#that last drawing is so ooc i’m sorry but i’m too lazy to do anything abt it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ask-the-riders · 4 years ago

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First Meetings

Mal nearly gets herself killed, but is saved by a stranger she's never even seen before. The years pass, she dies and makes her transition to becoming War, and only then does the stranger from all those years ago finally show his face again

Trigger warnings (because I'd feel really bad if I upset anyone somehow): violence/fighting, cursing, and guns. There's some angst at the start and some implied abuse/implications that Mal was being hurt (she's still working for Error and Nightmare at the beginning), and toward the end, maybe a hair bit of suggestive language (meant to be taken as a joke/in a teasing kinda sense)

This might also be a bit OOC for Mal, but eh

Mal let out a shaky breath, her sockets wide as she stole a glance at the orange bone attack that pierced the ground beside her. Lifting a hand and touching the edge of her sockets to produce her threads, her momentary look of fear shifted into determination; she had to tough this out just a little longer. Just a little bit longer, and someone would come for her, she knew it. There was a flash of light and she cried out, a searing pain rushing through her body. Glancing down, her sockets widened again at the loss of one of her arms and began to bead up with blue tinted tears. As her gaze slowly lifted and she looked up at the massive skeleton that loomed over her, she began to visibly shake, trying desperately to force out her words.

Another bone attack appeared and she screamed as it tore through her ribs like a hot knife through butter. This... This wasn't good. A large, gloved hand captured the front of her shirt, and then she found herself being thrown backward, colliding with a tree. At the crash, her back arched and she cried out again, her blue tears transforming into threads as she noticed the dust that began to appear down her shirt. Oh god... oh no, this couldn't be happening. This couldn't be... she COULDN'T be dying... not like this. As her attacker drew nearer, she broke into sobs, attempting to curl in on herself as she croaked, "Please, please no... I didn't mean it, I didn't mean anything bad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry... so, so sorry. Just... please... please don't-" She was cut off, wailing in agony again as a gloved hand summoned another bone attack, that of which sailed forward and cracked one of her hips.

"Hey, freak."

At the casual tone that pierced the silence, Mal's sockets widened in shock and she touched the rim of her socket with her good hand, shrieking, "GET OUT OF HERE, THIS DUDE'S A FREAKIN PSYCHO!" The stranger was silent for a moment before he laughed softly, "Hey, last time I checked, I'm supposed to be the one saving you, Beautiful." She flinched at the nickname, looking up at the stranger and blinking; it was... nobody she knew. Just some dude in a gross brown hoodie with... what were thoss? Medical syringes lining his sash and belt?

Without another word, the stranger drew some sort of gun, aiming it at her attacker. His voice lost its casual, lighthearted tone as he spoke, now turning as cold as the first snowfall of winter, "Last chance, bud. Back the hell off, or be sorry." Mal's assailant began to summon forth more orange bone attacks, seeming intent on dusting the stranger too. Sockets widening in shock as the stranger fired his gun, the glitch felt her entire body jerk, quickly biting back a yelp as pain washed over her from all the injuries she'd sustained. She was frozen, slowly shifting her gaze upward to her attacker; Upon seeing the way his magic fizzled out and his bones began to turn grey, more fear surged through her. She had no idea what the stranger had shot him with, but it's like he... got infected by something.

The pulses of magic his soul had been giving off began to weaken, and Mal could've sworn she saw the life drain from his sockets, only mere seconds before he exploded into a cloud of dust. The stranger seemed completely at ease as he turned to face her, squatting a few feet away. He held a hand out, his palm facing her, and as his left eye flared up with sickly green magic, Mal panicked, "Hey, just hold on a minute, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" In response, he arched a brow bone and offered her a lazy grin, "Uhh... I'm healing you? You clearly need it." The glitch gawked at him; He was going to heal her? Why? They only just met, so it's not like they were friends or anything. There was nothing to be gained from helping her. Nothing material, at least. Her mind raced, and as the warmth of his healing magic finally reached her, she whined, her shoulders slouching. She could only think of one thing that he might want from her, and blue tinted tears pricked at her sockets again.

Hearing the whine and seeing the look on her face, the other skeleton frowned, continuing to heal her, "Hey, what's wrong?... You ok, buddy?" Her figure began to glitch noticeably more than before and she looked away from him, not wanting to meet his eye, "Why are you helping me?... I'm not a good person, and there's nothing to be gained from this. The only thing I have that you could possibly want would be-" The stranger cut her off, his playful tone suggesting that he was trying to keep the mood light, "Whoa, hold on there, bud, you're movin' kinda fast. At least take me to dinner first." His healing magic momentarily faded, his normal magic enveloping her detached arm that laid nearby. It was pulled closer to the pair of skeletons and lightly dropped on her lap, and she flinched. As his healing magic returned, she unconsciously began to relax, and he smiled softly, "Can you reattach that on your own, or?..."

Mal nodded, using her good hand to grasp her disconnected arm. She was silent as she lined it back up with her shoulder, and she briefly met the male skeleton's concerned gaze, feeling her sockets stinging as more tears threatened to spill out. She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath and then slowly exhaling, before she forced her arm back into its rightful place. At the surge of pain, tears streamed down her face and rapidly shifted into sapphire threads as she screamed, her glitching seeming to worsen for just a brief moment. Her breathing began to quicken as she struggled to cope with the pain and she sobbed, gingerly holding her shoulder. The other skeleton gently shushed her, his healing magic now being sent to her as warm, soothing pulses, and he spoke softly, careful not to startle her or risk upsetting her further, "Shhh... It's all over now. You did a good job... It looks like you lined it up perfectly, too. I'm impressed." The glitch looked back at him, meeting his gaze as she sniffled, an almost desperate look in her eyes as she murmured brokenly, "You really think I did good?..."

He nodded and hummed in confirmation, offering her a tiny smile in hopes of providing some reassurance, "Yeah, of course. You reconnected it like a pro, so I take it you've done this before?" Mal made a soft sound of acknowledgement and gave a slow nod, her gaze breaking away from his as she looked down at her lap, suddenly appearing ashamed, "Mhm... I have. More times than I care to remember." The hoodie clad stranger quietly assessed the look she wore, his small smile becoming a frown again; If he didn't know any better, he'd assume she'd had to reattach her own limbs before. That meant that she constantly went through potentially dangerous situations and regularly risked being injured. Concern bubbled in his soul and he reached out to her. Feeling his hand stop just short of touching her face, she looked back at him, a tangible mix of confusion and uncertainty on her face as well as... Was that... Was that fear again?

Her figure fizzled at the closeness of his hand, and as he began to withdraw it, she felt her soul swell, accompanied by some odd tugging sensation in her chest. Just what in the hell was happening right now? She hated touch; To her, touch never meant anything good, so why was she so disappointed when this guy pulled his hand away? Without thinking, she blurted out, "Why'd you stop?" He blinked in surprise, before that surprise morphed into a sad smile, "I can't touch you, Mal. I'm not supposed to." Her brow bones were knit in further confusion at being referred to by name, but she pressed on, "Why not?" He hesitated, lowering his voice slightly, "It'll make you sick, and I have no control over it. I don't know what you could catch."

The glitch frowned, her soul beginning to glow faintly through her shirt, "I'm not afraid of getting sick." He hesitated again, a faint green glow showing through his hoodie from his chest. Taking a deep breath, he slowly extended a hand to her once more, and she surprised herself by leaning into his touch as his hand gently rested on her cheek. She lifted a hand, delicately placing it atop his, and he stared at her in disbelief; He really... He was really touching her right now, and he could hardly believe it. Both of their souls suddenly manifested before them, causing both skeletons to immediately become flustered, their faces stained with slight blushes made of their own respective colors. The glitch raised her free hand and reached out, cautious as she lightly touched his face. As he leaned into her touch, a wave of what bordered on delight overtook her, and an uncharacteristically giddy smile stretched across her face. Meanwhile, the stranger appeared to be in total bliss, merely basking in the feeling of her hand on his cheek.

Breaking the pair out of the haze they were in, a voice called out to the glitch, and her soul quickly returned to its place within her ribs as her delight became panic again. The stranger, with much reluctance, pulled away from her, breaking the contact. As soon as his hand left her face, she pressed a hand over her mouth and began to cough violently, her body aching as her temperature started to rise. Already knowing what was happening to her, the male skeleton reached up one of his sleeves and withdrew a small vial of something, offering it to her, "Here, drink this... It'll cure you. I wasn't supposed to intervene and save you like I did, hell, I wasn't even supposed to be seen. I gotta get outta here before I'm busted." The glitch accepted the vial eagerly, her brow bones furrowing, "Before you disappear, can I at least know your name? And maybe how you knew mine, while we're at it."

He smiled slightly as she uncapped the vial and downed the antidote to his touch, shrugging his shoulders, "Are names really all that important right now, Sweetness? I'll be seeing you again eventually anyway, so we can talk more then. For now though, I really need to go." Letting out a deep sigh, Mal pouted, her cheekbones flushing a soft shade of blue, "Fiiiiine, whatever. Seeya round, weirdo." He chuckled softly in amusement and shook his head before playfully blowing a kiss at her, succeeding in instantly making her blush visibly darken. Just as she was about to give him a figurative ear full, she was caught off guard, yelping in surprise as his entire body exploded into a multitude of rats, all of which scurried away as fast as possible. As Cross and Dust came into her line of sight, her soul sank and she very slowly stood up, brushing herself off and pocketing the now empty vial. The vial was all she had left from her first encounter with who she assumed was supposed to be her soulmate, and she intended to keep it until she saw him again.

At least, she hoped he was her soulmate. He was so kind and gentle, he gave her praise, and not once did he make any unwanted advances on her. He protected and healed her when there was nothing to be gained from it; He did it because he was genuinely worried. From what he'd said, he wasn't supposed to help her, which meant he broke some set of rules to make sure that she was safe. A part of her was hesitant to believe any of that really meant anything, but there was another part of her that desperately hoped he'd let her go back with him next time they saw each other.

Even as Cross began speaking to her, she didn't hear a word he said. All she could think about was the stranger who saved her life.

The years passed, and as fate would have it, Mal had gone and acted impulsively, getting herself killed in the process. Only when she'd found a good family and a loving home, and only when she was happy would something like this happen. Why would life ever treat her kindly? After all, she was nothing more than some disgusting anomaly that shouldn't even exist in the first place. She'd gone on about her days, praying and pleading with whoever was in control of her fate to let her find her savior so she could properly thank him for what he'd done, but... she never did.

Not until today.

The tall skeleton before her sighed deeply and casually cracked his neck, perfectly at ease as Death firmly gripped her wrists, stopping her from producing threads and attacking her new teammate. The freakshow was staring at her, wearing a stupid grin that she wanted to wipe off of his equally stupid face. He was probably enjoying the show, seeing her get in trouble already.

Well, at least she already got in one good hit. That on its own would have to do, seeing as the reaper wasn't about to let her go just yet. He glanced back at the taller of the two males and dismissed him, waiting until he was gone before releasing her wrists, his magic holding her in place as he gently cupped her face. He used his magic, sending it out in the form of soothing pulses as he very gradually began to calm her down, bringing her out of the episode she'd been plunged into. Death sighed, waiting for her to completely relax before he spoke, "Alright... We'll work on getting you better acclimated to being around Famine later on. For now, you've got one more teammate to meet, and I think you're gonna like him." She narrowed her sockets in suspicion, "If he's anything like Famine, I wouldn't be so sure of that." The reaper arched a brow bone, now wearing a knowing grin as he called out, "Alright, Pest, it's your turn. Come on in and say hi to War."

