#hes shoving it into arthurs arms with insults flying off the tongue

[justaz]

thinking about arthur who has crazy quick reflexes and is a relatively light sleeper who woke up to the sound of someone in his room and saw merlin crouched down messing with his keys before softly asking “whatre you doing?…before breakfast?”

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (1) || atz

The sounds of the waves crashing against shore, the white sea foam like clouds of the sky.

Salt touches your tongue as sea spray catches the light of the sun, casting a beautiful rainbow across your cheeks.

Seagulls circle in the clear blue expanse above, their cries ringing out for miles.

Rain lashes against your arms and droplets clings to your eyelashes. They resemble tears.

Lightning splits the darkness of the clouds and thunder akin to cannon shot rolls overhead, but there is no fear.

You smile wide, eyes closed, but then something in your chest weighs you down.

Suddenly, you’re yanked into the depths, water filling your nose and lungs and all at once, you cannot breathe. The weight in your chest drags you down, down, down, and no matter how hard you flail and thrash about, no matter how desperately you reach for the surface…

There is nothing but darkness.

Drip, drip, drip.

Your eyes flutter open softly, like a new butterfly’s wings. You’re lying on something wet and rough beneath your body, and to your horror, when you instinctively try to rub your eyes, your hands are bound together by a coarse, thick rope.

Right in front of you is a puddle of water and drops of water keeps falling into it, forming tiny ripples. You try to sit up as your eyes instinctively follow its path, up the grime ridden stone walls to the crack in the ceiling were rainwater seeps through. A spider lazily weaves its web in a corner and for a moment, you’re spellbound by it.

Crack!

You flail backwards at the deafening sound of a thunderclap, but your hands are tied together and you’re sent crashing to the ground painfully. Luckily, the ground is wet so the fall isn’t as painful as it could have been, but you still feel a tenderness in your hip where bare skin got dragged across uneven stone. You suck in a breath.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. Sit up again.”

Exhaling carefully, you roll onto your back, ignoring the pain of the small rocks digging into your side, and finally heave yourself up with a haphazard effort of numb limbs. Your bound ankles come into view, along with dirty, calloused bare feet. They’re tied with a thick red cord that there’s no chance you can cut through or untie, and when your mind finally screams at you the obvious, your heart stops.

“You’re in a prison.”

Your head snaps to the right, metal grills lining the tiny window in the room. To your left, the only exit secured with heavy metal bars, kept locked by three iron chains, each with a metal padlock at the end. Whoever locked you up here wanted to make sure you had no chance of escape. Before you can think any further, the sound of chattering and clanking metal wrenches you back to the present.

“-some woman down here.” The sound of heeled boots echoes down a flight of steps. There’s a soft squeak of leather and the man curses. “Damned stairs, what was that bastard Arthur thinking, holding a public execution today? Justice calls, my ass. He probably just wants to get rid some whore that heard his mouth running when he was drunk-”

“Quiet, Mannon!” Another voice, higher and hushed this time. “You never know if someone could overhear you! The governor will have you hanged!”

“Ha!” A derisive snort. To your mounting horror, their footsteps seem to be drawing nearer to your cell. “As if his men are going to lug themselves here to check on a mere prisoner. Lazing about in their offices all day, doing nothing but paperwork, afraid to get their hands dirty- Oh, she’s awake.”

Your face jerks upwards, but seconds later you flinch away from the light of the torch in the men’s hands. Slightly disoriented, you try to regain your bearings. That’s when the shorter and slightly rounded man pulls out a set of key from the pocket of his crimson uniform, moving towards your door. Your hope bubbles in your chest like a warm spring.

You watch, fascinated, as the chains slither away from the bars, landing in heaps on the floor. The man that resembles a bamboo stick draped in an ill fitting uniform steps forward and with a quick swipe of a pocket knife the ropes fall from your ankles. Warm blood rushes to your feet as if it’s the first time and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” You say gratefully, but the men simply stare at you, one unsympathetic and stone cold, the other won’t quite meet your eye. The portly one shakes his head, hand reaching down for the cord that binds your hands behind your back and tugs you to your feet carelessly.

