Modern AU | hurt comfort | romcom with hereditary trauma
– Turn round, please. Right, now the other side.
– I think everything’s fine, Arthur. Why are you staring at me like that?
– The tie.
– What about it? The colour works.
– For God’s sake, Merlin, can’t you see? It’s tied crooked, the knot’s too bulky, and the ends are uneven. Here, let me do it.
– I think you’re getting yourself too worked up over some family dinner.
– It is not some dinner. I’m introducing you to my family. I want you to look immaculate, and I want everyone to see how stunning you are.
– Well, they’re not blind. I’ll smile mysteriously and flutter my eyelashes at everyone. No one will even notice what sort of knot I’ve got.
– You always have to turn everything into a joke. This isn’t a nice Sunday lunch at your mum’s. This is an official Pendragon reception. There’ll be a whole crowd of important people there, half of whom I barely know myself: my father’s business partners, family friends, Morgana’s old university crowd, distant relatives — in short, a room full of gossips who, every time they hear your name afterwards, will remember you as the scruffy man with the badly tied tie. And where are your cufflinks?
– In my breast pocket.
– What are they doing there?
– Waiting for you to help me put them on. (smiles)
– Merlin!
– Arthur! I think you’re making far too much fuss over nothing.
– And you’re taking this far too lightly!
– I’m not. I’m trying with all my might not to panic. I’m the one who should be nervous about spending the evening in a crowd of strangers. Wait, are you losing your mind because you’re embarrassed by me?
– No. I’m sorry if I made you think that. It’s not you. You’re wonderful.
– Then what is it?
– Nothing. I just want you to fit in.
– Arthur. (sighs) We both know I’m not likely to fit in. Ever. I only agreed because it matters to you, and because I’m curious. It’s like stepping into a TV series. Or a game.
– Damn it, could you be serious for once? This isn’t a bloody game.
– Oh. Are you that tense? (puts his arms round his shoulders) What’s really going on?
– Nothing.
– Arthur? (looks into his eyes)
– It’s me. All right? (pulls away) I’m the black sheep of the family.
– What rubbish is that?
– No. That’s what they all think. Do you understand? All of them.
– Why would they?
– Because not only did I fail to carry on the family business and marry some heiress from an old family with a dowry and connections, I went to work for... the other side, and I very obviously make no secret of my preferences. On top of that, I choose friends and partners who are completely unsuitable from my father’s point of view. I am the greatest disappointment of his life.
– Arthur…
– In his eyes, I’m a failed project. An asset he invested a hell of a lot in, only for it to turn out loss-making.
– Arthur.
– The prodigal son my father tolerates to preserve the image of a family man.
– Arthur! Stop it! Stop tearing yourself to shreds. You don’t actually think that about yourself, do you?
– ...No, but... everyone there does. Everyone, from my father down to some random guest invited at the last minute as a replacement.
– Well, sod them. Who cares what they think? Would you rather be living the life they planned out for you instead of the one you have? Do you regret your choices?
– No. I’d rather work as a pro bono lawyer for some NGO than defend those tycoons from justice, cover up their shady dealings, and tell them how to get away with it.
– Exactly. You’re a man of honour. You’re the man who drags villains into the light and pins them down. You’re not some conformist corporate rat. You’re a noble hero.
– Yes. Of course I am.
– I’m serious. To me, you’re like a knight.
– Stop mocking me.
– I’m not. Who saved my deposit from the claws of a greedy landlord? Who helped me avoid a burst appendix? And rescued my favourite cap from the merciless talons of a flock of pigeons? Who found the perfect Christmas present for my grumpy old uncle, so that, for the first time in history, he shut up and didn’t ruin everyone’s holiday with his complaining? Who gets up at an ungodly hour every morning to run his ten kilometres? Even in rain and snow! That’s worthy of a heroic ballad.
– Yes, an enviable list…
– Shove the sarcasm. That’s what it is to me! Not to mention my mum, who clearly thinks you’re the better version of a son!
– I know that in your eyes I probably look pathetic…
– Did you hear a single thing I just said? You are not pathetic! You’re strong, and you’re worthy of respect and love.
– I know I should have grown up ages ago and stopped looking for my father’s approval. But I don’t... I don’t always manage it.
– God, Arthur. Relationships with parents are hardly smooth sailing for anyone. Besides, I think you’re making it all sound much worse than it is, and it won’t be that dreadful. But if it does become unbearable, just say the word and we’ll leave straight away.
– We can’t. It’s a public event. There’s protocol. If you intend to leave early, you have to give notice in advance.
– Now that is proper bollocks, in my opinion. We’ve got the perfect excuse. I’m an outsider in this whole set-up. I can look all innocent and say I didn’t know the rules.
– And make me look like an irresponsible idiot who couldn’t even be bothered to warn you.
– Fine, I’ll think of something anyway. Do you know why you take a mage into your party in video games?
– Merlin…
– No, seriously, answer me. What do you think they’re for?
– (rubs the bridge of his nose) To fight other mages? Lift curses?
– Yes, but none of that matters. A mage’s job is to cover the party’s retreat. And I am a first-rate mage and a man of my word. If I’ve promised to get you out, then I will. I’ll come up with something: set off the fire alarm, get some poor sod drunk, pretend I’m having an appendicitis attack…
– You don’t have an appendix any more. (smirks)
– They don’t know that! Anyway, I think you need to reframe it and look at this event not as a boring society evening, but as a quest: you are my knight, I am your mage. Mission objective: survive and return unharmed.
