Where does it go again?
Title: Where does it go again?
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur, Leon
Summary: Arthur needs help sticking it in.
Warnings: none
Word Count: 500
Camelot_drabble Prompt: 393 disagreement
Author's Notes: so sorry.
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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“Stick it in there.” Merlin lets out an exasperated sigh. “Not there, you clotpole.” He yanks the sword out of Arthur’s hands, then thrusts it into the bag of sand, pushing it in and then pulling it out again. “That’s the easy way to get the rust out. Now it’s safe enough for you to play with your sword.”
“I’m not playing. You are much better at this with all the rubbing you do. Keeping things well-oiled.” Arthur says as he takes the sword back, then tosses it aside.
Merlin sighs. He knows he will have to sharpen it later. Arthur is always and forever a prat. And the arse is smirking, too.
“I’ve seen you, using your fingers, spreading the oil around.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “Besides, I rub enough things. Your armor, your floors, your ego. I don’t need more chores. My breeches are worn out as it is, scrubbing away the mud you track in.”
“You forget that I’m the prince. Keeping you on your knees is what I do best.” Arthur scuffs his boots a little, leaving clots of dirt behind. “Oh, look, what can that be?” Eyebrows raised, smirking like he’d been born to it, Arthur reaches out and grabs Merlin, then shoves him down. “Looks like a bit of knee-walking is in order.”
“Arse.” Merlin glares up at him. As he kneels there, Merlin hooks his hands around Arthur’s thighs, and pulls, hoping to topple Arthur over and make him pay for the dirty floor.
But even as Arthur is stumbling forward, holding onto Merlin’s shoulder to keep from falling, Sir Leon pops his head around the corner, takes one look at them both, and stammers out, “Another poetry reading, my lord? I’ll leave you to it.” Then he hurries away, muttering about who knows what.
Merlin lets out a little hum. “I guess Sir Leon isn’t fond of poetry.”
Arthur rolls his eyes again. It’s a wonder they don’t fall out. “You idiot. He thinks we’re….”
“Exploring the wonders of literature?” Merlin says, those dimples of his on full display.
Arthur leans down, then pushes Merlin over. He falls on top of him, holding him down, as Merlin grumbles about floors and fat prats.
Smiling, looking like he’s having a good time squashing Merlin, Arthur says, “Wonders of sword-play more like.”
Merlin’s smile widens. “I do love a good sword. All that thrusting, the way it moves in my hand as I swing it around.”
“Merlin, it’s not for swinging, it’s for stabbing things.” Arthur shakes his head. “Idiot.”
Now it’s Merlin who rolls his eyes. “I prefer thrusting.” And he does a little of that, wiggling a bit under Arthur’s growing interest.
Arthur grins, then begins to explore both their interests, tugging, pulling, giving his fingers a thorough workout. “I do, too.”
Merlin isn’t smirking now, nor rolling his eyes. Instead, he’s thrusting. And Arthur is thrusting back.
Sword-play perhaps, or rather poetry in motion.
On that one thing, Arthur and Merlin can agree.