“Don’t thank us for dragging you to the gallows, girlie.” The man snaps, unceremoniously shoving you forward. Before you fall, the other man catches you by the shoulders, steadying you. He’s warm.

“Mannon, stop doing this, alright?” His voice echoes somewhere far, far away, as if you’re underwater. You don’t register what he said.

Gallows?

“Yes, gallows, the place where people get hung, idiot.” A voice in your inner subconscious rings out, surprisingly clear even through the white noise that had filled your mind from panic. The insult manages to slap you back to your senses.

“Idiot?” You repeat to yourself under your breath, almost offended as the two guards pull you out of the cell and march you up the stairs with your hands tied behind your back. This laughingly pales in comparison to the actual trouble you are in.

Then it hits you full force.

You are walking to the gallows. Walking to your own death.

There’s a moment of serene peace for a moment, then you’re panicking, trying your best to recall what exactly has led you to this. What had you done to be deserving of the death penalty? You wrack your mind desperately for some some sort of answer, some sort of reason, but nothing comes forth except a blank, white canvas where your memories should be.

Where are your memories?

Fear floods through you like a tidal wave, rising and sweeping throughout every corner in your mind. It’s so real it’s palpable, clawing at your throat and stealing the breath from your lungs. There is nothing in your memories, no smiling parents, no first birthdays, no new pretty dresses, no favourite foods, nothing but white noise and the sound of waves crashing against shore.

How old are you? What did you eat yesterday? Why are you here?

Who are you?

You can’t even begin to fathom the answer to that one question.

“Hey, move it.” The rounder guard behind you shoves the small of your back forward, your bare feet dragging along the cobblestones of the street. The sky is dark and grey, as if weeping for all that you cannot remember and you see the townspeople peering at you and whispering to each other from tiny cracks in the doors and windows, no doubt wondering who it is unlucky enough to suffer the wrath of the official of the town. But there is not an ounce of recognition, only sympathy. Nobody cries for you, nobody tries to stop you as you take one step after another to the gallows. Nobody knows you.

You are alone.

Suddenly everything becomes so real to you. The feeling of cool rainwater as it trickles down your cheeks, the stone against your bare feet. The crisp cold air of a storm. The colour of the rain clouds. In another few minutes, you will be completely devoid of all sensation.

“I refuse.”

Like any thunderclap, the sound is deafening, it makes your eardrums ring and if your hands weren’t tied you’d clap them over your ears. But most thunderclaps don’t split buildings or cause massive screaming and mayhem.

“The official’s building!” The skinnier guard cries out in horror at the sight of the roof on one of the larger buildings on a hill collapse in on itself. There’s another ear splitting boom, and in the next second, your eyes manage to catch a glimpse of a round shape flying through the air before in plunges into the already collapsing building.

“Pirates!” You hear someone scream, his voice cracking with desperation and fright. “Pirates at the harbor-” His voice is abruptly cut off just as the clanging of a bell fills the air.

“Hurry, Philip! We need to get there!” The guard, Mannon, yanks on his partner’s arm and without a second glance back at you, they sprint down an alleyway, pulling sabers from hip sheathes.

You blink.

You’re free, just like that.

Your eyes dart around for something to free your hands with, but there’s nothing and you can hear the sounds of screaming getting ever closer. Townspeople are fleeing into buildings, doors being slammed shut, candles being extinguished, bolts drawn. From where the official’s building, you hear the click of several heeled boots pacing down the street in double time.

Between them and the pirates, you’d pick the pirates.

So with your hands bound behind your back, you dash down the same path your two captors took.

The sound of cannon fire fills your ears and there’s smoke everywhere. Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, one step at the time. There’s another earth shaking boom and suddenly the ground next to you explodes. You bite back the scream in your throat and continue running, you can’t afford to fall now. There are people all around you, dressed in the distinctive red coat of the law authorities here or in a motley array of tunics and breaches, both hold weapons, and both are dying.