– And not scandalise me any more than I already am.
– Well... we’ll see how it goes. But if we do have to make a run for it, I’m fairly sure “badly tied tie” won’t be the headline.
– Do you mean recursion? Or that stupid loop “fix” Josh put in after the last DDoS?
– I mean a ring made of metal, in a little velvet box.
– OMG, Merlin, are you–
– GWEN! I found it in Arthur’s sock in the wardrobe. Arthur doesn’t know I found it!
– Ohhh… why were you going through his socks?
– Because I was cold.
– Haven’t you got socks of your own?
– I have, but mine are just warm, and Arthur’s are warm and fluffy. Anyway, yes, I sometimes wear my boyfriend’s things at home. When he can’t see me, because it annoys him. But I like it. It makes me feel… bound to him when I miss him. Anyway, Gwen, I found the ring, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.
– Put it back and pretend you never saw it.
– Excellent advice. How?
– God, Merls…
– Gwen, I can’t pretend I didn’t see it, I can’t stop thinking about what it means.
– It doesn’t take a genius. He’s going to propose to you.
– What if he isn’t? Isn’t it too soon? Have we been together long enough to be bound in holy matrimony?
– Well, it clearly isn’t too soon for him, since he bought a ring. Which means he’s preparing to take that step.
– Yes, but he hasn’t taken it. What if it isn’t for me at all?
– Of course. He’s going to run away and secretly marry his mistress, which is why he’s been keeping the ring among his socks at home…
– What if it isn’t an engagement ring at all? What if it’s a present… for his sister, for instance?
– Have you got a photo?
– Sec… sent.
– Got it… No. That is definitely not for women. It’s beautiful, but too wide and sort of… plain. And the stone isn’t in the middle.
– There are lots of stones.
– I mean, if someone gave me that, I’d accept it, obviously, but I’d only wear it out of respect.
– Stop criticising it, it’s very beautiful. Have you noticed these tiny dark stones making a sort of background, and the larger sparkly ones like little stars?
– Oh, I thought the dark strip was the metal.
– No. Oh, they go all the way round the band.
– Then that is a hell of a lot of stones.
– That’s why I think it’s too fancy for an engagement ring. And the size is sort of… too small.
– Did you take it out of the box?
– Yes.
– Merlin, you’re crossing a line now. Put it back in, shut the box, and tuck it back exactly where you found it.
– These pale stones…
– Diamonds.
– Probably. But they’re arranged so carefully, as if it isn’t random. As if it really is bound up with the stars somehow…
– Stop it, put it back.
– It’s some constellation. Maybe it isn’t Arthur’s ring at all. Maybe one of his friends asked him to hold on to it, or even… Oh. Shit. No! No, no, no. GWEN!
– Merlin, don’t tell me you’ve put it on and now you can’t get it off.
– Yes. It won’t come off.
– Stop panicking, take a deep breath, relax your fingers.
– They’re not relaxing. They’ve gone stiff as sticks!
– Try soap.
– (sound of running water)… No. Gwen, the stupid soap isn’t helping!
– Congratulations.
– On what? On the fact that I’ll be single by tonight if I don’t get this bloody ring off? Arthur will be home in twenty minutes. He’ll kill me.
– On the fact that in half an hour you’ll either be engaged, or you’ll be seeing your best friend. Gwaine’s on shift today, isn’t he?
– Can I come down to you and hide, and then we can go to Gwaine together? We’ll pretend you felt ill and I’m helping?
– No, Merls, I’m in the office today. I’ll be here for another couple of hours. So you’ll have to face the fate you’re bound for.
– Gwen!
– I have to run, love. Message me later and tell me how it all ended.
***
Half an hour later, a WhatsApp message arrived.
– I’m engaged! I have a Draco constellation ring and new warm socks. Very fluffy.
Elena had been right: such a sweet little hole-in-the-wall place. The coffee is good, though the interior is, admittedly, nothing to write home about.
– …the stripes would drive me mad. But in the end it turned out not half bad. Quite stylish, actually.
– See? And there were so many objections. Clearly, we know which of us understands design better.
– I wasn’t objecting to the stripes. I was objecting to you turning my renovation into your experimental playground and content for your blog.
– Arthur, I don’t have a blog any more. Haven’t for six months.
– Oh, yes, right, I forgot. Everything changes too quickly in your life. I can’t keep up.
– When are you going to invite me over to admire the result?
– I… Er… Now isn’t the best time. I’m buried at work. I’m really not in the mood for guests. (Stands up) I want another coffee. Shall I get you the same?
Hm. Running from the subject. What are you hiding there, Arthur? Or perhaps who?
– Yes. Please.
– (Comes sharply back, grabs the smartphone left on the table) Same again, or something new?
– I’ll have the same. Caramel latte.
– Right. Yes. Coffee. Excellent. I’ll order now.
What the…? What has happened to my endlessly composed, detail-obsessed younger brother?
– (Brings the coffee, sets the cups on the table) Here.
– Thank you.
– How are things with you? How’s your… art project? Did you manage to find a gallerist?
– Arthur, you were at that exhibition. A week ago.
– Was I? I thought you’d mentioned something new.
– Yes. A creative retreat.
– Have you decided where you’re going?