Mal's... No, War's full attention centered itself on the doorway as the last of her teammates entered. Taking in that ugly brown hoodie he wore and the numerous syringes that lined his belt and sash, she froze in place, her sockets widening. He lifted his gaze to look back at her, an amused grin already stretching across his face, and the glitch felt that same tugging sensation from all those years ago. The memory of their first meeting returned in full detail, and at a loss for words, all the glitch was capable of nearly screeching was, "YOU." The stranger, whose name turned out to be Pestilence, merely tilted his head, arching a brow bone at her. Still wearing the same shit eating grin from moments ago, he hummed, his voice taking on a sing-song tone as he purred in delight, "Me~"

Death had no idea what was going on between the two of them, but sensing how strongly their souls were trying to drive them to make contact, he shrugged it off. Truth be told, he was almost disappointed that he hadn't made any popcorn to eat while he watched the encounter play out. While the pair of soulmates were focused entirely on their exchange, Death's good eye flared up with his own sky blue magic, and suddenly, he could see their souls.

The very culmination of both their beings, and their very cores, now on display for the reaper, courtesy of his magic. The pair didn't seem aware of Death's stare as he observed their souls, raising a single brow bone as Pestilence's soul grew brighter. Pairing that with the magic in the air, it was almost as if his soul itself wanted to make contact with War's. And the on the other hand, War's soul rapidly switched between growing brighter and dimmer; She was confused, and likely had no idea how to feel about everything right now. Her soul did the most adorable little flip in her ribs and Death smiled to himself, shaking his head. War was proving to be quite the stubborn one, and Death already knew how Pest could be at times.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he rolled his eye light, his magic fading away as he interrupted them, "God, get a room, will ya? All this sexual tension is gonna be the death of me." War's face erupted into a bright blue blush and her sockets became clouded with wars, while Pest stared at Death, visibly surprised at what he'd said. As the surprise faded into amusement, Pest wiggled his brow bones, jokingly moving closer to the glitch to wrap an arm around her waist, "Well, what do ya say, Beautiful? We should totally ditch this old dude and go back to my room. Or yours, that's fine too." Without warning, War crashed, a reboot bar appearing and floating over her head. As her legs gave out and she started to collapse, Pest was quick to catch her, all of his playfulness replaced by anxiety, "Shit, shit... I didn't just break her or something, did I? Fuck, I hope she's ok."

Death hummed, his expression softening, "She'll be fine, Pest, this just happens sometimes. The best thing you can do is get her back to her room and lay her down in bed, because it'll be a bit before she comes to." Pestilence nodded, releasing a sigh of relief, "Alright... Will do, Coffee Bean." The reaper brushed off the nickname, watching as Pestilence carefully lifted War up into his arms and held her close to himself.

They'd be alright. Sure, there'd be some bumps in the road ahead due to the differences in their personalities, but they'd be ok, and Death didn't harbor a single doubt about it whatsoever in his mind.

#this also takes place before she met ret #and before the other two riders became part of the group #writing #four horsemen of the apocalypse #riders of the apocalypse #undertale #undertale au #pestilence.exe #war.exe #famine.exe #death.exe #reaper sans #mal.exe

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nanawritesstuff · 5 years ago

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of peace and devotion (nsfw)| December 28th, MadaSakuWeekend 2019

@madasakuweek thank you for organising and motivating us all to write!! I know I’ve been lazy, and this weekend truly stirred the madasaku pot and had me cooking!

prompts, December 28th: yandere au, possessive, "you belong to me" Fandom: Naruto

Pairing: MadaSaku

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 6947

Summary: Soulmates don’t mean much to Sakura, who’s never fallen in love. After she catches her boyfriend cheating, she wonders if she’s really meant for love. What will she do then, when it quite literally stumbles through her door? | sequel to of war and peace

Warnings/Tags: explicit sexual content, mild language, OOC behaviour, modern au, hints of very soft yandere behaviour...if you squint, cliche, Sakura deserves a soft Madara!! I'm just cold and lonely leave me to my soft things!!

a/n: that was the most cliched summary I’ve written in my life, this is what happens when you watch too many kdramas

In Sakura's world, at this very moment in time–the term soulmates holds very little meaning.

As she steps through the doors to the elevator, grocery bag in hand, her mind recalls the unpleasant events of the previous week. The week itself had started out like every other one; early shifts, her usual patients, nothing too unusual apart from a few bumps here and there that she had no trouble dealing with. And now, on this chilly Tuesday, she gets to be home on Christmas Eve.

Alone.

This was the one unexpected bump in her plans. Something she hadn't even thought of, so she couldn't have planned for it–to catch her boyfriend of six months in the break room with his mouth glued to the new nurse's neck. She had stood there, watching them go at it for a whole minute before Ami had spotted her and shrieked. It was only the dawning horror in her eyes as she heard Sasori stammer out his pitifully weak excuses that told Sakura the girl hadn't known about the handsome redheaded doctor's girlfriend: her, Haruno Sakura.

Something Sasori must have been only too happy to take advantage of, she's sure.

That is why Sakura had accepted her tearful apologies with a stiff smile and continued on with her day. Ino, as soon as she found out, dragged her to the cafe, attempting to coax out the tears and curses with cold doughnuts–a reaction that just wouldn't come. That particular bit was reserved for her evening shower. Sakura was sad, yes and quite disappointed with how things turned out. Their relationship, while far from perfect, had been important to her. She had been trying to meet his expectations since before they even started dating but Sasori's nitpicking never ended; his complaints about her working too much had been increasing by the day. He also thought they weren't having enough sex.

'I guess he went fishing,' she thinks with only a slightly bitter sigh. They were never going to last, and she should have accepted it sooner. But it had been comfortable. It had been safe. And now it's over. All her life, she’s felt as if something’s been missing. As if she’s forgotten something, as if she’s been waiting for something to come back to her.

She realizes she's been standing in front of her door for more than a few minutes, and the sound of a shuffle reaches her ears, drawing her eyes towards it. Eyes the deepest shade of dark ink, brows furrowed in concern and a slender mouth curled into a gentle smile.

"You've been standing there for about five minutes," he says in lieu of a greeting. She blinks rapidly, shaking off the melancholic energy and smiling back at her neighbour.

"Itachi-san! I see you've got the evening off." She eyes his sleek jacket, sniffing as the subtle notes of his familiar cologne reach her. The plastic container in his hands looks out of place in the impeccable image he makes. "Off to see Izumi-san?"

"Ah. Our families are finally having dinner together," he divulges with a nervous little smile before holding the box out towards her. "And these are for you. I received the batch yesterday."

"Gingerbread cookies?" she guesses, her eyes lighting up at once as if she's been handed the one ring to rule them all. "Thank you. Your uncle is an angel."

"Just make sure you actually eat something before opening those bottles," he says sternly, with a pointed look at the wine bottles in her grocery bag. Sakura can't help but laugh nervously and shift the bag out of view in a futile attempt at hiding the contents from view. “And please don’t call him my uncle.”

"But he is your uncle, isn’t he? Also, don't tell Sasuke? You know he'll nag. And send Naruto."

"Alright. Only because I know you need space. Just take care and text one of us if you need anything. I'll be crashing at my parents'." He gives her a supportive pat on the back before continuing on, and Sakura adores him for trying. Itachi has been worried about her since she told him about The Break-Up, and he's also the only one who understood her when she said she felt more relief than sorrow.

"Will do. Good luck, I hope you have a wonderful evening," Sakura calls out after him before unlocking her door. Stepping into the darkened entrance, she fumbles for the light switch as she slips out of her shoes, wrestling with her puffy. Her apartment is completely silent, and it bothers her less than she thought it would. With a silent apology to her worrywart neighbour, she starts looking for the wine opener.

She does break into the box of cookies first. One of the small traditions she looks forward to every Christmas since she was twelve. The first time she tried these was in 6th grade when Sasuke brought some to class. One bite and she begged her grumpy friend for some every single year. His uncle bakes them for the entire family and ever since he found out how crazy she is about them, he makes sure to send some for her too.

Two glasses in, she's pleasantly buzzed and curled up in her soft blanket, her laptop open on her lap. The first Harry Potter movie plays on the screen, and it reminds her of Sasori and how he hates the entire series. If he had been here, he would have insisted on watching something she has very little interest in herself. It's alarming how she's finding more pros to ending things with him by the hour, but than can only be a good thing now that he's out of her personal life.

The forty text messages from him are going to stay unread.

Just as she's contemplating getting another snack before she starts the second movie, the doorbell rings, and at first, she thinks she's imagined it. It's 12:04 on the clock, and if Ino had been planning to drop in at midnight, she would have texted first. It rings again, and Sakura starts to feel uneasy. There's a series of heavy, hurried knocks on the door.

'Please, please don't be Sasori-'

"Oi, Itachi! It's freezing out here, open the fucking door!"

And there's the magic word. Itachi doesn't give his address out to people he doesn't trust, and with how familiar this stranger seems to be with him–it's probably not a serial killer. A peek through the peephole shows unruly ebony strands, and with a deep breath, she opens the door just a crack. There is little point in the cautiousness as the stranger stumbles through the door, trembling violently as he nearly runs her over.

"Took you long enough! I really need to take a-" The man pauses as he finally stands up straight, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, and the girl staring at him in concern. "Uh-you're not Itachi."

"Definitely not," she confirms dryly, crossing her arms over her chest, just tipsy enough to not feel self-conscious about her fuzzy pyjamas and an oversized sweatshirt. She has no idea who he is but Sakura has spent enough time with the Uchiha siblings and their relatives to know one of their clansmen when she sees him. "I'm his neighbour."

"Right, definitely prettier than him. Sorry. Fuck. Oh-sorry about that too," he mutters, a slight flush spreading over the high point of his cheeks. His sheepish tone contrasts greatly with his roguish look. Wild, dark hair that falls to his back. A black leather jacket that does little to hide his well-built form, and unusually deep-set eyes that stay strangely focused on her even as he squirms with discomfort. Her heart races, making her wonder if it's the alcohol or his cologne that's hitting her so hard. "I'm...just gonna go."

"Itachi's not home," she blurts out. "So, um."

"Oh," he sighs. His shoulders slump and she can't help but sympathize. "My bad. I should've checked."

"Yeah. Well, if you need to, you know." She points towards the hallway leading to the bathroom, and he blinks in slight confusion before he gets it.

"Are you sure?" he waits for her nod before he sighs once more, this time with relief, and begins to tug his boots off. "Shit, thanks. I'm really sorry to intrude, I just really need to-"

"Not a problem. It's right down the hallway, first door on the left!" she cuts in with a slight laugh, closing the front door as he hurries off. Just as she thinks to text Itachi, she realises she doesn’t have a name.

She probably shouldn’t trust a stranger this much, but she reasons that it’s Itachi she trusts, so it should be fine to flop back on the couch and resume her drinking.

Light footsteps indicate the not-a-complete stranger’s return, and Sakura turns to study him over the back of the couch. He seems calmer now, looking around her apartment curiously before he turns to smile at her.

“Thanks again. I probably would’ve-if you hadn’t-yeah. Thanks,” he flushes slightly at the sight of her trying and failing to hide a grin before he looks over her head at the coffee table. “Wait-are those Izuna’s cookies?”

“Itachi’s uncle? Yeah,” she affirms with a dreamy smile, reaching for another treat. He makes a weird face at her words.

“Yeah. His uncle.” She cocks a brow at his wince. “Right, I’m-his brother. Madara.”

Sakura can’t quite describe the jolt she feels at his name, and tries to ignore it as she takes the hand he holds out. His palm is warm and dwarfs her own, curling around it gently. Something in her shakes and she wonders if she’s always been so nervous around good-looking men she didn’t grow up with.

The name is a familiar one though, and she's sure it was Shisui who mentioned it. It explains how young he looks–Madara and Izuna are cousins to Itachi and Sasuke's father, born to a father who married quite late, at least according to the older generation's standards. It had the whole clan in quite a tizzy, according to Shisui. She's also sure she isn't supposed to be privy to clan gossip so she's going to keep her mouth shut.