As you move forward without looking back, there’s the sound of clashing metal, musket fire, screams of the wounded or dying. A man suddenly falls in front of you, blood pooling like a blossoming rose across the white of his undershirt, matching the vibrant red of his uniform. You leap over the corpse and turn back, staring open mouthed at his unclosing eyes, still wide in his shock, the slack muscles in his cheeks and jaw unmoving.

He’s dead.

You look up, almost instinctively. There’s a young man standing there, a long spear in hand. He’s wearing a sandy brown shirt over a white linen tunic and long, white pants that only accentuate his height tucked into knee high leather boots. His eyes, a soft brown beneath matching curls, meet yours for a split second.

Then you run.

You sprint as fast as you possibly can, feet flying over fallen swords and broken planks. You cannot stop. Through the acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder, you can finally smell it.

The sea.

In the harbor three ships are docked. One, with the emblem of a crimson rose embroidered onto its flag, has had its mainsail torn to shreds and the deck peppered with holes. Majority of its crew lie dead or unmoving, and even as you watch one of the last gun crews are blasted into the sea by a round cannonball, which shatters upon impact with the deck to form tiny, flying pieces of shrapnel that take out the gun crew beside it. The other ship, presumably a merchant vessel, is looted bare as its crew watches helplessly. Pirates heave chests of salted fish and silk cloth onto the third vessel.

The third ship is a large, ocean going vessel. Above its three sails on the mainmast flies its flag. A plain black design with the word ATEEZ in bright, bold orange, you immediately know this is the pirates’ ship. The harbor is chaos, clamoring of two sides to get the upper hand, but you can’t stop now. Taking a deep breath, you dash forward.

A blade narrowly misses your neck as you continue running with all your might, sliding under the business end of a swinging club. You barely feel the sting of your skin tearing as a stray musket ball nicks your upper arm, adrenaline pumping through your veins like a drug. You feel something warm and wet soak into the fabric of your sleeve, but like hell you’ll let that stop you now. By sheer dumb luck, you finally reach the gangplank of the pirate ship and dash up it, the wood creaking beneath your feet. They might be bleeding after that mad dash through town, but you’re here.

Now what?

Fighting is still going on all around. Pirates work in small groups to fight off boarding officers as they try to swarm the pirates. You hear a voice shout out “Fire in the hole!” over the din, and the five subsequent explosions send the boat rocking from side to side.

You’re still not safe.

Glancing around desperately, your eyes fall onto a small hatch in the main deck. Dodging the end of an ax on the path of its back swing, you leap for the trapdoor. Thank heavens you’re barefoot, because only with your toes you manage to nudge the bolt open and pull the hatch open. It’s stairs, leading down into the gloom of the storage hold, and from what you can hear, relatively quiet.

You’ll take your chances.

With a painful grunt, you take the stairs two at the time and your legs give out at the last moment. You crash to the floorboards just as the hatch closes over your head, throwing you into darkness except the faint shafts of light coming in from the cracks in the upper deck. Your ankle throbs with pain, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You frantically drag yourself behind a few barrels in the corner, out of sight of anyone coming down the steps and huddle down, praying for the ship to sail as fast as possible.

As if the gods were listening, you hear someone above deck shouting commands. “Weigh the anchor! Unfurl the sails! Wooyoung, fire the retreat flare!”

The voice is deep as the ocean and has an unmistakable air of command. You hear the pirates scrambling to carry out the orders, footsteps thudding across the deck and from the screams and splashes next to you, they are tossing the town officers overboard too. Not a second later another massive boom rocks the ship side to side, you knock your head on the barrels and a bundle of sackcloth falls onto you.

“Oww…” You mutter under your breath feeling something warm trickling down your temple, but then suddenly you hear the same, deep voice issuing commands again.

“Raise the gangplank, make way!”

There’s a sudden jerk of movement as the wind fills the sails. You gasp as you are almost thrown forward, barely regaining your balance at the last moment as the ship begins moving away from the harbor. The furious cries and jeers of the town officers fade away, replaced the sound of the sails beating in the wind and the lapping of waves against the side of the ship.

Home, your mind tells you.