– Yes. I told you about it a week ago.
– I… I’ve got a lot on at work. I’m thinking about my case all the time.
Of course you do! Good Lord, what is this? He got me a cappuccino, the lovesick idiot.
– Who is it?
– Are you interested? A fraudster. It’s a financial scam. There’s a paper trail a mile long, but I think I’ve already...
– Damn it, I don’t care about your fraudster. God, Arthur. I’m asking who you’re seeing.
– What makes you...
(Arthur’s smartphone receives a message. He is instantly distracted, reads it, smiles, types a reply, reads the next message, smiles, blushes a little, types another reply.)
– Ahem. Am I interrupting?
– No, of course not. (Catches himself, sets the phone aside, face down) Sorry… That was… work.
– Right. (Stares him down) On Sunday lunchtime.
– So, what? I had to answer. You said yourself you weren’t interested in hearing about the scam.
– Who is he?
– What?
– Seriously, Arthur? Are you going to keep digging yourself into this hole, or are you going to come clean at last?
– I don’t know what you’re talking about.
– Yes, you do. I haven’t seen you for almost two months. You’ve mysteriously gone to ground. (folds down a finger)
– I was busy with the renovation.
– And when I finally persuaded you to come to the exhibition, after threatening to turn up at yours and personally drag you out of your bolt-hole, you spent the whole time with your head in the clouds, staring blankly at sculptures made of plastic bottle caps and answering questions from somewhere very far away. (folds down another finger)
– I’ve already told you that...
– Suppose I could still believe you were terribly busy with your new case and indifferent to contemporary art. Then, perhaps. But now. You can barely keep up a conversation. (A third finger goes down)
– What are you imp...
– You can’t tear yourself away from your phone, like a teenager. (Another finger) And to top it all off: you blushed.
– I did not.
– So who are you seeing?
– (Sighs) Fine. Yes. There is someone. But it’s nothing serious yet. Really.
Oh, honey, you’re besotted.
– What’s his name?
– That’s not important right now. We’ve only just started. I’m not even sure anything will come of it.
– What’s wrong with his name, Arthur?
– Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s a name. It suits him.
– Arthur. You’re digging again.
– Fine. His name is Merlin.
Good Lord.
– Are you joking?
– No.
That is priceless. Arthur and Merlin. God, Elena will howl. Everyone will howl. I cannot wait to see Father’s face.
– Sorry, but that is very funny.
– Yes, absolutely hilarious. I’m not telling you anything else.
– Oh, stop it, it’s actually rather sweet. Arthur and Merlin — it sounds very… promising.
Arthur knew he was doing something wrong. He knew it was improper to look at anyone for so long and so intently. Especially at an official reception. Especially while sitting beside the king. Arthur was perfectly aware that he ought to be more cautious.
Even if that someone was his own manservant. Even if he had known him for years, shared bread and salt with him, and lived through a hundred scrapes at his side.
But whenever Arthur noticed Merlin staring quite openly at his prince’s lips…
Not even with curiosity, but with longing. With hunger.
In moments like that, Arthur himself wanted to forget everything in the world, throw all caution aside, and claim those soft, inviting lips with shameless greed.
hi, sorry this is really random, but i love your username, may i ask what the inspiration for it was? :)
Funny you ask! Actually, it's a line from a Julie Zenatti song — Une grande rousse aux yeux verts — which I loved when I was young. (Yes, I noticed the typo only after the account was already created and I became active. Too late to fix it!)
Shock? No. He had known already. Had always suspected, but had preferred to turn a blind eye.
Hatred? Of course not. Where would it have come from? They had lived through too much together. Suffered too much.
Then what was it that he felt?
Sorrow? Grief?
Despair.
He was the king. Camelot’s sovereign ruler.
He was a man with his back to the wall, trapped by his father’s short-sightedness and cruelty.
How? How was he supposed to find a way through this without being branded an ungrateful heir, a clumsy youth with no respect for the laws of his own land? Without making himself look a coward? Arthur did not know.
But he knew with absolute certainty that he would sooner cut down any man where he stood for calling for Merlin’s execution than condemn Merlin to death himself.
That course was impossible. Simply unimaginable.
But what was he to do? He could not merely pretend nothing had happened. The witnesses — this time there had been too many…
Which was worse: to betray the one he loved, or those he had sworn to serve? The one to whom he owed his life, or those who had entrusted him with theirs? Damn it.
– What is your sentence, my king? – Geoffrey’s solemn, faintly obsequious voice drew him from his thoughts, forcing him back into reality. Back into the throne room, held still and anxious in expectation of the king’s word. Back to the bloodthirsty crowd of knights and courtiers surrounding him. People brimming with anticipation of swift punishment, trembling with hatred and revulsion, accustomed to turning both against anyone even suspected of possessing a magical gift.
Arthur drew a breath, but found the strength to meet the unflinching gaze of those familiar, ice-blue eyes — eyes which, as all Camelot now knew, could blaze with a gold fire that set souls astir.
Merlin stood straight and steady, his arms folded across his chest. Broad shoulders proudly squared, black hair carelessly swept back from his face. Too familiar, too powerful, too frightening for anyone to dare try to force him to his knees.
Modern AU | first date | fluff with a bite | romcom energy
— The Big and Little Dipper—see them?
— I think anyone can find the Great and Little Bear in the night sky, Merlin.