“I’m Sakura.”

He smiles at that, his eyes softening in the dim light of her living room. “Of course it is.”

Her cheeks feel strangely warm and she feels like a fool, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. 'But,' the voice in her head that sounds a little like Ino's soothes her. 'Look at him. He's beautiful.'

"So, that makes you the other uncle."

"Ugh," he groans before doing an abrupt turn and smirking wickedly. "So that makes you the girl Sasuke wrote that poem for when he was eight?"

"Why do you know about that?" It's more demand than a question, but Sakura really doesn't bring up that long-buried memory unless it's for the specific aim of tormenting Sasuke.

"Who do you think helped him write it?" he taunts, snickering at her startled expression.

"And to think I'd been so impressed with the big words." Sakura shakes her head with an air of exaggerated disappointment.

"Well, I'm glad to see I got most of it right," he shrugs, the tips of his ears reddening tellingly. "If it’s any consolation, I'm sure he knows them now...I think."

Her responding laugh is cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing again, and they both look at each other as if expecting the other to have expected it. Madara shrugs and she moves to the front door, standing up on the tips of her toes to look through the peephole. Really, what's with her home attracting unexpected guests at–

She whirls around in a panic.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly as she rushes back, looking like she’s going to throw up.

“Um, yeah. No. I don’t know. It’s my ex.”

“An ex you want to see...?” he trails off.

“Absolutely not,” she mutters, pressing the heels of her palm to her eyes. She can feel a headache coming on with the new arrival and honestly, it is so very like Sasori to drop in without asking, expecting her to be okay with him ruining her night. Madara watches her freak out for a few seconds before nodding resolutely.

“Okay. Leave it to me.” Sakura makes a grab for his arm as he moves towards the door, trying to tug him in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Well, I owe you one. And I can’t just leave you to deal with an ex you clearly don’t want to see–especially at this time of the night,” he explains easily, trying to tug his arm from her grip. He tries to uncurl her fingers from where they’re digging into his bicep, and she nearly jumps when their hands touch once more. It's only now that she realizes how close they are, and that she's nearly hanging off his arm in an attempt to stop him from opening the door. "Hey, it's okay. I'll take care of it."

He looks back to wink at her before bending over to slide his boots on, and Sakura has to nearly tear her eyes away from the ridiculously appealing sight. He reaches the door and unlocks it deftly, and she's thankful for him looking away, because that was nearly devastating enough to make her forget about why he’s answering her door.

Then she hears the one voice she absolutely did not want to hear again, at least until she goes back to work tomorrow.

“Saku-you’re not Sakura,” she hears Sasori say, and she can imagine his disgruntled expression with perfect ease.

“Definitely not,” Madara says in an echo of her own words, and she can’t help the subtle smile that stretches across her mouth. “Can I help you?”

“Who are you?”

“None of your business.”

“It is if you’re at my girlfriend’s house at this time of the night.”

At that Sakura steps up next to Madara, crossing her arms in annoyance and trying not to blush when Madara slides his arm around her. He keeps his hand on the curve of her waist, his touch gentle and loose, but mostly reassuring. It also serves to annoy Sasori greatly, who looks like he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

“Ex-girlfriend. What do you want?” she snaps. She's sure he didn't leave anything at her place.

“Sakura, who is this?”

“Like he said, it’s none of your business.” She shivers a little and Madara tugs her closer, moving his hand to rub it over her arm in quick, light movements. She's a little amazed at how warm he is and quite upset that she has to stand in the cold because Sasori can't speak quickly enough.

"Um, well, I was just at a party at Hidan's." Who happens to live nearby. "And I was just...wondering if I could crash here. I thought we could talk."

For a long moment, Sakura can't quite bring herself to say anything. Not because she's considering saying yes–but because the nerve of this man has, not for the first time, left her speechless.

"Sasori, we-"

"I know, I know," he grumbles. He then shrugs and grins in a way she had once thought was charming, leaning in slightly. "Your place was just closer than mine-"

"And no longer accessible," Madara cuts in. "Goodnight." He tries to move them back so he can close the door, but Sasori interrupts the motion with a hand on the door.

"I'll take the couch!" Sasori pushes back against the door. "Sakura, babe, we've-"

"Alright," Madara steps out the door instead, forcing Sasori to take a few steps back. "Why don't have a little talk?" He turns to a confused looking Sakura, gesturing for her to go inside. "I'll be right in, sweetheart. Don't worry." He doesn't wait for her to reply, closing the door before she can say anything. Sakura stands with her ear pressed to the wood for over a minute, but doesn't hear a thing. She goes back to the couch, trying to figure out if this was really okay, but Madara comes back in before she can come to an actual conclusion.

"Well, he's a prick."

"I realize that now," she says, looking him over for any signs of damage. "Sorry, did he give you any trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. And you don't need to thank me either," he adds before she can even begin to come up with a way to express her gratitude. She also realizes that they're both alone once again, and despite how nice he seems, Madara is still a stranger. He looks a bit awkward, looking as if he doesn't know what to do with himself, or his hands which clench and unclench before he shoves them into the pockets of his jacket.

"Um, I should probably wait a few minutes before leaving...did Itachi say what time he'd be back?"

"He said he's going to stay at his parents' tonight," Sakura tells him, wincing at his dismayed expression. "He hasn't given you a spare key?"

"Shisui 'borrowed' it."

"I'm so sorry." She thinks it's a little funny, but works to keep her face sympathetic; Shisui would be extremely amused by the current events.

"That's alright. I think I've intruded enough, so I should probably go."

"Where do you live?" she asks, forehead wrinkled up at the thought of him having to make his way home in this weather. Sasori lives about ten minutes away–which is why she hadn’t been worried about him, she tells her guilty conscious.

"...Senju apartments."

"Fancy. Also on the other side of town," Sakura states flatly. "Did you drive here?"

"Ah."

"In a car?"

"...Bike."

"Right. Look," she begins, unable to actually believe she's doing this. "Just crash here tonight. I'll let Itachi know."

He looks taken aback at her suggestion, and shifts uncomfortably. "I wouldn't want to-"

"It's alright. I'm not comfortable with sending you off into the night," she reasons. "Plus, Itachi and Sasuke are practically family. That makes you...distant family. Sort of. Just-you're welcome to stay if you're comfortable with it."

Madara, who had begun to flush, looks extremely amused by the time she finishes. "Distant family."

"I said, sort of!"

"Hah. Well," he rubs at the back of his head hesitantly. "I guess. You're really okay with it?"

"Really okay with it. One hundred per cent." She waits for him to take his shoes off before herding him towards the couch. "You sleepy?"

"Not really," he admits sheepishly, taking a seat, sitting a little too properly for this time of the night.

"Great. You like Harry Potter?"

"Yeah."

"Wine?"

"Yes," he laughs, accepting the clean glass she brings him.

"Even better. It’s been ages since I had a sleepover. I'll bring more snacks."

The mildly awkward atmosphere dissolves quickly as they begin watching the movie, and Sakura's pleased to see her new companion loosen up and put his feet up on the coffee table. In an unexpected turn of events, she's found a new companion who's up for binge-watching the entire series, which is a little too ambitious for someone who has to work the next day. They open a new bottle as they express their mutual disappointment at the wasted potential of Tom Riddle, discuss their own Hogwarts house placements and the first time they read the books–before starting the third movie.

Sakura groans as the light hits her face, turning it to bury her head further into her pillow.

Her pillow, which seems unusually warm and smells like cedarwood. It's only when it shifts under her that her eyes fly open, and in her haste to spring back she tumbles off the bed.

"Ow-" She rubs her backside in slight disgruntlement, glancing up at Madara only to see him yawning widely as he stretches like a contented cat; he smiles softly as he notices her staring. She can't quite get her brain to process what she's seeing–tan skin stretching over long, firm planes of muscle. His wild hair spills over her pillows and she's hit with a memory of nuzzling it, of knowing what it smells like.

"Morning," he mumbles groggily, looking like he's ready to doze off again.

'Ah, fuck.'

"Morning," she replies in a tone a touch too shrill, jumping up when he just blinks at her. "We...uh..."

At her panicked expression, he seems to step out the doors of slumber completely, his cheeks reddening as he realizes she's struggling with their current state of undress. "Yeah. Uh, sorry?

"D-don't apologize," she says, trying to reassure him with a weak smile. "So! Breakfast?"

"Sakura." He sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist and she looks away before she sees more than she can handle. The plain black sweatshirt that was snug on him falls to her thighs when she stands up, and she sees the way his eyes fall to the bare expanse of her legs before he forces them back to her face. "I-I'll take care of that. You okay with scrambled eggs? Tea? Coffee?"

"Um-yeah. Here I'll just..." She looks around the room, spotting his pants by the door. She can't help the way she tugs at the hem of his sweatshirt as she bends her knees, grabbing the jeans. "Here. And–coffee. What can I do to help?"

"You need to be at work by ten, right? You can go get ready, we've got time." It's 8:30 on the clock, but how does he know what time she needs to be at the hospital? Her baffled look must tip him off because he shakes his head in mock seriousness as he washes his hands. "You don't remember that conversation, huh?"

"I'm sure it'll come to me," she sighs. "Alright I'll...go shower." She misses his distracted nod in her haste to retreat to the bathroom, his eyes struggling to focus as she leaves him to his thoughts.

It all does, eventually, come back to her while she's in the shower. She’s grateful for the privacy because she’s convinced Madara would think her a lunatic if he saw her smiling so hard.

(flashback, nsfw content ahead)

"Madara?" she asks, lifting her head off his shoulder so she could look at him. They sit side by side, watching the credits scroll past as they contemplate moving. Sakura’s cuddled into his side, unable to muster the will to move away from his warmth.

"Hm?"

"Have we met before?" The question has been on her mind since she first saw him earlier. He seems so familiar, but she’s unsure if it’s just because of his features, which do remind her of Itachi.

Her question is met with a slow blink as they both sit up a little straighter. "Could have. At birthday parties, maybe?"

She purses her lips at the thought, trying to recall any interactions that might have taken place in the past. Madara watches her for a moment, as she chews on her bottom lip, before tapping her chin to interrupt the rough treatment of her mouth. She’s struck by the urge to flick her tongue against the pad of his thumb, and the thought has her squirming in embarrassment. He looks completely serious, while she’s over here thirsting.

"Would you believe me if I said...I feel like I've been looking for you?" he asks hesitantly, flushing deeply when she looks amused. "Ugh, that sounds way cornier than it was intended to. I'm serious!"

She sobers up at his firm tone, studying his features in the dim light of the lamp. She smooths his bangs away from his eyes, feeling slightly overwhelmed when he takes the hand tucking his hair behind his ear in his own, lacing his fingers with hers.

"...I think I would," she whispers, mirroring his own tiny smile. "Then, would you believe me if I said I feel like I've been waiting for you?" She's only half-teasing. She feels at home, sitting next to him, arguing with him over fictional characters and concepts, watching him tap his feet to background music, eating cookies they're both shamelessly obsessed with.

Her heart feels warm and full when he kisses the back of her hand.

"I think I would," he says, his smiling turning embarrassed and shy and so soft that she can't help but lean in and press her lips to it, her heart pounding madly when he melts into it, into her. He groans low when she climbs into his lap, tilting his head to deepen the meeting of their mouths.

Desire drips into a pool at the bottom of her spine, where his hands splays and glides up to rest at the nape of her neck, tangling in messy, rosy strands. They kiss, and they kiss until her lips feel numb and her mind is muted for the first time in what feels like ages.

The first grind of her hips against his feels electric and the helpless way he bucks his hips up is something she wants to see repeated. He clutches her to him, peppering hot kisses down the slender slope of her neck and she knows what she wants. "Be-bedroom."