As if all the fight has left you in a single moment, you slump back against the wall, the energy thrumming in your veins evaporating like steam, leaving only a sore ache in your limbs. You should really tend to the cut on your head or find some way to free your hands, but the overwhelming exhaustion crashes over you. The sackcloth is really warm, and you need to be properly rested before you can think of a plan.

“Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a few seconds.” You tell yourself as your eyelids slide shut and your breathing slows. You sink into a deep sleep.

It feels like you’ve barely closed your eyes when a voice shakes you out of your slumber.

[rachelsteapot]

Hi! 👋😁

Ok, could I please request oneshot with Thomas Shelby and his son Shelby reader (16) where his son gets really badly hurt because he was defending his friends? (maybe from rascists, harassers or homophobic people).

And one readers friend brings him home with cloth over his mouth and it’s soaked in so much blood. Someone pinned him (reader) down, beated him and cutted his cheek (his teeth are visible and the wound is so big it can’t be sewd up together) + they broke his arm (in his view left arm...does it even matter). He won’t die tho.

Please hit me with soft and worried Thomas and other Shelbys and Grays with his son (for once than female or daughter reader). Thank you so much if you write it.

I hope it's not too much. 😙

Love you, have a nice day/night. ❤❤❤

Sticks and Stones: Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Hi! Sorry that this has taken a while, I got a bit stuck on what to write. I’ve tried to stick as close as I could to this request but its not exactly what you asked. I hope you still like it though, I definitely enjoyed writing it. 

Warnings: Homophobic language, gore?

Pairing: Platonic Tommy Shelby x Son!Reader

Tommy’s children grew up knowing they were Shelbys. The last name in itself was a title, like their father’s OBE, but different. It wasn't awarded, it wasn’t a gift: it was a curse. 

In the sixteen years since Tommy’s wife had given birth to his second son, Y/N, Shelby Company Limited had shifted its sights from the underground world that it used to inhabit, partaking in new, legal, business ventures. While the employees knew this, however, the general public still heard the name Shelby and conjured images of criminals. So, when Y/N began joining his father’s world, he became determined to change the public view of the Shelby family, regardless of the cost. 

It wasn’t unusual to find Y/N Shelby in a public booth at The Garrison, surrounded by a group of his friends. It was even less unusual to hear their rowdy tales and playful banter, especially as they were the youngest in the pub by quite a few years. Young people, especially young Blinders, like to make themselves heard, and generally don’t care who hears it. And just like any young Blinder, Y/N was no exception. 

“One time- one time I swear I saw Uncle Arthur send a granddad flying because he was bad bad mouthing our John!” the boys screeched with laughter as Y/N slurred his way through a tale taller than the stack of bottles behind the bar, slamming his mug down on the table to punctuate his story. Tales like these were common, and fairly widely known. 

“If it aint the Shelby fags, huh?” The insult cut through their joy like a knife, shattering the imaginary worlds that the teenagers had created. Y/N turned his head to find the source of this jab, discovering a sweaty, overweight patron. He scrunched his nose in disgust and turned back to his friends. This man must just be drunk, he thought, attempting to dismiss the sick feeling that was slowly growing in his stomach. 

“Oi, look at me when i’m talking to you.” Y/N felt a hand grip his shoulder. He glanced across the table before exploding from his chair, sending it clattering to the ground. The young Shelby spun around and wrapped his fingers around his assailant’s collar, throwing him back against a pillar. Fire blazed in his eyes as the youngest Shelby leant forwards, his breathing throwing hot air onto the older man’s face. 

“Don’t. call us. fucking. Fags.” each word was punctuated by Y/N sucking air between his gritted teeth. He slowly removed his fingers from the other man’s collar and, giving him one final shove, he returned to his chair. Silence had fallen on the pub; it was time for Y/N and his friends to leave. 

The doors of the Garrison clanged shut behind Y/N as he pressed his flat cap onto his head, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Anyone would have thought he was the famed Tommy Shelby, if it wasn’t for the lack of gently smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. He and his friends left the pub and slowly began their walk home, continuing their rowdy guffaws and occasionally getting into playful fistfights. Eventually, as the lads continued on their way, their numbers dwindled until it was just Y/N and his closest friend, Colin. 