— Probably. Now look a bit to the left. See that bright star there—the brightest in that little W of stars? See it?
— Yeah. (He isn’t looking at the sky. He’s looking at Merlin.)
— That’s Cassiopeia. And if you go right, along the handle of the Big Dipper, there’s another bright star—Arcturus. That’s Bootes.
— You’re quite the expert on constellations, aren’t you. Into astronomy?
— Not really. I was ill a lot as a kid, and Mum didn’t want me parked in front of the telly all day, so she got me a telescope and a star atlas. And between the Dippers there’s this long chain of stars—see how it sort of winds around the Little Bear? That’s Draco.
— You talk about it like you love it. Your eyes practically glow—like starlight.
— (alarmed) Oh—bloody hell. I got carried away. I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?
— Not at all.
— (flustered) I just… When I like someone, I get nervous. And when I’m nervous, I start talking. Usually about something I know loads about, and which is generally interesting only to me. Sorry.
— You like me, then. Should I be expecting a second date?
— Well… if the stars align.
— …? (staring questioningly)
— I mean—what if you go home, realise you’ve gone out with a total nerd, and decide you never want to see me again?
— I realised you were a nerd when you flooded my place and, instead of helping mop up, your first move was diving under the bed to rescue a box set of every season of Doctor Who on DVD.
— …Did I? I don’t remember that. I was in a blind panic.
— Sure. And the Deadpool poster in your living room was a bit of a clue as well.
— So it doesn’t put you off?
— No. Nor does your nervous chatter. It’s actually quite cute. I like you. What about our second date?
— Are you always this pushy?
— Yes. I don’t like uncertainty. You like me too. What’s stopping you?
— I don’t know. Your overwhelming self-confidence, maybe?
— Or your evident lack of it.
— Ouch. That was fast—straight from compliments to criticism. Maybe I should think more carefully before I agree. What would my friends say if I went on another date with a bloke who’s got such arrogant tendencies?
— I think you should spend less time worrying about what people might say and accept that our second date is already written in the stars.
— Oh really? And why’s that?
— Because we’ve been chatting regularly for nearly three weeks, and if you wanted to stop—if you didn’t want this—you’d have done it ages ago.
— Maybe I’m still undecided. What if I’m not sure what I want?
— Well, the way you’ve been staring at my lips for the last five minutes suggests you know exactly what you want right now. (stopping short right in front of Merlin)
— Does it? (slightly leaning forward)
— And for the record—I want the same. There’s just one problem…
— Like what?
— I’ve got a strict rule: no kissing on the first date.
— Oh, come on. That’s absolute rubbish.
— No. I mean it. Even if you’re desperate, you’ll have to wait a week and meet me again—same time, same place—next Friday.
— You’re an unbearably cocky arse.
— Maybe. Just a little… But you like it.
Modern AU | fluff and banter | Gwen’s intervention | romcom logic
— This is a terrible idea, Gwen.
— It’s a brilliant idea, Merls. I’m tired of your dramatic sighing and your “I can’t stop thinking about him” whining. A party is the easiest, most natural way to make a move on a bloke you fancy.
— It’s not. I can barely speak to him in normal circumstances, when it’s just the two of us and no one else around. And you want to throw us into a crowd. Yes, of course, surrounded by half-tipsy, dancing strangers, we’ll really get to know each other.
— You don’t need to get to know him. You already know him. Unlike most people there. Walk up, switch the charm on full blast, flutter those lashes, or do that mysterious club thing you like. That little party trick of yours always works. Don’t look at me like that—I know you.
— It works on strangers. Not on someone who’s seen you in a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt, avocado shorts, and slippers with a hole in the big toe—when you’ve seen him in flip-flops and red pyjama bottoms with yellow little dragons on them, and the two of you spent half the night scooping icy water off the floor with whatever you could grab, swearing like sailors and yelling at each other. There’s not much mystery left after that, you know.
— All the better. You’ve already made an impression. You’ve got history—talk about that.
— Should I apologise again for flooding his flat and forcing him to have it redone? Or shall we discuss that terrifying letter he wrote to my landlord?
— Terrifying?
— Yes. Horrifying. Very long. Packed with references to our contract, local regulations, national law—the lot. Honestly, I’m just glad I wasn’t the one it was addressed to. Only the one it was about.
— Is he a lawyer?
— Worse. A prosecutor.
— Oh! Did you ask him to draft it?
— Of course not. I rang Mr Johnson the moment we’d mopped everything up. He yelled at me, said it was all my fault, and that I owed him money on top of it. Arthur heard him, asked to see my tenancy agreement, took a photo of it, and then sent me that text.
— And? Did it work?
— Mr Johnson informed me he’d pay for the repairs out of my deposit and cover whatever went over that—as long as I didn’t take him to court and didn’t involve “the affected party”… and my lawyer. (laughs) He literally rang an hour ago.
— Hot, and with a proper job. Lovely. You’ll thank him for helping. Honestly, love—what are you even worried about? That man’s already smitten with you.
— No. I’m not in his league.
— If one smug, flighty idiot dumped you, that is not a reason to sell yourself short. Stop having a pity party. I don’t want to hear that rubbish again. You’re gorgeous, and you can pull any man from any league if you decide you want to.
— I’d have to actually talk to him. So far I’ve managed either silent staring or shouting. He probably thinks I’m an absolute idiot. What am I supposed to do if he turns up in front of me shirtless again? My palms will sweat, my tongue will stop working, and I’ll just stand there like a muppet.
