archaeologist_dTitle: Not like he's going to forgive me
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur
Summary: Merlin is clumsy. Everyone knows it so it's really Arthur's fault that his best shirt is ruined, right?
Warnings: none
Word Count: 365
Prompt: 218. Forgiveness
Author's Notes: modern AU silliness
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; It and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Okay, okay, it's not like I did it on purpose. After all, coffee stains don't come out – no matter what the dry cleaner says. And Arthur's best shirt was silk and white and so pristine, and as he was walking toward me, I couldn't help wondering what it would feel like if I ran my hands over the fabric. Especially if Arthur was still wearing it.
I was distracted, okay. That shirt. The way his hair curled at the collar and I could see muscles moving underneath the silk. Oh, God, how those muscles moved, taunting me with images of… things.
So it wasn't really my fault. I didn't see the step and I tripped and my coffee went all over that nice clean shirt. And in amongst all the horror of Arthur getting more and more furious with every passing second, fire-breathing insults coming out of that plumy Pendragon mouth, and me babbling apologies, the coffee was wet and so was the silk and I could see one round nipple clearly and I might have licked my lips at the sight – I think.
I'm going to hell.
After a while, Arthur must have realized that I wasn't listening, so mesmerized was I by that wet silk clinging to his nipple, that he turned around and stomped off, threatening retribution.
I have to admit that his arse was pretty fine, too, as he walked away, even though Arthur's arms were waving in the air and there was still quite a bit of yelling going on.
I don't think he'll ever forgive me for ruining his shirt.
But maybe after I buy him a new one and present it to him, after he glares at me like I've done something stupid and then mutters something about clumsiness and me being an idiot, maybe if I get on my knees, wrap my arms around his thighs, and nudge my face into his warmth as I beg for mercy, he might get ideas of just where things could go and he might forget about the shirt and ask for payback instead. Lots and lots of payback. With spillage and clothes discarded and breathing.
A man can only hope.