“Mate, are you alright?” Colin’s question roused Y/N from his thoughts. He blinked and raised his head, looking across towards his friend as they walked in unison along the shaded streets. 

“Yeah, just a fucking twat. I don’t get why he just didn’t back off, yanno.” Colin nodded, sighing slightly. 

“My cousin, his dad was like that.” Colin started, “A drunk, constantly trollid an’ all that.” 

Y/N nodded, blowing steam from his nose into the cold night air. 

“I dunno mate, I’ve got a bad feeling about it is all,” 

The pair continued on their way, footsteps echoing along the empty Birmingham cobbles, hardly speaking and instead enjoying a comfortable silence. Colin and Y/N had been friends for as long as they could remember, having done almost everything together since they were in nappies. They thought nothing of it when a third set of footsteps joined them, or the fourth, or perhaps they just didn’t notice. Until it was too late. 

As Y/N and Colin turned the corner towards Y/N’s Small Heath residence, they were confronted by two larger men. Turning to check behind them, Y/N and Colin found that they were boxed in with two larger men behind them too. Suddenly, Colin felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat as he was pulled back against the third man, and released a strangled cry. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Y/N hissed, darting his eyes towards his friend to check he wasn’t being hurt, catching sight of Coling struggling against the trunk like arms of his attacker. 

“Fucking Shelby and his faggot friend,” the man which Y/N assessed to be the ringleader of this excursion snorted. “We want The Garrison and the Blinder territory. You’re all posh bitches now, no need for gang land,” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh sarcastically, setting his jaw and glaring at the assailants. 

“I dunno why you’re asking me,” Y/n rolled his eyes, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It’s me dad you wanna be talking with, but I doubt your chances will be good when he hears about this.” But Y/N was caught off guard when one of the thugs stepped forwards and grabbed his jaw with one hand, twisting his head and pulling the young Shelby’s back against his stomach. Now, both him and Colin were held prone, completely defenceless against anything these thugs would attempt. 

“We tried that,” the supposed ring leader chimed in. “It seems that we were going to need a little more of a bargaining chip.” As Y/N struggled, the final thug stepped forwards and grunted at his companions. 

“Hold Him.” 

Y/N felt his aggressors’ arms tighten around him, pressing down on his throat and causing spots to form in his vision. He didn’t notice the fourth thug swiftly and deftly draw a knife from his pocket, all he felt was a flash of cold followed by a searing pain across his cheek. Warm fluid spilled from the heat and Y/N felt the cold air flood into his mouth. He screamed as the realisation hit: these people meant business if they were going to cut the Shelby heir. 

“We would take your tongue, but that’s for next time, if you don’t comply.” The threat didn’t feel empty, causing Y/N to clamp his mouth shut, ignoring the pain caused by the action. 

Suddenly, Y/N was thrown to the ground, his head colliding heavily against the hard cobbles causing the world to tilt on its axis. He groaned, his ears ringing as he attempted to stand before his body contorted under the kicks of steel capped boots. As three pairs of feet pummeled his young body, Y/N felt his ribs crack and snap, crying out in pain until it was all he could do to keep breathing. When he fell silent, the kicks stopped. 

“I reckon that’ll be enough of a lesson for Tommy Shelby, OBE,” one jeered as the four stomped off into the night. 

It could have been minutes or hours before Y/N felt a hand on his shoulder, gently rolling him onto his back. The movement sent bolts of pain through Y/N’s ribcage and he coughed, globs of black blood landing on the pavement. 

“Y/N? Oh my fucking god, Tommy’s gonna kill me.”  Colin… thank god he was okay. 

“Don’t worry lad, we’ve just gotta get him home.” Uncle Arthur? What the fuck was Uncle Arthur doing here? 

Y/n pried his eyes open, grunting in pain as he was lifted from the ground and cloaked in the smell of his uncle. His head spun as Arthur’s rocking walk sent shockwaves through his bruising limbs. A door opened, then shut, and finally, Y/N felt a hard surface meet his back. He heaved a ragged breath as his body relaxed, and drifted into a pained sleep. 