He stills, tilting his head back until the tip of his nose brushes hers. His eyes are reminiscent of hot pools of obsidian, and she thinks she would be okay with drowning in them. "Are you sure?"

"I want this." His mouth perks up even as he presses it to her jaw, winding her legs around his waist as he rises from the sofa with her holding on. Long fingers dig into the plump flesh of her rear, keeping her close and whimpering.

"Wait. Are you sure?"

His responding chuckle is edged with roughness, but not a straight enough answer. Once again, he manages to steal her breath before it can form words, sliding her lower against his body until she can feel him pressing into her, hard and straining.

"Oh. Okay," she gasps, pushing back into it until he stumbles with a curse, pressing her back into her bedroom door as he kisses her deeply, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth.

"Keep that up and we'll never get to the bed," he groans, grinding into her urgently as she nibbles on the shell of his ear.

"That's fine, just-fuck." She loses her train of thought when his hands squeeze her ass warningly.

"I'm not fucking you against a door," he says firmly, cutting her off with a quick kiss when she tries to protest. "Not the first time."

And so he fumbles with the door handle as his teeth dig into her skin, stumbling in blindly. He tosses her on the bed, reaching for the collar of his sweatshirt and sliding it off swiftly. Her mouth waters at this unveiling of his chiselled form, torn between reaching out to run her greedy fingers over it and reaching for her own clothes. He makes the decision for her by sliding his fingers underneath the hem of her shirt, tugging it up and over her head. Warmth flushes down from her cheeks to her chest when she realizes she had forgone a bra earlier, leaving the upper half of her body exposed to his burning gaze.

The moment his chest presses into hers, warm desire spreads down to the tips of her toes. It sinks into her bones as he kisses her temple, her cheeks, her lips. He carves a fervent path down her neck, teeth and tongue leaving hints of their efforts behind in blooming marks. The first curl of his tongue around a taut nipple has her gasping loudly, her fingers tangling in his hair as he splits his attention between her breasts.

His journey around her body continues with kisses down the soft planes of her abdomen until he reaches her waistline. Her heart pounds madly as she lifts her hips, allowing him to tug her pyjamas down her legs, followed by her underwear. It leaves her squirming beneath his gaze until he bends over her to press his lips to hers.

"You're so beautiful, darling," he groans, his hands gliding down her waist and back up. "Can I taste you?" He waits for her slow nod, smiling as he climbs back down, spreading her legs until he's found himself a spot between them. Sakura, who waits breathlessly for that first contact, nearly yelps when she feels his teeth sink into the tender flesh of her inner thigh instead. He soothes the spot with his tongue, and just as she settles down with the comforting motion she feels a languid lick along her slick sex that steals any capacity for thought still present in her head.

Lifting up on her elbows proves to be disastrous for her heart: he locks eyes with her as he licks fervidly into her, his eyes crinkling and lips twisting wickedly.

Sakura thinks she might have invited the devil into her bed.

He doesn't let her move until she's dripping with her desire, pushed to the brink of madness and digging her heels into his shoulders. He's unfazed by her pleading, coaxing and tonguing but never letting her tip over.

"Madara, Mad-fuck, please, please," she whimpers, one hand clenched around her sheets and the other smacking into the headboard.

"You need to tell me what you want, babygirl," he laughs, drawing slow, torturous circles around her clit.

"Fuck me, fuck me, please." She's practically begging but she needs this. She thinks she might actually wither away if he doesn't let her come. She feels him move, blinking her tears away so she can watch him slide his pants off and reach for his wallet. She's never felt more focused as she watches him tug the boxer-briefs down, freeing his straining erection and leaving her swallowing with one motion.

Sitting up, she reaches for him as he tears the foil square open carefully, but he stops her with a hand curling around her wrist. He brings her hand up to this mouth, kissing the back of it and urging her back down. "Later."

Any arguments she might have had are ripped away when she feels him at her entrance, rubbing the tip of his head against her slickness. When he pushes through her slit, tearing a moan from the depths of her throat, he kisses the corner of her mouth softly. She's convinced no one has ever felt this good, and no one ever will.

He's watching her, she realizes belatedly. She reaches up to cup his cheek, smiling faintly as he kisses her palm quickly, as he waits for her to adjust around him.

"Is this okay?" he asks, dropping his forehead to hers, his muscles straining as he keeps himself from moving. She pulls him close, leaving open-mouthed kisses over his tense shoulders.

"It's perfect." She pushes up, her walls squeezing tight and a startled groan escapes him before he pulls back and snaps his hips into hers–over and over again, aimed to tear her apart and make his mark in the very depths of her until she's shattering to pieces around him and trembling in his arms. He whispers softly, incoherently as he thrusts frantically, and she kisses him through his unravelling.

She curls into a ball, after, nearly vibrating her contentment when she feels his fingers in her hair, rubbing at her scalp. Madara proves himself to be a cuddler when he moulds himself to her back, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply. "Okay, I have a confession."

She turns around in his arms, raising a brow at his conflicted expression.

"I...have seen you before."

"Oh?" she lifts up onto an elbow, watching him struggle with his words. She's filled with curiosity because she's certain she'd never seen Madara before today. He’s not someone she would forget.

"Yeah. It was at your graduation party a few years back. The one you all had at Fugaku’s place," he tells her, his eyes unfocused as he thinks back to the time. "We didn't actually meet, but that was... I thought you were beautiful even then."

It’s strange to hear him address the older man so casually when he’s closer in age to her than Fugaku, but then they are cousins.

"Oh." She rests her head in her palm. "Let me guess–and you've been smitten ever since?" She shouldn't tease when he's being so serious, but she's come to really enjoy his blushing responses–a reaction she doesn't get this time. Instead, he meets her eyes steadily, if a bit solemnly.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Madara!" She laughs, pinching his cheek, prompting him to smile as well.

“You don’t believe me.” He sighs, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Mhm. I'm glad you got the wrong door," she whispers, feeling him smile against her skin.

"Me too." She sighs and presses her face to his chest, snuggling closer when he winds his arms around her. They’re quiet for a while, and just before she slips into sleep, he speaks up.

"Sakura?"

"Hm?

"Meeting you like this...being so close to you," he shifts slightly, pressing his lips to her hair. "Right now, I almost feel like...you belong to me." His admission is said so lowly that she nearly misses it. "And I belong to you. Is that strange?"

She smiles drowsily, tilting her head back to kiss him, soft and slow. "No, I think it's lovely."

"I think you're lovely." She can’t keep her eyes open, drifting into the dark with warmth all around her. “And...I don’t think I want to let you go.”

“...Then don’t.”

For the first time in a long time, she's smiling as she falls asleep.

Sakura's still smiling as she steps out of the shower. Wiping her hand over the fogged up mirror, she squints at her reflection. She looks bright, despite a terrible headache, and she feels warm–on the inside and out; her skins nearly burns when she spots the marks over her collarbone and thighs.

Waking up to soft greetings, offers of breakfast and a very pleasant ache between her thighs–it's something new, but it's nice. Madara is nice.

'And I'm fucked. Literally and figuratively'

But is she? She may have started him by kissing him, but he more than reciprocated. She's never felt more loved, and that includes actual relationships. Then there were the mind-melting things he said. A bit intense, but they were both more than a little dazed in the aftermath.

She’s a little worried about starting something this soon after ending things with Sasori, but– and she may be speaking too soon, but she never felt this way with Sasori. The redhead had started their relationship, dictated most of it, and she had been okay with it, accepting that she’s not the sort to take charge when it comes to this stuff.

But with Madara? She feels the sparks of excitement. She wants. So many things. So badly. She should, however, take it slow. A little too late, but she should still try. The man might be more than a little alarmed if he finds out just how into him she already is.

Her stomach growls loudly as she follows the smell of frying bacon to the kitchen. And there he is, the man in question, arranging food on two plates, her coffee ready on the side. His hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, his pants tight around his waist–and backside–and Sakura nearly swoons at the sight of him.

“Are you real?” she asks, completely serious.

“Real enough to have burnt the toast a little,” he answers with a sheepish grin. She hands him his sweatshirt apologetically, but he's unfazed as he pulls it on easily.

She wonders if this is all very normal for him, and the thought stings a little.

“I like it burnt.” She shrugs and pauses as she reaches the counter. She turns around to see him watching her; with a quick prayer to whoever’s listening and a hand on his shoulder, she rises up on the tips of her toes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

His fingers curl around her wrist before she can step out of his space, his eyes searching her face before he pulls her close. She should be alarmed by how natural it feels to have his arms around her and his lips coaxing her mouth open. In the light of the morning, he kisses her softly; once more, she’s filled with a yearning that makes her ache.

In what’s quickly turning into an irritating pattern, her phone rings. A quick glance at the screen assuages her annoyance, but she still has to take a deep breath before answering.

“Morning, Itachi. Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas. I just saw your text. Is Madara still there?”

“Uh, yeah, he is.”

“Alright. I’m nearly on our floor. See you in a minute.”

“Wait-“

But he’s hung up already, and she turns to see Madara sipping at what looks like green tea, failing to hide his disappointment.

“I heard.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, moving towards the entrance, then doubling back and pulling Madara into a quick, hard kiss that leaves him slack-jawed. “Sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” he murmurs hoarsely, making grabby hands at her as she skips away. Beaming, she opens the door to Itachi’s suspicious eyes and boxes of what she’s sure are his mother’s cooking.

“Yes, this is for you,” Itachi says before she can ask, moving past her to peer into her apartment. “Ah. There you are.”

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Itachi looks from his uncle to Sakura, as if expecting more. “I’m going to go ahead get it out of the way–did you guys...?”

“Yes.”

“N-What!” Sakura squeaks, glaring at Madara when she spots the grin he tries to hide behind his cup.

“Right. Okay. Well, I’m gonna go get some more sleep. Sakura, have a nice day at work. Madara, let's go. Bring the plate, I’ll return it later.” Itachi doesn’t seem to be asking, and Madara, to her surprise, does as the other man says. They stare at each other for a few seconds, before Itachi raises a brow and turns to leave. A tiny smirk curls along his mouth, and she knows she can expect a call from Shisui within the hour.

The second he’s out Madara’s arms around her and his lips are on hers.

“Have dinner with me,” he asks as soon as he pulls away, his eyes wide with hope.

“Tonight?” she says, her answer clear when she kisses him again. Madara grins down at her, pulling her in for a hug that leaves her gasping for breath as she laughs.

“I’ll pick you up.”

Bonus:

“He made you breakfast?” Shisui asks over the phone, for the third time.

“Yes, Shisui. Honestly, it’s not like he gave me a manicure! Why are you so surprised?” Sakura glances around to ensure there aren't any eavesdroppers as she exits the elevator in the hospital. Ino has the evening shift, so she didn't get a chance to talk to her. She's not sure what she would even say. Her entire day had been a struggle with focus, but she had managed to keep the Madara-related thoughts at bay until the end of her shift.

And then she called the one person who could give her some insight.

“Because! Madara does not make people breakfast. In the rare occasions that he does spend time with them, he exits those occasions as quickly as humanly possible.”

“So he’s...”

“Not a dick! Not exactly. He’s just had a hard time getting emotionally involved with partners. You’re sure it was him? Not Izuna?”

“Yes, Shisui, of course, I’m sure!”

“Okay, okay. Hm. I think...he might like you?”

“Yeah?” she can't help but smile as she opens the door to her car, flinging her bag inside.

“Yeah. Weird.”

“Why is it weird?”

“You’re going to be Itachi and Sasuke’s aunt-“

“Uchiha Shisui! Don’t even put that crap in my head.” It's way too early to even go there.

“Fine, I won’t. But what will you do about the crap in his head?”

“I’m sure there’s nothing like that! At least, I won’t know until I talk to him. Which won’t be possible until dinner tonight. I also need his number. Which is why I called you.”

