape Lancelot’s lips made him unable to hold them up. For a moment there, he had been certain Lancelot wouldn't recognise him, lost in the maze’s magic.
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“You must.” Lancelot started struggling again. “I can’t go on, I can’t. But you must escape—” He tried to stand back up, and Merlin couldn’t think of a better way to stop him than straddling his lap.
It made them get close enough that their breathing mixed. Definitely not one of Merlin’s brightest ideas. His heart beat so hard he could feel it in his throat. At least it had made Lancelot still, too.
“Whether you like it or not, I’m not giving up on you,” he whispered. Close as they were, he didn’t need more to be heard. “I will burn down this Goddess-forsaken place, leaf by ugly leaf if I must, but I’m not leaving you here.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice came from behind Merlin.
Merlin startled. Pretty badly, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. He looked behind him, and a familiar, old face and white cloak greeted him. It took Merlin a moment to process.
“You. You did this,” he said to Anhora. He wasn’t sure if his anger was his own now.
“Indeed,” the old man smiled gently. How dare. “It was a test.”
“But Arthur hasn’t killed any unicorns.”
“Not for him, of course. For you.”
“What?” A part of Merlin was expecting Anhora to say it was all a joke. A terrible joke. The other part of him was expecting him to mysteriously disappear. “Why? We have been losing our minds for hours now. What did I do?”
Anhora smiled gently again. And then, as if he had never been there at all, he disappeared. Obviously. He hated it when they did that.
He felt muscles tense underneath him and oh, yes, he was very much still on top of Lancelot.
He looked back at him. He seemed calmer, his eyes clear. Merlin placed a hand on his cheek, because apparently his sanity still hadn’t returned.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I…” he placed his hand on top of Merlin’s. Merlin forgot how to breathe. “It is as if a fog has been lifted from my mind.”
Merlin sighed, his whole body relaxing with it. Whatever Anhora had decided to curse them with, it was over.
“Are you okay?” Lancelot asked, his hand squeezing Merlin’s.
Right then and there, with Lancelot warm and solid and there beneath him, he was more than okay. He wasn’t going to tell him any of that, though. And anyway, he didn’t get to tell him anything at all, because just then they heard footsteps rounding the corner of one of the paths, and Elyan appeared from beyond the shrubbery.
He just looked at them as Merlin hurried to stand up from Lancelot’s lap. And as Lancelot struggled to stand, too, between the armour and weapons and the plant wall being a terrible support.
“There’s a time and place, guys,” Elyan said. Merlin gaped at him. “Come on, we think we found the exit. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
And then he just left. Merlin and Lancelot shared a single, awkward glance (at least it was awkward for Merlin), and followed him.
Merlin had never been happier to see his friends acting their loud, bull-headed, and even arrogant selves. As they left the Labyrinth, Arthur lamented that they couldn’t find the amulet his father had sent him in search of. Merlin was honestly happy to leave it lost at sea.
The moment they crossed the Labyrinth’s threshold, he felt a sudden weight in the pocket of his jacket. He put a hand in, and when he pulled it out, a round, gold coin the size of his palm stared right back at him.
“Is that it?” Lancelot whispered next to him.
The coin was engraved with runes he did not recognise around its face. Merlin flipped it. The figure on the other face marked it unmistakably: The amulet of the Dragon.