In his dream, Y/N Shelby was jousting. He was riding a beautiful dapple stallion, charging at full pelt towards an opponent, clothed only in black cloth. As he got closer, Y/N lowered his pole and leant forwards, and missed. His opponent’s pole connected with his face, and then he was falling, off of his horse and into an abyss. His arms flailed as he tried to catch onto something, anything, that would save him. But nothing was there. 

When Y/N awoke, the sky was grey. Not a grey like the horse in his dream, but grey like a storm, like the storm his father would bring on Birmingham when he found out about the incident. The teenager sniffed slightly and tried to shuffle into a seated position, but his attempts were interrupted by a sudden churning in his stomach. Forcing himself to move, Y/N leaned over the side of the bed and emptied his stomach of the minimal contents that remained. His retches caused movement in a darkened corner of his room, but Y/N was too exhausted to notice, all his aches and pains flooding over his slowly awakening limbs. Slowly, tears began to roll down his cheeks as the pain overwhelmed his mind, and the young Shelby succumbed to the pain and exhaustion. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, Daddy’s here now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” a warm hand was placed on his lower back, drawing Y/N back into the present. Wincing as he tried to move, Y/N was able to twist his head until he could see his father seated on the bed beside him. Gently, Tommy moved his hands until he was supporting his son’s weight and slowly eased him into a seated position. 

“Dad?” Y/N croaked, wincing with the pain of his ribs and limbs, his words slurred by the stiffness in his cheek. Tommy turned his head, facing away from his son. He raised a hand to his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes, only moving when Y/N reached his arm forwards and rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. 

“Dad, ‘m okay.” Tommy sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“It’s not about that, Y/N. It’s that it happened at all, that I couldn’t protect you. Your name put you at risk and I couldn’t live with myself if I lost you too.” Y/N blinked slowly, letting his father’s frustrations wash over him. 

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Tommy shuffled into the space beside his son, spreading one arm over the teenager’s shoulder and pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed onto his father’s chest, breathing in the smell of whiskey and cigarettes that had enveloped his childhood. He was safe, and nobody was going to hurt him. Slowly, the youngest Shelby drifted into a dreamless sleep, determined that next time, he would not be so unprepared. 

[percyjacksonfan3]

Number 11 "How could you ask me that" for the fic prompts with merthur please

Thanks so much for the prompt! This was huge fun to write. I know you might have wanted some angst but I went with fluff instead so I could include one of my favourite cliche tropes.

Hope you like it!

____________________________________________________________

“Tell me the truth, Merlin. Right now.”

Arthur’s boyfriend looks back at him with wide eyes filled with nothing but hurt. “How could you ask me that?”

Merlin’s expression makes a pang of guilt go through Arthur before he forcefully shoves it away. This is serious.

“Arthur come on-” Morgana begins from beside them but he holds up a hand and she cuts herself off. Arthur sees the look she and Merlin exchange, one that clearly reads, ‘Sorry. I tried.’

“Let’s just forget it,” Gwen suggest valiantly from her place beside Morgana, always one to try and keep the peace between everybody. Her big brown eyes look worriedly from Arthur to Merlin and she bites her lower lip briefly. “I’m sure no one meant any harm.”

Arthur and Merlin both make indignant noises at that.

“No,” Leon leans forward to look more intensely at Merlin. “I’d like to know too.”

Merlin gasps, turning those innocent blue eyes to Leon for a moment. “Leon!”

“He didn’t do anything,” Gwaine cuts in, shifting where he sits beside Merlin. “Honest.”

“Like you would tell us the truth if he did,” Elyan rolls his eyes from where he and Percy are sitting together.

“Oi! If that’s an insult to my honour-”

“Come off it Gwaine,” Mordred interrupts him with a fond smile. Beside him, Lance carefully counts out their pile of money. “We all know you have no scruples when it comes to this.”