— I’m the host. I can set a dress code.
— That’s cheating. I wanted to go in a hoodie and jeans.
— No hoodies. You’re wearing your nice blue shirt to my party, and your tightest jeans.
— Since when did you become such a fashion dictator?
— Since we finally found a decent candidate for “boyfriend of my best mate with a broken heart”. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on you—and if it comes to it, I’ll take drastic measures.
— Such as?
— Doesn’t matter. One way or another, I’ll get you talking. Don’t make me resort to extreme solutions.
Modern AU | domestic chaos | morning after stag night | banter
— Hi, Arthur.
— Morning. Awake?
— I think so.
— How are you?
— My head’s splitting. Properly awful. And my throat’s like sandpaper.
— There’s a glass of water and an aspirin on the bedside table behind you.
— (drinks) Thanks. I… think I overdid it last night.
— Is that what you’re calling it?
— Yeah. Didn’t you notice?
— Hard to miss. You came home absolutely plastered.
— Came home? Oh—right. The stag night. How did it go?
— Judging by what you told me, you had a brilliant time.
— Wait—did I actually tell you anything?
— When you turned up at three in the morning? Or when you migrated from the sofa to our bed just before dawn?
— I slept on the sofa?
— You passed out on the bathmat twice, actually, but I carried you back to the sofa. And then I woke up to you trying to pull my trousers off—already in our bed.
— No!
— Yes.
— You’re joking. You have to be.
— …
— No, you’re just trying to shame me. Fine, I’ve been warned that if I have one drink too many, the flirt in me wakes up—chatty, bold, and far too confident. But I refuse to believe I could’ve tried it on with you and not remember any of it. That’s— That’s too much. We didn’t…?
— No. And anyway, that wasn’t what you were after. You had a different goal.
— What? No—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
— Honestly, you can be persistent. Such devotion to the mission—half unconscious and still refusing to accept reality to the bitter end. Why didn’t you become a spy, Merlin? You’d have made a decent career of it.
— …
— Or are you an undercover agent? Living a double life as an ordinary IT nerd… It would explain a lot, actually. Boasting about your “alcohol tolerance” while you’re legless. Getting awfully familiar with strangers, going after compromising material on innocent people… Very secret-agent behaviour.
— What are you on about? Compromising material?
— Well, to my mind, naked photos of me are perfectly usable as blackmail material.
— Oh God.
— Though it’d be rather difficult to take them with a soap dish. And you nicked it without me noticing, too. But your spy instincts failed you there… Unless you’re a sleeper agent. Practising now and then so you don’t lose your edge, in case you have to “wake up” at short notice?
— Stop taking the piss! I already feel awful. And my head is killing me. Could you bring me some more water, please?
— Why don’t you ask your new boyfriend?
— Who?
— Tyler. You and he seemed to get quite friendly last night.
— …
— Fancy that. It took me two months of flirting, courting, and three dates to finally get you out of your clothes—and along comes this bloke and you give yours away after one meeting. Must be some stallion.
— (hides his face under the duvet) Did I come home completely naked?
— Not completely. There were still a few bits left on you.
— (muttering into the duvet) No. That’s it. I don’t want to know anything else.
— (smirking) About yourself, or about Tyler? Or about you and Tyler?
— (throws the duvet back, tries to get out of bed—fails the first time, and the second) …I don’t know who Tyler is, or what “relationship” I’m supposed to have with him, but I’m fairly sure that under the circumstances he’d have been a sweet, caring fiancé—not a sarcastic, jealous arse—and he’d have brought his future husband some water.
— Look down. There’s a bottle on the floor right by the bed.
(greedy gulps)
— Arthur? Did you put me in pyjamas? (he stretches out again and tucks himself under the duvet)
— You woke me up, told me you were cold and you missed me, and you didn’t want to sleep on your own tonight… Though who knows, maybe you meant Tyler. Maybe you just mistook me for him.
(an awkward attempt at a kick under the duvet)
— Arthur, it’s still dark. It must be early. (shifting closer)
— It’s noon. I just haven’t put the curtains up yet. I was waiting for you to wake up.
— (raises his brows, presses his lips together to hide a smile) Still. It was a rough night. Can we stay in bed a bit more?
— (lets out an exaggeratedly weary sigh) Fine. But first you’re brushing your teeth and taking a shower. I’m utterly fed up with the smell of booze and vomit.
— (no longer trying to hide his smile) I’ll even put on fresh pyjamas. If you help me make it to the bathroom—my legs aren’t really cooperating today.
— What, carry you again?
— No, just let me lean on you. And, you know, I’m a bit worried I might slip in the shower… I wouldn’t mind something to hold on to, either.
— Is that what you mean… or are you just still drunk?
— Yes. I mean it. And I wouldn’t say no to a bit of help washing my back. I don’t think I can reach it properly right now.
— And your hair as well? Too heavy for you today, is it?
— Obviously. And who knows what other hard-to-reach places there are on my barely-awake body…
Сanon era | UST | pining Arthur | forced proximity
The cave was warm. A fire crackled cheerfully. The faint smell of smoke, mingling with the herbal scents rising from the little pot hanging over the flames, made it feel almost cosy.