“Ah, right. You were so preoccupied with his mouth that you forgot to even ask for his number?”

Sakura makes a silent vow to punch him the next time she sees him.

“...I’ll text it to you. Are we telling Itachi you're planning on asking his uncle out?”

“...not yet.” She's not sure how her friend would react. Itachi has always been a supportive presence in her life, but he didn't actually say anything this morning.

“It's not like he'll be surprised!”

“Probably. But let me talk to Madara first!” She gets inside and closes the door, leaning back and closing her eyes tiredly.

“Fine, fine. If he’s an ass to you, let me know. I’ll...tell Izuna.”

“I’m hurt. You won’t even kick his ass yourself?” she teases.

“Not when I know I won’t escape with my limbs unbroken. Your new flame is a scary dude, you know.”

“Please. Are you forgetting I’ve met the guy? He’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

“...Madara...nicest...Is-is this what they call a Christmas Miracle?”

#MadaSakuWeekEND2019 #madasaku #naruto smut #Sakura Haruno #Uchiha Madara #naruto fanfiction

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sea-and-storm · 5 years ago

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LFRP : Nhia Molkoh (Crystal)

Below are just the most basic of Nhia’s character details in order to keep this post short and sweet. But if you’d like to see a more in-depth profile, please check out her carrd!

The Basics ––– –

Age: Twenty-four (24).

Birthday: Twentieth sun of the first astral moon. (1/20)

Race: Miqo’te, Keeper of the Moon.

Gender: Female, cisgender. (she/her)

Sexuality: Bisexual, male leaning. Demiromantic.

Marital Status: Single.

Server: Balmung (Crystal DC)

Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: A medium gray-brown color, long and thick in texture. Sometimes left down and untamed, other times pulled up or styled, but almost always decorated with some combination of braids, beads, and other baubles that catch her eyes. For a visual example of the sorts of hairstyles she tends to wear, take a look at this gallery.

Ears: Same color as her hair, and very soft to the touch. Pierced along the underside of the lobes, usually wearing some small, simple earrings.

Tail: Very long, very plush, and very well-groomed. Extremely expressive, often moving along with her mood or as she speaks.

Eyes: Bright blue.

Height: 5′0″.

Build: Petite pear, with a little extra weight carried around her hips and thighs. Pleasantly soft and curved.

Distinguishing Marks: Light gray-white tribal paints across her face, and sometimes other places across her body depending on the occasion and her mood.

Personal ––– –

Profession: Clan Trade Liaison. She brings her clans’ good to market in the cities to trade for coin and barter, and attempts to find those merchants and artisans willing to enter into more lasting and mutually beneficial supply agreements with them.

Hobbies: Drawing and painting. Finding new places and new things to paint or draw. Foraging. Flower picking. Listening to other people's stories.

Languages: Common, Huntspeak.

Residence: None in particular, outside of her clan's territory when she's home. She wanders wherever her feet carry her, and she tends to prefer making a camp for herself out in nature rather than spending gil on inn rooms.

Birthplace: The Black Shroud, as a part of the Singing Dove Clan of Moon Keepers. Theirs is a small and peaceful gathering of families that mostly keeps to their own, but occasionally reaches out beyond the Shroud's borders to sell and trade for goods not readily found at home.

Religion: Devout follower of Menphina.

Fears: Anything ill befalling her loved ones. Being trapped. Deep waters. Very large and fearsome beasts. Losing her ability to wander, whether by injury or by order of her clan.

Personality: Cheerful, bright personality. Very sociable. Talkative. Curious. Empathetic. Generous. Understanding. Quite emotionally intelligent. Can handle her own in nature. Very naive. Too trusting. Sometimes too talkative or too curious. Not the most formally learned. Also not the most street smart.

Relationships ––– -

Spouse: None.

Children: None.

Parents: Emhi Molkoh (mother, npc) & Naih’a Epocan (father, npc).

Siblings: (Open to sibling / half-sibling connections!)

Other Relatives: (Open to other familial connections as well!)

Pets: No pets, per se. But she does have a chocobo by the name of Arrow.

Traits ––– -

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted Disorganized / In Between / Organized Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded Calm / In Between / Anxious Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable Cautious / In Between / Reckless Patient / In Between / Impatient Outspoken / In Between / Reserved Leader / In Between / Follower Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic Traditional / In Between / Modern Hard-working / In Between / Lazy Loyal / In Between / Disloyal Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information ––– –

Smoking Habit: None.

Drugs: None.

Alcohol: Sometimes, but she doesn’t handle hard liquor well. Though chances are if you offer her a drink, she’d think it rude to turn it down.

Possible Hooks ––– –

◖SHROUD DWELLER◗ ⠀ Fellow dweller of the Shroud, or maybe just a passer-through? We could set up an interaction around this, easily! Nhia is often found within the forests of the Black Shroud whenever she's home from her traveling, whether she's hunting or just exploring.

◖KEEPERS OF THE MOON◗ I would love to meet some fellow Keepers, whether they've left home in search of a new life or keep the old ways! In the latter case, a connection would be quite easy to manage, as Nhia is regularly sent out to make contact with other clans of the Shroud to establish trade and goodwill with her own.

◖TRADERS AND MERCHANTS◗ This is technically what Nhia does for a living -- venturing out to establish trade connections for her clan. If your character is the buying and selling sort, perhaps they can speak and come to a mutually beneficial deal!

◖FELLOW HUNTERS◗ Nhia is something of a huntress herself, and so crossing paths with others is only to be expected! Perhaps a trail leads them to the same prey, or they team up to take down something neither can handle individually?

◖THE ARTIST & HER MUSE◗ The only thing that Nhia loves more than traveling is documenting it, most usually by way of paintings and drawings. Perhaps she might ask if it's alright if she adds you to her sketchbook while you regale her with stories of your travels, or maybe you know of a particularly beautiful, breathtaking sight that you could take her to see?

◖GULLIBLE WITH A CAPITAL ‘G’◗ For better or worse, Nhia tends to take everything that someone tells her at face value, believing it to be the absolute truth. I mean, what reason would they have to exaggerate or lie to her, right? .....right? Feel free to regale her with all your wildest tales, even if they aren’t exactly truthful.

OOC Rules of Engagement ––– –

I'll do no RP of any sort with real-life minors. Sorry, I just don't feel comfortable writing with anyone under eighteen!

I don't tolerate OOC romantic and/or sexual advances, or any OOC clinginess or possessiveness. Just… don’t. RP partners with reasonable and healthy OOC boundaries only, please!

All natural, slowburn ships only. I don't do the whole pre-arranged or love-at-first-RP ship deal. If it's meant to be between our brainchildren, it'll happen because of character chemistry and a lot of RP, or not at all.

Dark & mature themes are fine, but please ask before crossing too far over the line! Very little thematically tends to bother me in RP. However, if you plan on pushing further past the conventional boundaries than usual, I'd at least appreciate a heads up first in the off chance I'm not up for it!

ERP is something I could easily take or leave. It may be fun to write sometimes, but it gets repetitive and boring to me real quick. So if this is your sole or primary focus of RP, we aren’t gonna be suitable partners. If we are going to write the beast with two backs, at least give me some plot to make it interesting and/or meaningful. And don’t be salty about being asked to FTB more often than not.

Contact Information ––– –

Discord: Jaliqai#1327.

In Game: Niah Molkoh.

Tumblr: @jaliqai-and-company

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hayleysstark · 6 years ago

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Title: Anniversary Words: 11178 Warnings: Swearing + vomiting Summary: Arthur's birthday isn't really his favorite time of year, for obvious reasons, but Merlin is going to fix that. Provided this pesky little cold of his doesn't get in the way, of course. One-shot. Post-S4. Merlin-gets-sick-and-tries-to-hide-it fic. Arthur's probably OOC. Notes: WHY IS THIS,,,,,,,,,,,, SO LONG,,,,,,,,,, I,,,,,,,,,, AM SORRY,,,,,,,,, I JUST,,,,,,,,,, KEPT GOING? dfhjtrfghgfgf oH MY GOD i am SO SORRY like,,,,,, shut the fuck up, onceandfuturewarlock. oh, god, I'm sorry. why is this so long. oh, also, fun fact yes I did get the idea of Merlin and the others giving Arthur a sheath for Excalibur off the myth! we're going to pretend in this version that Merlin cast a thousand protective enchantments over that sheath to render Arthur practically unkillable when he wears it lmao. MERLIN IS TAKING NO CHANCES WITH HIS DUMBASS KING ALL RIGHT. ONCE AND FUTURE KING? ARTHUR PENDRAGON IS THE ONCE AND FUTURE DUMBASS AND MERLIN IS TAKING NO CHANCES WITH THIS BITCH. oh god i'm sorry this note is almost a big a disaster as this story.

Read on Fanfiction and AO3.

Merlin was up to something.

Well, all right, fine, the idiot usually was up to something—mouthing off to esteemed guests or skiving off his chores to go to the tavern or calling Arthur a prat or accidentally instigating full-scale, free-for-all, every-man-for-himself prank wars between the knights—and the fool still tried to insist, to this day, that he'd had absolutely nothing to do with any of it, and it had all just gotten a bit out of hand and it was only an accident, but Arthur knew better than to believe him—no one else in the kingdom was imbecilic enough to set his own hair on fire, and leave Gwaine covered in gravy in the courtyard and hang Percival's unmentionables from the castle battlements—

Arthur suppressed the memory with a shudder—no use dwelling on that. Best to just be grateful everything had sorted itself out in the end, and a few hours in the stocks had more than helped Merlin learn his lesson.

Well. The fact remained. Merlin was up to something.

He'd been on time every day this week, for a start—no, no, rephrase, he hadn't just been getting up on time, he'd been getting up on time without any sort of outside prompting—Gaius was gone, off treating that village in the north, struck down so suddenly and violently by that mysterious, fast-spreading fever, and hadn't been there to wake his ward—for an entire week, he hadn't been there to wake his ward—and, on top of it all, Merlin had assumed nearly all the duties of a physician while the actual physician was away, dressing wounds and brewing draughts—and hadn't said a single word about it, either—Arthur himself wouldn't even know if he hadn't seen Merlin making Gaius' usual rounds about the castle and the town—and the man still managed to keep up with his regular tasks as well, rousing Arthur and Guinevere at sunrise every morning with a tray of breakfast in his hands and a bright smile on his face.

And it wasn't just that.

Merlin had taken to disappearing lately, too—and not like the way he usually disappeared, for hours or even entire days at a time, then came back looking exhausted and pathetic and more than a little drunk—his absence these days lasted only a few moments, here and there, and he returned with a big dopey grin on his face, and then insisted he'd been right there the whole time and Arthur was just an oblivious clotpole and he wasn't grinning at all.

The worst of it was, Arthur had started to suspect that he'd dragged the knights, and Guinevere even, in on it, too.

The way everyone had taken to looking at him lately, especially when they thought he wasn't looking at them—the smiles that dropped off their faces the instant they locked eyes with him and the fleeting half-glances they exchanged when they crossed paths in the corridors and the hasty, whispered conversations they thought he didn't know about just before he rounded a corner or entered a room—Merlin was up to something, and he'd let everyone in on it except Arthur himself, and it—

—it sort of stung.

No, no, that wasn't the right word—Arthur couldn't care less—let Merlin have his secrets—his mysterious disappearances—his hushed conferences and personal jests with the knights—so long as he wasn't distracting the men from their training, or their defense of the kingdom, it didn't matter one way or the other—Arthur absolutely did not feel even the slightest bit excluded or lonely just because his servant had—what? Grown a bit closer with his knights without his notice? Stopped paying attention to him? Become a damn sight better at his job?

No. Absolutely not.

