Title: Jealous Fire
Pairings: past Arthur/Merlin, current Gwaine/Merlin
Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Gwaine
Summary: When Arthur had broken things off he never expected Merlin to move on.
Word Count: 459
Arthur watched the new relationship unfold, making sure it appeared as he had not noticed, let alone cared. He watched as that soft, loving smile that had once been solely his and his alone finally returned only to be directed at another. It was agonizing, seeing the two of them sneak away, knowing what they were about to do, remembering when all that attention and skill had been directed at him instead of at... someone else.
It was his own fault; it was he who had pushed Merlin away. It hadn't been right, he'd claimed. They didn't fit, he'd said. It would never work, he'd argued.
It had been so stupid, so ridiculously short sighted. At the time he had thought it for the best, that duty demanded they be apart. He'd never considered how it would feel once Merlin set his sights elsewhere, mostly because he'd never even entertained the notion that Merlin might.
Having no other choice he weathered the smiles, ground his teeth at the obvious beard burn and ignored the fading love bites. He pretended not to notice and chose to made it seem like he did not care, never once letting on to the fact his stomach burned at the mere thought of Merlin with another man. The excuses he made to slip away were just that, excuses, in reality needed the time to go ahead to hide himself, knowing where Merlin's destination would be.
Would Merlin look at Gwaine the same way? Would he sink to his knees and lick his lips in anticipation as he used to do for Arthur? When Gwaine was trying to undo his laces would Merlin be there, nuzzling, teasing, stroking through the leather and generally doing his best to distract him to the point of insensibility? Would Merlin laugh then, finally batting Gwaine's useless hands away and using that talented mouth to work free the last knot? Then he'd take Gwaine's dick into his mouth and slowly, ever so slowly, tease his tongue over the tip, tracing the foreskin, sucking it down, down down until Gwaine was a quivering wreck. One hand would be fisting Merlin's hair, the other his shoulder in a grip so tight it would rip the shirt. How could he not? In the process of losing himself to Merlin's talents Arthur had torn so many; that damned purple shirt had been ripped beyond repair and the bruises had lasted a week.
Merlin might not be his any longer, but he was not above taking advantage of the chance for a bit of voyeuristic pleasure. Which was why by the time they arrived he was prepared, hidden out of sight with his dick in hand, and waiting for the show to commence.