Outside, a merciless wind howled. It raked up great fistfuls of dead leaves, flung them into the air, tore them apart. The trees groaned and creaked under the onslaught of powerful gusts. Rain drummed on the stones.
It was bad enough that the weather had forced them to break their quest; now Arthur would have to spend the whole night in this confined space, alone with his manservant.
Merlin huddled in his jacket, soaked to the bone, stirred his brew with a trembling hand, and stretched his legs closer to the fire.
The prince tried not to look his way: he studied the stone vaulting above, stared at the toes of his boots, followed the dance of the flames. Yet for some unfathomable reason his gaze kept returning to Merlin—catching, sticking, falling into a trap.
Water dripped from his overgrown dark hair onto his high forehead, curved around his finely cut cheekbones, and ran lower.
A droplet paused on the sharp edge of the clean outline of smooth, pink lips, until, with impertinent ease, it slid into the heat of his mouth.
And the next one—rather than dropping down, unable to cling to his chin—brazenly, purposefully, began to creep along the slender line of his throat, leaving a glistening trail behind it, leading somewhere beneath the drenched neckerchief, under the edge of his shirt’s worn collar.
And Arthur did his very best not to imagine where that shameless little minx went from there…
⚠️Adult humor, some explicit language, no sex, no smut
Modern AU | domestic chaos | romcom vibes
— Aaaaarthur! You’re here! Good.
— Hardly a surprise. I live here. I see your stag night went well.
— It did! Right—trousers off. I’m taking a photo of your penis.
— Christ, you’re absolutely plastered. Come inside.
— I’m not drunk.
— Of course you’re not. Stop wobbling—let me unwrap your scarf. Lean on me, you can barely stand.
— I’m Irish. The Irish are resis… resis… res…— anyway. We can hold our drink.
— Right. Sober Irishman—let’s get you to the sofa. Where’s your jacket?
— I had a jacket?
— You did when you left. How did you manage to get this plastered?
— I hardly drank. Where’s the belt on these stupid trousers of yours?
— They’re joggers. Here—sit. Let’s get a cushion behind your back. Who got you this smashed—Gwaine?
— No, we were just playing those stupid games, you know… where everyone drinks if they’ve also done… the thing someone said.
— Not at the parties I go to. People drink politely and pretend they’re not doing it.
— Because they’re boring. Why didn’t you send me a photo of your dick when I asked?
— You didn’t ask. Stop yanking the drawstrings on my trousers.
— I did ask. I sent you a camera and an eggplant. Where are you going?
— Kitchen. You sent me a shamrock and a bottle. I assumed you were propping up the bar in an Irish pub.
— Well, yeah… but still, we were playing that game where you have to do something stupid or admit something about yourself… and I didn’t want to do stupid things.
— Sure. You’re clearly the picture of restraint. Here—drink this.
— (drinking) It tastes horrible. I’m Irish. I’m used to stronger stuff.
— It’s water. I’m fairly sure even the Irish drink water. Stop kicking, I’m trying to get your shoes off.
(…clothes rustle; a shoe thuds; a plastic bottle rolls across the floor)
— Why are you taking my trousers off? I’m supposed to be taking yours off. I need to photograph your penis.
— Why?
— They asked what I liked about you… I wanted to say you’re smart and hot, and you’ve got those… what d’you call them… muscles. You’ve got so many. They’re just… everywhere. Where did you even get that many from?
— (smirking) Sport. Genetics. Healthy eating. You should drink some more.
— Don’t want any more of this tasteless rubbish. I want you to take your trousers off.
— Until you’ve slept it off and come back to your senses, you can only dream about me without trousers.
— I don’t want to sleep. I need a photo. You’re supposed to tell the truth, you know—that’s the whole point of the game, you can’t lie. I couldn’t just shamelessly lie to my mates over a drink, looking them in the eye… So I told them I like your big dick. It’s so pretty… and big.
— (smirking) Don’t kick off the blanket. You’ll freeze in your sleep if you don’t stay covered properly.
— I wanted to show them how big it is. And I haven’t got a single photo! Not one! At all!
— …
— So I showed them with my hands. And Gwaine started arguing that dicks aren’t actually that big—went full bore with his science blah-blah-blah, total bore. But I know how big yours is… and pretty. So now I need… proof.
— You want to send your friends a photo of my dick?
— Yeah. I’m not some chatty gobshite...
— Stop wriggling about, you’ll get tangled in your sleeves.
— It’s honestly ridiculous if you think about it. How long have we even been together?
— Nearly a year and a half.
— Exactly—ages! We’re getting married and all. Yeah?
— That was the plan.
— And I haven’t got a single dick pic from you! Not one dick pic from my boyfriend—no—my fiancé! What the hell, Arthur?
— Want me to fetch a basin or a bucket? I’ll bring both—you’re clearly not going to make it to the bathroom on your own tonight.
— No, answer me! Why the hell, Arthur? Why have you never, in all these million years, sent me one photo of your lovely dick? Don’t you love me?
— You idiot. Of course I love you—even when you’re drunk.
— I’m not drunk. (yawns)
— Here’s another bottle of water. Don’t spill it if you reach for it in the night. I’ll put a plastic cup on the coffee table as well—just in case you need a drink. If you can’t manage the bottle cap.
— Arthur! Where are my du—dee—dick pics? I mean—where are your dick pics for me?