As a matter of fact, he was quite glad of it—Merlin's cheerful, inane prattle was the absolute last thing he needed at the best of times—now, with his anniversary on the morrow, he had bigger things to worry about—the preparations for the feast alone had taken up nearly a month, and the end to it all couldn't come fast enough, in his opinion.

He just wanted it all to be over.

Well, all right, truth be told, he didn't want there to be a feast at all, but he'd discovered, time and again these past few years, that ruling a kingdom meant it mattered very little what he wanted, even when what he wanted was to just not celebrate the day his father had taken the blow meant for him, and died in front of him—died because of him—just like his mother—

No.

Arthur swallowed and shut his eyes.

He was not opening that door, not tonight.

He would go to sleep—he shifted a little closer to Guinevere, seeking her steadying presence as much as her warmth—and he would not think about anything else, not his mother leaving this world so he could enter it, or his father's life drawing to a close so his could continue—no, he would not think about it—he would get this horrible feast over with, and he would be okay, and he would breathe again.

He would be okay.

Or, at least, he would make damn sure no one else knew that he wasn't.

He sank a little deeper into his pillow, and willed sleep to come.

"Rise and shine!"

Arthur swallowed a groan, shifting groggily in the sheets as the sunlight struck him, and the world behind his tightly closed eyes—rather rudely, in his opinion—turned orange. No, no, it couldn't possibly be morning—not already—he could swear it had only been moments since he'd last shut his eyes—just a few more minutes—he buried his face in the nearest pillow—just a few more minutes, and he'd drag himself up—he reached blindly for Guinevere, aching for the comfort of her skin against his, but his fingers found only empty, cold sheets, and Arthur was suddenly very awake.

"Where's Guinevere?" He sat upright, squinting slightly from the sun's dazzling glare.

"Oh, she's already up. Waiting for us, actually," Merlin said breezily, as though this didn't just answer one question, and open up about a dozen more. "Come on, then, let's have you, lazy daisy!" He even had the nerve to throw in a grin.

Arthur didn't move, only fixed the servant with his best scowl. "I've no time for your riddles, Merlin. Where is Guinevere?"

"I've just told you. Waiting for us. Hurry up and get dressed, and we'll set out." Merlin gathered up the jumble of freshly-laundered fabric from the end of the bed, and tossed it at the king.

Arthur caught the clothes deftly and frowned—this couldn't be right—his third-best tunic, and riding breeches? Either Merlin was deliberately trying to lose his job, or he'd mucked up again. Perhaps he was on the cider. "This isn't—where's my—my good cloak? My ceremonial mail?"

"Oh, you won't be needing it." The corners of Merlin's mouth twitched, threatening another smile.

"Quit fooling around, Merlin!" Arthur lobbed the clothes back at the younger man—he could hear the stocks calling the idiot's name, and it wasn't even noon. "I've a feast to attend in eight hours, and you are not helping—!"

"Oh, the feast was cancelled."

Arthur stopped short. "What?"

"The feast," Merlin repeated, handing the clothes back to him. "It was cancelled."

"It can't have gotten!" Arthur yanked the garments from the other's hands, and dropped them in a heap on the wrinkled sheets before he clambered from the bed to look Merlin full in the face. "That feast was weeks in the planning! How on earth—?"

"I said we should cancel it." Merlin knelt to grab a few dirty tunics up from the floor, and stuffed them hurriedly in the laundry basket before he straightened up and grinned at Arthur. "Gwen agreed with me."

"Don't—don't be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur sputtered—idiot really was on the cider, then. There was just no other explanation. "You're a servant. You can't just walk right up to the queen and say you think a feast should be cancelled, and—"

"But I wasn't speaking as a servant." Suddenly, Merlin wasn't smiling anymore—there was a strange, steely, steady sort of look in his eyes, and a tight, grim set to his mouth. "I was speaking as a friend."

And Arthur—

—Arthur didn't have anything to say to that.

No, actually, he had about a thousand things to say to that, starting with don't be an idiot, Merlin and maybe a we aren't friends from there, perhaps a stop being such a girl for good measure—but the words wouldn't come, sticking somewhere in the back of his throat, so he just stood there, like an utter fool, silent and still and stupidly blinking at Merlin.

"You've not been yourself lately, Arthur." Merlin hefted the basket up from the floor and set it on the edge of the bed, bracing a hand on either side to steady it. "Gwen's beginning to worry about you." He lifted his head, and locked eyes with the king. "We all are."

Arthur's face burned, mouth going dry—a furious heat blazed in his cheeks, skin scorching all the way up to his ears and down to his neck—in the vivid glow of the new dawn, there was no way Merlin didn't see the flush—how had the man noticed? How had any of them noticed? He'd done everything he could to ensure they didn't notice—done everything he could to keep his burdens to himself—to let them see would be to weigh them down—and they had all already carried so much for him—and they had all, it seemed, decided to bear still more, and it was suddenly near impossible to swallow.

"We all know this has been hard for you, Arthur," Merlin left the basket, tottering unsteadily on the edge of the bed, and took several steps closer to the king. "And we know why. We just—" he hesitated, biting down, hard, on his bottom lip. "We just wanted," he said at last, "to make things a bit easier on you."

"S-so—" Arthur finally forced himself to speak, but stumbled all the same over the words. Gods, he sounded like a—like a dollophead. "—so, the feast, it's—?"

"Cancelled," Merlin finished—a tentative smile half-tugged at the corner of his lip. "But you've still got a bit of a day ahead of you, Sire, so I'd suggest you get dressed for it." He gestured to the clothes, still scattered untidily on the unmade bed.

Logic said Arthur should probably be furious right about now—should probably order Merlin down to the stocks, if he was feeling merciful enough, and the dungeons if he wasn't—put the servant in his place, then call the feast back on—logic said he should set everything to rights—logic said he should be angry—but—oh, hell—

"Th-thank you, Merlin."

And then, like the absolute girl he was, Merlin just had to go and beam at him like he'd set the stars in the sky with his own two hands—Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed, and hoped with everything inside him that Merlin did not notice the flush returning to his cheeks—change of topic, change of topic—quick, before the idiot tried to turn things sappy—

"Where has Guinevere got to, by the way?" He grabbed the clothes up off the bed, quietly grateful for something to do with his hands, and stepped behind the dressing screen—he stripped off his trousers, and flung them over the top of the screen, biting back a grin at the sound of Merlin's furious "Just hand it to me, you prat!" from the other side.

"I told you," Merlin huffed, then coughed a little, boots slapping across the stone floor as he presumably gathered up the discarded shirt. "Waiting for us."

"Yes, you mentioned that, Merlin," Arthur rolled his eyes again, even though Merlin couldn't see him, and pulled on the fresh tunic. "But since you won't get it any other way, I suppose I'll spell it out for you – I didn't ask you what she was doing, I asked you where she was." He tugged on the breeches.

"Oh! No, I can't tell you that bit," Merlin replied, which was extremely far from reassuring. "But you'd best hurry up, if you don't want to keep her waiting." He coughed again, a bit quieter this time—from the sound of things, he tried, without much success, to muffle it behind his hand.

"Merlin," Arthur emerged from behind the dressing screen with a frown, "you can't just cancel an entire feast and make off with my queen and—"

"I didn't 'make off' with your queen!" Merlin broke in, the picture of indignation. "Gwaine did!"

"Do you—do you hear yourself?!"

"No, no, she's with the others, too!" Merlin added hastily, waving his hands wildly at Arthur, palms out, as though trying to calm an agitated horse. "Elyan and Leon and—" He snapped his mouth shut. "…you were not supposed to know all that yet."

"Merlin," Arthur raised his eyebrows, suspicion taking hold, "what are you up to?"

"Nothing!" Merlin dropped his hands back to his sides and flashed a bright smile, but the sheen of nervous sweat on his forehead belied him.

"Keeping secrets from your king is treason, Merlin," Arthur reminded him—and yes, he was using what Gwaine would call his "princess" voice, which it absolutely wasn't, thank you very much.

Merlin's grin faltered a little. "I—I am an open book, Sire."

"Good, so you can tell me exactly why you've got my knights and my queen waiting for me at an undisclosed location. And run and fetch my breakfast while you're at it," Arthur added, upon further thought. "Honestly, you can't expect me to put up with you on an empty stomach."

Merlin didn't move. "Actually, breakfast is—"

"Wait, let me guess," Arthur held up a hand to silence him. "Breakfast is waiting for us, too."

"You're catching on." In spite of everything, the corners of Merlin's lips began to twitch. "Never thought this day would come."

"Insulting your king is also treason."

"Existing is treason," Merlin muttered under his breath—ever exaggerating—and headed for the door, throwing an expectant glance at Arthur over his shoulder. "Come on, let's go. They'll get to wondering where we are if we don't show up soon."

"I give the orders, Merlin," Arthur reminded him, and stayed exactly where he was.

"Right, well, then, think of it this way," Merlin said. "The quicker you get there, the quicker you get breakfast."

"Threatening to starve your king? Also treason."

"Oh, trust me," Merlin cast a deliberate glance toward Arthur's middle, "my king is in no danger of starving."

"Merlin—!"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before the idiot threw open the door and flung himself bodily through the gap. He tore down the corridor like hell itself nipped at his heels, so Arthur did the sensible, rational, mature, kingly thing—

—and chased after him.

Forget the stocks, Arthur decided, as his pulse picked up speed at the sudden exertion—a few hours of discomfort and rotten vegetables was far too kind a sentence—not even the dungeons were good enough at this point—he rounded the corner, and thundered down the next three flights of stairs without pause—sheer luck kept Merlin's gangly, long-limbed figure always just out of his reach, because no way had the idiot somehow gotten faster than him without his notice, no bloody way—round another bend, and Arthur realized, a second too late, just where Merlin was taking him—he stumbled, tried to stop—finally brought himself to a clumsy, skidding halt, there in the middle of the entrance hall—and he had to grab onto the banister behind him to keep upright—outside the open double doors at the other end of the hall, he caught half a glimpse of the horses, tacked up and ready—his own, spirited snow-white mare, tossing her head and snorting haughtily—next to her, Merlin's docile chestnut nag nickered softly and flicked her tail—the idiot had planned all this, hadn't he? And that same idiot had all but collapsed beside the horses, bursting into a furious fit of deep, hacking coughs—even from this distance, Arthur could see how the force of them shook his skinny frame, and he rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Honestly, Merlin," he called, and let go of the banister. He crossed the entrance hall, striding out into the sun. "That was barely a sprint, and if that's all it took to take you down, maybe I ought to have you run a few drills in training tomorrow with the knights—"

"No, no!" Merlin interrupted, and hastily straightened up, fixing on a sunny grin. "No, no, nope, no training needed here. Absolutely not." He shook his head emphatically, and glanced to the horses. "You know, Sire, since we're already out here, and," he gestured to the mounts, "the stable-hand has already gone to all this trouble of saddling up our horses for us, and it's such a beautiful day—"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said flatly, and held up a hand for silence—he just—he just needed a moment to think—if Merlin could just give him a moment—gods, the idiot really had planned all this—and he'd actually done a halfway decent job keeping it quiet—until this morning, Arthur hadn't had the faintest inkling—and damn it if he wasn't curious now as to what lay ahead—besides, best way out was straight through, and all of that. Gods knew the imbecile wouldn't rest until he'd gotten what he wanted.

"Well," Arthur drew himself up and started down the steps, breezing past Merlin and hauling himself up onto his horse in hardly half a moment, "come on, then. Don't just stand there looking like a startled stoat."

Merlin beamed, and scrambled onto his horse, a bumbling gawky jumble of messy dark hair and limbs too long for his body—when he'd pulled himself up, he cast another glance at Arthur, glowing smile still fixed on his face.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and tried very hard to pretend he hadn't noticed, as he gave his mare a nudge in the flank with the heel of his boot, and she broke into a trot out of the courtyard—the clop of hooves on the cobblestone behind him said Merlin was following close behind. As he always was.