“Everyone that’s enough.” Arthur cuts back in calmly. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Merlin this entire time, and for the most part Merlin hasn’t looked away from him either. “Merlin just answer the question. Did you cheat?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh am I?” Arthur retorts. “Because last I counted, you and Gwaine only had 3 100 pound bills between you, and now I see 5.”

He points across the Monopoly board to where Merlin and Gwaine’s pile of money sits innocently beside their large sprawl of property deeds. While the rest of the teams are struggling to get more than three properties, Merlin and Gwaine have somehow managed to acquire all of the brown and yellow ones.

Arthur knows them too well to trust them for a second. “Someone’s cheating.”

“Or maybe you just suck at Monopoly,” Merlin bites back.

“Alright guys, let’s not get carried away.” Lance says carefully.

“I do not suck at Monopoly!”

“Could have fooled me,” Merlin sticks out his tongue. “Leon is the only reason you even have those 2 properties.”

“It’s not my fault I land on Chance or Community Chest every time!”

“Bad luck mate,” Percy says in sympathy.

“Uh, yes it is. If you were good at the game you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“I can’t control how the dice land, Merlin!”

His boyfriend just shrugs unconcerned. “The gods of Monopoly just don’t seem to like you.”

“Wha- the gods of Monopoly?” Arthur splutters, arms flailing as he throws them up into the air in exasperation and makes Leon have to quickly jerk out of his way.

“I told you we should have played Pictionary instead,” Gwen says mournfully, making Morgana snort beside her.

“That would be even worse. Have you forgotten the last time?”

Mordred touches his own temple in remembrance of when Arthur took off his shoe to throw at Merlin but ended up hitting Mordred in the head instead.

Merlin had killed himself laughing over it.

Right now though the two of them are too busy standing up to glare at one another across the table to notice the looks being exchanged by their friends.

“I love game nights,” Percy says mournfully. “Shame we can only have them once a year.”

“I thought this would end once they started shagging.” Elyan notes and Leon and Lance both shake their heads simultaneously.

“Not these two. The competitiveness isn’t sexual tension, it’s just...”

“Foreplay?” Gwaine suggests and the rest of the table groan. Lance looks like he regrets saying anything at all.

“We heard that,” Merlin says in an aside to the rest of them before looking back at Arthur. “Look, clotpole, if you had eyes and a working brain you’d be able to see why Gwaine and I have more money without us having to resort to cheating-”

“A working brain?” Arthur repeats, sounding strangled.

It’s then that Leon interjects. “Oh, he’s right Arthur.”

Arthur turns from where he’s been considering leaping across the table to wrestle Merlin to the floor and force the truth out of his boyfriend to look at his friend. “What?”

“They passed Go.” Leon points at where their dragon icon sits innocently. “Last turn I think. We forgot.”

Arthur stares at the board.

“Oh. Well that’s alright then.”

He sits down abruptly and nods at Mordred to roll for his and Lance’s turn, happy to continue on with the game now that it’s been clearly established everyone is playing by the rules.

“Clotpole,” Merlin repeats, but he sounds fond and there’s laughter clear to be heard in his tone so Arthur just rolls his eyes before looking back at him with affection.

Their gazes hold and Arthur feels warmth spread through him.

“Ugh,” Morgana interrupts, making them both look at her. “I vote that after tonight we retire Monopoly from Game Night.”

“Agreed,” the rest of them all say immediately, making both Merlin and Arthur roll their eyes. Honestly, the pair of them aren’t that bad.

Which is proven when Percy and Elyan surprise everybody and end up winning, which causes not only Arthur, not only Merlin, but Morgana, Leon, Gwaine and Mordred as well to all stand up and accuse them of cheating. The board is flipped. Money goes flying. A little green house is crushed under Percy’s foot.

The Monopoly board is packed up and shoved to the bottom of Merlin and Arthur’s closet.

____________________________________________________________

And there we go! I hope you enjoyed this, I know it ended up being less Merthur-centric but hopefully it was still entertaining. Thank you so much again for the prompt nonny, I really had a lot of fun writing this!

For anyone else who’d like to send me prompts you can find the list here!