— For God’s sake, Merlin. I grew up with a gorgeous older sister—that’s enough to know that only desperate idiots or complete creeps send photos like that. My father’s a peer of the realm. I’m a public figure. I don’t send pictures of my dick left, right and centre!
— But I’m not left, right and… whatever. I’m your husb—well, almost husband. I’m allowed. I’ve already signed everything… the dinosaurs and tennis balls and whatever. I can sign more things. Let it be my wedding present. Please. Please. Plea— (yawns)
— We’ll talk about it in the morning, when you’ve sobered up.
— (yawning, sinking into the pillow) Then I’ll have to send the lads a photo of Tyler’s penis. His is big too, just not like yours, obviously.
— Who the hell is Tyler?
— A strip—teaser.
— Excuse me?
— Gwen’s surprise. He’s really sweet. Honestly. Also blond. Cutie. He gave me a lift home. But he was freezing—wasn’t warm out at all tonight—and he was, you know… completely naked. I gave him my jacket, and he sent me his photo in return. Want to see? (yawns)
— No!
— My feet are freezing.
— You’ve got your feet out from under the blanket. Here—let me tuck you in myself. And what the hell do you mean some naked stripper drove you home, and not your friends?
— Because everyone was drunk by then…(yawns)I sent them all home in taxis. Then I ran out of money, (yawns)… and Tyler said he’d give me a lift. I was the soberest one… (yawns) I don’t even get drunk, I’m Irish…
— … (sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose)
Canon era | point-of-no-return vibe | unresolved tension
This corridor had never seemed long to Merlin.
Not until now—until Arthur’s hand closed around his forearm and dragged him forward, until the narrow passage between the towers began to stretch, step by step, as though it refused to end.
Stone underfoot, stone on either side. The hush after their footfalls, the torchlight low and unsteady, shivering on the walls. No guards. No witnesses.
Young Pendragon walked too fast. Merlin had to scramble to keep up, catching his boots on their own toes, lurching—only for that grip to tighten and haul him upright again every time, rough and certain, allowing him neither to fall nor to stop.
Arthur’s breath came hard through his nose; his nostrils flared. Merlin’s stomach drew tight as a fist. Heat burned up his neck and into his cheeks. His heart beat too loudly, too quickly, as though it had nowhere to go.
“Not here.” Arthur’s whisper still echoed in his ears. The memory of lips—barely a graze against sensitive skin—made the secret warlock shiver.
The heavy door to the unheated guest room flew open. Arthur shoved him inside, drove him back, and pinned him to the cold wall.
Blue eyes caught the last of the summer dusk, bright and piercing. Hot breath brushed Merlin’s cheek. His throat went dry beneath that look—beneath the closeness of it, the intensity of it.
The door slammed shut behind them. The hinges cried out.
Modern AU | humour| camping AU | pure bickering chaos
— Aaaaarthur! Arthur, wake up!
— Mm.
— Arthur!
— What’s happened?
— Wake up already! And move over!
— Move where? There’s barely any room. Hell, it’s not even dawn yet!
— I can’t sleep there. Something’s moving on my sleeping bag. I woke up because something crawled on me.
— What? Where’s the flashlight? Right—got it.
— Look, it’s already gotten inside! If it’s a bloody snake, I’ll kill you!
— Don’t panic. I can’t see anything. And there aren’t any snakes here—I was joking. You’re too jumpy. You imagined it.
— I did not! I saw it.
— Well, I don’t see anything. Go back to sleep before you wake the whole camp. We’ve got to hike to the waterfall tomorrow. It’s probably just a lizard. It’s more scared of you than you are of it.
— Oh God, it’s moving again!
— Lift the edge, I’ll shine the light.
— You lift it. I don’t want that thing jumping on me.
— Emrys, it’s just a frog… A tiny frog. You woke me up over a bloody frog.
— Disgusting! Is it slimy?
— Pick it up and find out!
— I’m not touching it! What if it carries something?
— Just tip it out of the bag—out of the tent. Honestly, what’s the problem?
— It’s dark, it’s cold, and it’s drizzling. It’s horrible.
— Seriously? Whose brilliant idea was it to bring you along? Unzip it and hold it open. I’ll get it out.
— Thanks.
— You’re welcome. There. Can we sleep now?
— Arthur? Can I borrow your jacket?
— Why?
— Mine’s too short, it doesn’t cover me properly. I’ll freeze.
— Why do you need my jacket? Just zip the bag up and sleep.
— I’m not sleeping in a bag that a disgusting frog climbed into. What if it’s sick?
— You’re the one who’s sick. Here—cover up and shut up. Why did you even come on this hike if you’re this squeamish and skittish?
…(croaking outside; Merlin wriggles on his sleeping bag)
— Arthur?
— …(an irritated huff)
— Arthur, are you asleep?
— Trying to be. You should try it too.
— I can’t.
— What is it this time?
— The frog is croaking.
— And?
— I can’t fall asleep.
— And you decided I shouldn’t either? Wrap yourself up tighter, count sheep, and sleep.
— Your jacket’s thinner than mine. I’m cold. And the frog is annoying.
— Put your hat on.
— I don’t have one.
— You did earlier.
— Must’ve lost it somewhere.
— Are you planning on keeping me awake all night?
— …
— There’s a knife in the front pocket of my rucksack. Get it out and hand it to me.
— Arthur, why do you need a knife? I’m sure you can just scare the frog off, it’ll hop away. Croaking isn’t a crime.