"Where to?" Arthur glanced over his shoulder, only for a moment, as they rode through the arch marking the boundary of the courtyard. "Don't tell me this is some wild goose chase you've set me on, Merlin," he added warningly when the man hesitated.

"No, no, it's not that," Merlin's lips twitched up into another grin—how he had the energy for so many of them, and before breakfast, even, Arthur would never know. "Just—through here." He tugged lightly at the reins, pulling a pace ahead of Arthur, and guided his mount toward the woods, the trees' bare autumn branches, stark against the silver dawn sky, swaying and bowing in the strong morning wind.

Oh. Arthur brightened a bit, and sat up a little straighter in the saddle—the woods, yes, now that was a worthy destination. The thought of the loamy green depths awaiting them brought a grin to his face—already, he could feel the sun on his skin, its bright warmth beaming down through dense, ashen clouds—could smell the soil, sodden from the week's heavy rains—could hear the cheerful trills of nearby birds—the sharp cracks of fallen twigs and branches snapping underfoot—if Merlin had just told him up front this was where they'd be going—the moment they entered the ostensible shelter of the naked trees, leafless limbs arching high up over their heads, Arthur couldn't help it anymore—he laughed, full and bright and real, for the first time in what felt suddenly like years, and threw his mare into a gallop, and didn't even care about the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Merlin's lip.

Under these open skies, the formalities and the ceremonies, the titles, the customs, the tired, too-old conventions of the court seemed a distant dream, back within the castle's walls. Out here, in the golden glow of the newly-risen sun, the weight of the world's expectations left his shoulders, and he remembered how to breathe. Out here, no one looked to him for answers. Out here, no one needed him to be the king. Out here, he was just Arthur.

Fallen leaves crunched and crackled under the horses' hooves, the only sound as they wended their way through the trees—the mounts plodded leisurely along the path for nearly half an hour, and Arthur was just beginning to suspect that the idiot had gone and gotten them lost when—

"We're here!" Merlin hauled on his reins until his horse halted.

Arthur frowned and drew even with Merlin, gazing round the decidedly empty patch of forest he'd seen fit to stop in. "There's nothing here."

"Oh! Just beyond those trees," Merlin nodded at a thick clump of sturdy-looking beeches. "But we'd best leave the horses here." He swung himself out of the saddle, and staggered when he hit the ground—stumbled so bad he nearly fell, and had to press a hand to his nag's side to keep his feet.

Arthur snorted and quit his own saddle, with far more finesse. "Graceful as always, Merlin." Actually, not as always—not now that he stopped to think about it, even Merlin, clumsy as he was, had mastered the art of getting off a horse since he'd come to Camelot, and it was honestly rare to see him blunder about like that upon dismounting nowadays.

"Just one of my many gifts," Merlin grinned, and straightened back up to his full height. He set off through the trees a moment later—still a bit off-balance, if the slight, sudden lurch to the left was anything to go by.

Arthur followed after him—had to be near enough to tease if the idiot fell, after all—and swatted aside a few low-hanging branches, brushing and scratching at the unprotected skin of his face. He stepped nimbly over a tree root that sent Merlin sprawling—Arthur reached out and caught him, on instinct, by the upper arm before he could strike the ground, and righted him.

"What is wrong with you today?" Arthur demanded—the minute he took his hand away, the man swayed like a tearing tree in a fierce gale, and Arthur reflexively grabbed at him again, catching his shoulder this time, to steady him. "Even you've gotten the hang of putting one foot in front of the other by this time, haven't you?"

"Ah, s-sorry, Sire," Merlin smiled again, but something in it seemed a bit forced this time. "Dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Arthur couldn't keep back a snort. "Not going to swoon like a maiden on me, are you, Merlin? Perhaps you need to go to the fainting couch before you dirty your petticoat?"

Merlin's cheeks colored. "Maybe if you weren't such a prat—"

"Come on," Arthur cut him off, choking back another laugh at the indignant look on his face—gods, he hadn't gotten the chance to get the man this riled up in weeks, Merlin had seemed so distracted lately, "I'd like to get this over with today, you know."

"We would already be there by now if you hadn't insisted on putting up such a fuss," Merlin said, a touch testily.

"I didn't put up a fuss, you told me Gwaine had 'made off' with Guinevere because you can't explain things to save your life," Arthur reminded him, and checked that Merlin was steady on his feet before letting him go.

Arthur turned away from Merlin and plunged into the trees—if the crinkle of leaves beneath thin, worn boots was anything to go by, the idiot was right on his heels, but he didn't bother to glance back to be sure. Just up ahead, the trees thinned—several gaps appeared amongst the sturdy trunks and—oh, finally—at least now he could finally get to the bottom of all this—he put on a fresh spurt of speed, and stepped out at last beyond the final beech.

Before him stretched a glade, small but beautiful, ringed all round by more of the towering, bare-branched beeches, and the ground a carpet of colorful leaves—a bit farther on rushed a stream, clear cool water splashing persistently over the worn, wet stones, gleaming under the bright, full sun—and there, in the center of the glade, with a few wicker baskets set down beside them, on a thick scarlet quilt that must have come from the palace, and bright, beaming smiles wreathed on every warm, familiar face—

"HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!"

There was no unity to the sound, absolutely none at all—Percival's deep, rumbling tones, Guinevere's sweet, clear pitch, Leon's solemn timbre, Gwaine's playful inflection, Elyan's composed but cheerful call—it was all horribly discordant and glaringly inharmonious, and the moment they were through, they, all of them, every single one, fell about laughing as if they simply couldn't stop themselves—even the ever-serious Leon cracked a grin, and Gwen pressed her hands to her mouth to quiet her giggles—

Arthur stood, struck dumb, frozen in every limb, on the edge of the glade, staring round at the knights and lady gathered on the quilt—they'd all—had they all—had they all really—?

"I think the polite thing would be to join them."

Arthur startled—he hadn't heard Merlin come up behind him—then spun round to face his grinning servant. "You—you all—?" He swallowed, hard, around the sudden block in his throat. "For—for me—?" Oh, gods forbid, but Merlin must be rubbing off on him. He was turning into an absolute girl.

"Yeah." Merlin managed, somehow, to make the single word count more than a thousand courtly speeches. "For you." His smile turned a touch softer at the edges.

"You were all in on this?" Arthur turned to survey the others—Leon and Elyan passing around skins of water and pitchers of wine while Gwaine and Percival got into some quarrel or other over a picnic basket and Guinevere, his beautiful Guinevere, shook her head and smiled fondly at them—all of them, every last one of them, they were here, they were all here, and gods, they had cancelled a feast for him, gone mucking about in the forest before sunrise for him, just to try and make him happy—

"Ooh, very good, Sire. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

Arthur didn't look at him, didn't want to tear his eyes from the party gathered on the quilt, but he could hear the smile in Merlin's voice all the same.

"Shut up, Merlin," he murmured, half to himself.

"Come on, Princess!" Gwaine called, from his place half-wrapped around the picnic basket to stop Percival getting to it—Arthur really didn't want to know the story behind it, to be honest. "Let's cut the chit-chat and get to the part where we eat!"

"Eloquent as always, Gwaine."

"'Course," Gwaine shook out his hair, and shot Elyan a broad grin. "Part of the charm, and all."

"No, Gwaine's got a point," Merlin spoke up. "We all know what Arthur's like when he's not had his breakfast."

"Shut up, Merlin!"

Guinevere laughed—laughed! Arthur stung with the betrayal—and shifted to make room for her husband and Merlin. "Come on, you two. Cook absolutely outdid herself, it's wonderful."

When Arthur had taken the seat on the quilt beside her, she added, under her breath, "It was all Merlin's idea, really." She shot the man in question a glowing look as she spoke, brown eyes bright and warm. "He came up with everything."

"Merlin?" Arthur repeated doubtfully, and raised his eyebrows, following Guinevere's gaze to throw Merlin a glance of his own—the fool wasn't even looking at them, had already begun laughing with Gwaine at something or other—one of their inside jokes, Arthur suspected, with a slight pang of something like hurt—gods knew the two of them had a lot of those, especially in recent weeks—

Wait.

Inside jokes—recent weeks—inside jokes—recent weeks—oh, gods, Arthur was an idiot. The inside jokes weren't inside jokes. And the strange disappearances—those ones that only lasted mere minutes and left Merlin with a huge, stupid grin, and wasn't he always trying to deny—? And the swift, stolen glances Guinevere and the knights had been giving him all week when they thought he wasn't looking, when they thought he wouldn't see—the secret smiles—the stifled laughter, the conversations held in hushed whispers down deserted corridors, the ones that ceased the instant he appeared and he told himself that he didn't need to know every bit of idle gossip his servant and soldiers and queen saw fit to discuss without him and—

Merlin had not been excluding him at all.

Arthur turned, sharply, to face Merlin. "This—this is—" He swept his gaze over Gwaine and Percival then, too. "This is what you've been keeping from me, isn't it? All of you!" He twisted to look at Leon and Elyan as well. "This is what's got you all acting so strange!" He came back around to Guinevere.

"Oh, well done, Arthur," Merlin said, in the tone of one teaching a small child, and swiveled away from Gwaine to look him full in the face. "You are officially—mm—let's say—one-sixteenth less the oblivious clotpole I thought you were. Excellent job, Sire. Percival, I owe you a shilling."

Elyan snorted into his drink, and tried valiantly to pass it off as a cough.

Arthur flushed. "Don't go getting any ideas, Merlin, just because you're halfway decent at keeping one little secret—!"

Merlin laughed at this, a little harder than Arthur thought the comment strictly warranted. "Oh, you have no idea, Sire."

"Oh, go on, Merlin," Gwaine nudged the man in the ribs, "you haven't even shown him the best part yet." He unwrapped himself from the picnic basket, and pushed it toward Merlin with a grunt.

"Oh," Merlin's smile got, if possible, even bigger, and he hauled the basket up onto his knee at once, flipped back the lid, reached in with both hands and—

—and pulled out an entire cake. With icing.

Arthur closed his eyes. "Merlin." He opened them again. The cake was still there.

"Sire?"

"There—" Arthur blinked. No. The cake was definitely still there. Definitely. "There's a cake."

"Well spotted, Sire."

"Merlin!" He whipped round to glare at his servant. "You can't just—just go into the kitchens, and steal an entire cake!"

"No, no, no, I didn't!" Merlin threw up his hands in an obvious effort to placate Arthur. "See, Gwaine helped, so technically, we each stole half a cake, and—!"

Percival clamped a hand to his mouth to muffle his snickers. Gwaine looked like someone had bought the Rising Sun in his name.

"—and it's your favorite, too, so you should really go on and tuck in, and I can't give it back now, anyway, because then the cook will know it was us, and she'll kill me—she can't do anything to Gwaine, but I'm not a knight, there's nothing stopping her from having a go at me, and you've seen how she can get with that ladle of hers—"

"Merlin?" Arthur raised a hand.

Merlin sputtered to an uneasy stop, and muffled a cough into his palm.

"Are you going to prattle on all day, or are you going to let somebody cut the cake at some point?"

Merlin dropped his hand from his mouth to reveal a beam.

"Why—?" Arthur felt his face turning a little red as Merlin dumped the clumsily-wrapped, slightly lumpy parcel unceremoniously down into his lap. "Why did you lot get me gifts?"

"One gift," Gwaine corrected. "We don't like you that much, Princess. 'Sides, it was all Merlin."

"No, it was not all Merlin, it was everyone. You all helped," Merlin said, whipping round to frown at the knight—he swayed a second or two, shaking and unsteady on his feet-Arthur remembered, with a stab of something like concern, that he'd said he was dizzy earlier—he wondered if Merlin had actually eaten anything with the rest of them—now that he thought about it, he distinctly remembered the man waving away a proffered slice of cake, saying he wasn't hungry—

"Gwen and I helped," Elyan corrected fiercely, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. "The rest of you lot sat around and gossiped. Like old maids."