— I’m not going to kill the frog, you idiot.
— Then why are you cutting open your sleeping bag?
— We’ve got two options: you go and sleep outside, or we share. Your sleeping bag is too narrow for me—I won’t fit. But if we use mine, we can lie down together and tuck the edges in, one on each side. Come on, lie down next to me—what are you staring at? Give me your jacket, I’ll put it between us. There. Now we’ll shove our feet into your bag, and use my jacket over the top. That’s it. Warm. Now sleep. I’m turning the flashlight off.
— Okay.
— Merlin!
— What?
— Stop staring at me in the dark. Turn over and don’t breathe in my face.
— I thought that would make it less awkward… Do you want to be the big spoon?
— We are not spooning, you idiot! Just turn over!
— Why not just say that, then? Why call me names?
— Why go on a bloody hike if you’re scared of frogs and can’t sleep in a tent?
— I’ve never been hiking before, you arse—how was I supposed to know I wouldn’t like it?
— Next time my sis offers you something, just say “no”.
— If I’d refused, you still wouldn’t have slept. Sophia would’ve crawled into your tent, wouldn’t she.
— Probably, and I’d have spent the night with a pretty girl, instead of sharing my sleeping bag and jacket with a scrawny little wretch who’s afraid of harmless amphibians.
— …
— And Merlin—if you tell anyone about how we slept tonight, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?
— Crystal.
And of course Merlin didn’t tell anyone.
Not that he’d been the one to smuggle the frog into their tent in the first place. Not that Arthur had fallen asleep with his nose buried in the back of someone else’s neck— and that arrogant prat had turned out to be the big spoon in the end.
Canon era | Arthur POV | Post-first-time morning | tender
They’d slept in shamelessly. But there had been a feast last night, and what was the point of being king if you couldn’t let yourself sprawl in bed the morning after a night of public revelry?
Arthur watched the strands of hair—black as a raven’s wing—catch the sunlight. He lingered over Merlin’s lips, still slightly swollen and softly pink, and fought the temptation to trace a finger along those sharp cheekbones. Because he could. Now he was allowed everything.
How many times had he stopped himself—measured his words, careful and cautious, afraid his eyes would betray the truth, afraid an ill-timed touch would give away his desires…
He had always restrained himself with the thought that later he would regret it. That they both would.
But now his chest felt light, warm, easy. Looking into those blue eyes glittering with happiness, still a little sleepy; catching the faint flush on Merlin’s cheeks; watching his slender finger draw intricate patterns on the muscular chest of his king—Arthur regretted only one thing:
A little Shane Hollander spiral about ghosting, humiliation, unresolved want, and the particular misery of having to pull yourself together in a tux while your entire nervous system is busy remembering Ilya Rozanov.
So this is my first time writing in this fandom, and I am. A little nervous about it. The language is rougher and more explicit than what I usually write, but it felt wrong not to match the tone of the show. Be gentle with me, please.
Modern AU | bedroom banter | D&D as foreplay | power dynamics
M:— You didn’t like it.
A:— Well… it was… interesting.
M:— Sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you into it, but no one could’ve expected Elian to be sent off on a business trip to the other end of the country.
A:— No, you’ve nothing to apologise for. I’m the fool who fell for a nerd. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.
M:— Thanks for stepping in.
A:— I liked your friends.
M:— Really?
A:— Yes. Well, apart from Gwaine, obviously.
M:— (quiet laugh) Obviously.
A:— But the others seemed perfectly reasonable. And they really do care about you. What about me, then? Has the verdict come in?
M:— Everyone agreed you were very cute… for a half-orc barbarian. Slightly stiff, perhaps, but you swung that greataxe quite convincingly.
A:— (soft laugh) I think being slightly stiff is forgivable when you’re meeting your boyfriend’s entire circle of friends.
M:— Fair.
A:— I do have a question for the Dungeon Master though.
M:— Oh?
A:— Why is it called Dungeons & Dragons? We spent the whole time wandering round ruins, forests and marshes, trying to catch some bloke obsessed with necromancy, and we didn’t see a single dragon or go down so much as one dungeon.
M:— That happens. It’s just the route you ended up taking in that world.
A:— Wait, there were dragons in that world at all?
M:— As a matter of fact, yes. But when Gwen, in a moment of sheer panic, decided to throw the fire poker at the ghost before letting him get a word in, you missed the path that would’ve led you to one.
A:— Hm. I’m almost disappointed I didn’t get the chance to fight something that big.
M:— Looks like somebody’s getting into the spirit of it. Not entirely hopeless, then. Well, that’s useful. At least now I know exactly which role would suit you next time.
A:— I think we discovered something rather more useful than that.
M:— What?
A:— You were awfully confident in there. Bossy, too. Especially when you were “prompting” me what to do. I think I rather like it when you boss me around…
M:— Damn! Really?
A:— Yes. It’s quite… exciting.
(sounds of kissing, the rustle of clothes)
M:— You know, technically, you can play D&D with only two people: one Dungeon Master and one player.
A:— Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now? With me pinning you to bed?
M:— And as it happens, I’ve got a very rare and very exotic encounter prepared. Strictly adults only. I was saving it for a special occasion. Eager to play?
A:— I’m eager for something else.
M:— Well then — roll over, take off your T-shirt, and lie on your back. What are you waiting for? Move it.