Leon and Percival had the grace to blush. Gwaine did not.

"What are you waiting for?" He demanded of Arthur, and gestured impatiently at the parcel. "Open it!"

Arthur hesitated a second longer, then slowly undid the wrappings—something thin and supple rolled lazily out of the paper and twine trappings, a rich earthy brown in color—there was a faint sort of gleam at one end of it—a dragon, wrought in gold, a perfect match to the Pendragon emblem—

"A sheath," Merlin said, slightly apprehensively. "For—for Excalibur." He coughed, and motioned to the ornate sword hanging at Arthur's hip. "We—we thought you might like—?"

"It's incredible," Arthur breathed, running his fingers lightly over the fine leather, too full of wonder to mind much else, "it's—I—wow."

Somewhere above him, Guinevere laughed.

"I—" Arthur tore his eyes from the beautiful sheath, and lifted his head to look at Merlin. "Thank you."

Merlin's answering grin threatened to split his face clean in two. "Elyan and Gwen really did most of it, they're much better with leather than I am, it wouldn't have gotten done without them."

Arthur sent the two of them a small, grateful smile, and a quick nod of thanks. "It's incredible," he repeated, more for Guinevere's benefit than Elyan's, and he was rewarded when she smiled back, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of rosy pink at the praise.

"Oi!" And a grape struck Arthur square on the forehead—burst, with a loud, thoroughly unpleasant sort of squelching noise, sticky juice streaking down his temple, trickling over his cheek and all the way to his chin.

He sputtered, in what Merlin would probably have called a most un-kingly fashion, and scrubbed furiously at the syrupy liquid with the back of his hand. He didn't need to look round to see who the culprit had been. "Gwaine!"

"Well," the man sounded entirely unrepentant, "are you going to actually use the sheath, or are you just gonna stare at it some more?"

Arthur wiped the last of the juice from his face. "I don't know, let's see how I feel after we've come back to Camelot, and you've served some time on night patrol." He snapped up an abandoned cherry off a nearby plate, lobbed it at Gwaine in retaliation, and allowed himself a grin when it hit its target—he never missed.

Gwaine let out a cry of dismay as the cherry hit his head and exploded in a gummy mess of sweet red liquid running down his dark hair in a steady cascade. He raked his fingers frantically through the shaggy, stylishly-unkempt strands in vain, amid gales of uproarious laughter from the other knights, and stifled snickers from Merlin and Guinevere.

He flicked his head up again to toss a glare at Arthur. "Princess, you asked for it!"

A second later, a whole wedge of cheese had gone soaring through the air straight for Arthur, and he ducked on instinct to avoid the projectile. It landed, with a solid thunk, on the plate he'd nicked the cherry off.

"Hey, hey, no, Gwaine! What are you thinking, honestly, somebody could get seriously hurt—?!"

Arthur grabbed up a bread roll to even the score, and Sir Leon's concerns went decidedly unheard.

"Come on, you lot can do better than that!" Arthur called over his shoulder, and nudged his mare lightly in the flank with the heel of his boot, urging her on to greater speeds—the wind rushing into his face with the speed of a crossbow bolt ripped the breath from his lungs, and a loud laugh from somewhere in his chest—behind him, he could make out the thump of hoofbeats, the others hot on his tail, Merlin's old, slow nag undoubtedly bringing up the rear.

"You got a head start, Princess!" squawked the ever-competitive Gwaine, over the roar of the wind in his ears.

Arthur laughed again, and tossed a glance back at the others. Gwaine's hair, a bit of cherry juice and icing off the cake still smeared in it, much to the knight's obvious chagrin, was the first thing he could make out, and he stifled another grin at the sight—a bit farther back, he saw the rest of their party, Percival's broad bare shoulders easily visible through the sun-dappled trees, closely followed Leon's ginger-blond curls with Guinevere's rough cotton lavender dress in place of the rich silken finery she wore at court nowadays and Elyan's stocky shape half a pace behind, and Merlin—

—Merlin—?

Arthur spun round and jerked roughly on the reins—his mare, ever-faithful, stopped dead at once, smack in the middle of the path—he twisted in the saddle, seeking the dark-haired head, the worn brown jacket, the ratty red scarf—

"Where—" he nearly fell clean off his mount, and hastily steadied himself. "Where's Merlin got off to?"

Gwaine pulled up short. "What? He's right there, he's just past—" he glanced over his shoulder. "—just past Percy—" The rest of his sentence died unspoken, whatever it might have been, when he spotted the glaring lack of cheeky, badly-dressed manservant. "Hey, has—" he cleared his throat and raised his voice by a fraction, winding the thick leather reins absently round his fingers, "—has anyone seen Merlin?"

"Not since that stream back there," Guinevere called back. "He slowed down just before we cleared it, I think the race tired out the poor horse."

Arthur snorted. "Or the idiot got himself lost," All the same, he swung himself from the saddle, fisted a hand around the reins, and headed back the way they'd come, his steed nickering behind him with every step. "Right, I'll go and fetch him."

"We all ought to head back, really," Guinevere said, and slid smoothly from her steed as well. "If we want to get back to the castle by nightfall."

A second later, and the knights slipped from their saddles too, a faint murmur of assent rippling through the armored party like a wave, as they set off through the cool woods, withered leaves crunching under heavy boots and shod hooves—Arthur heard the stream before he saw it, the merry babble and gurgle of water lapping over wet stones, and he quickened his pace, a brisk, straight-backed stride through the leafless, close-growing trees—if he went quick enough, and quiet enough, he could sneak up on the idiot, give him a good scare—Merlin had this funny little screech he always did every time someone startled him, and no, Guinevere, it was not mean to laugh at him and call him a girl about it, honestly, had she ever heard the noise before, it sounded like—

Arthur cleared the final line of the trees at last, and Merlin came into his view. Except—except something wasn't right—

On hands and knees in the mud beside his chestnut mount, skinny shoulders shaking something awful under his too-big brown jacket, hands white against the dark, rich earth, a glistening line of sticky sweat streaming down his temple, pale cheeks gone red as cherries, with sick pouring from his half-open mouth in a vile, yellow-white surge—

"Merlin!"

Icy fear ripped through Arthur, sharper than an enemy's blade, and he bolted across to the bank, went to his knees beside Merlin, vaguely aware of the others thundering after him—he put a hesitant hand on one of the servant's trembling shoulders, rubbing small circles in the bony back. It seemed to take an age for the bout to pass, for the flow of sick to cease—Merlin remained, bent double, for several moments, his face inches from the leaf-strewn ground, his breath a harsh, rattling gasp in his throat.

"Gods, Merlin," Arthur whispered, "what is wrong with you?" The instant the words left his mouth, he winced—that was a terrible way to put it, that was a really terrible way to put it.

"N-nothing," Merlin shot back up, hastily uncurling from the tight ball he'd crushed his shaking body into. "Nothing, I'm f-fine." He scrubbed at a line of sick clinging to the corner of his mouth, and smiled at Arthur, actually smiled at him, with bile on his lips and dark shadows, like bruises, beneath slightly glassy eyes. "S-sorry, guess I just—uh—ate something bad, thought the strawberries tasted a bit funny—"

"You look like hell." Gwaine sounded about as incredulous as Arthur felt. "Look at yourself, mate, you look sick."

"What?" Merlin managed a laugh, even, but something, or maybe everything, in it sounded painfully forced. "Don't be ridiculous, Gwaine, I'm fine—"

Guinevere's smooth brown hand found Merlin's forehead, pushing aside the dark fringe to place her palm flat to the skin beneath. "Merlin!" Her eyes widened. "You've a fever, you're burning up!"

No, no, that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, how could he have gotten that sick so quickly—? Unless—a block of ice seemed to form and freeze in Arthur's stomach, frigid and heavy—unless he'd been like this all day—

"N-no," Merlin sat up on his knees, and knocked her hand aside with one of his own. "No, I'm not, Gwen, you're feeling things, I'm fine—" He pushed himself to his feet and swayed alarmingly in place.

Arthur stood up, too, and seized Merlin's arm to stop him falling, and oh, gods, he'd said he was dizzy, hadn't he, he'd said he was dizzy, and he hadn't stopped coughing all day, and he hadn't eaten a damned thing, not even a bit of that cake he'd nicked from the kitchens, and gods knew you couldn't keep Merlin from cake, and why hadn't Arthur seen—? "Merlin, you idiot, why didn't you tell me you weren't well?!" Why didn't I realize, why didn't I see, he shouldn't have had to tell me because I should have paid attention, I should have realized, I should have seen—

Merlin snatched his arm from Arthur's grip with a glower. "I am well, Arthur! I'm fine!"

"Don't be stupid, Merlin!" Arthur snarled. "You look like you're about to collapse!"

"I'm—!" The words left his lips a weak sort of rasp—his voice had gone hoarse and scratchy, and sounded painful—he winced, and rubbed at his throat, fingers pale and trembling against the rough red cloth of his favorite scarf— "I'm—I'm fine—" he shuddered, and his stumbling, shaking legs crumpled under him, and he fell.

Arthur threw his arms out, on instinct, and caught his servant before he hit the ground, reflexively pulling the bony, shivering body closer to his own—Merlin's dark-haired head dropped down onto Arthur's chest, and he sank back to his knees to lessen the unexpected weight—the proximity should have embarrassed him, would have, if Merlin hadn't been shuddering so violently against him, he could swear the man was about to burst apart where he sat—Arthur couldn't stand it—he stripped the jacket from his own shoulders, and wrapped it round Merlin's gangly frame, over the worn brown layer he already had.

"I—I'm s-sorry, Arthur," Merlin said at last, in a small and shaky sort of voice Arthur had never heard from him before, and never wanted to hear again. "I was tr-trying to give you a good anniversary, a really good anniversary—" he pushed back, pushed away from Arthur, and weaved a little where he sat. By some miracle, he stayed upright. "—I know how h-hard today must be for you, and I thought I could t-take your mind off—" he swiped miserably at his nose. "—off all of it—" he slumped a little farther in on himself, and shuddered horribly, head turned down, face hidden. "—but I g-guess I kind of—" he didn't say it so much as he slurred it, every word running together, too garbled and jumbled to be called speech, "—guess I kind of r-ruined it, huh?"

Merlin barely got the last word off his lips before his skinny, shuddering body went limp, and he collapsed into Arthur's chest.

Arthur kind of lost it. A little. Maybe.

"You really are a complete idiot, aren't you, Merlin?!"

Right, so, maybe Arthur kind of lost it a lot, and maybe there was no kind of about it, and maybe Gwaine lost it, too, if the sudden string of obscenities aimed in his direction was anything to go on, but Arthur couldn't help it—Merlin had just—all limp and pale and sweaty and shaking—oh, gods, he looked awful—what on earth had he even been thinking—?

Arthur knew—of course he knew, there was no way for him to not know at this point—Arthur knew when it came to the two of them, Merlin had developed a bad—no, alarming was the right word, more than anything—all right, then, so Merlin had developed an alarming habit of putting himself second, and Arthur knew that, knew the man in front of him would drag himself through hell if he thought it'd make Arthur happy—he thought, again, for the thousandth time since it had happened, about the sight of the thin, still body, going stiff on the cold stone floor as the Dorocha's ice took hold—but this—sweating and sniffling and shaking fit to fly apart, his long limbs trembling under the strain, too weak and dizzy to even get off his knees, with a puddle of his own sick soaking slowly into the mud, and the sorrys spilling off him like rain—the idiot had pushed himself to complete collapse, and all he'd cared about was what this would mean for Arthur—ruined it, Merlin had said, I ruined it, like he actually believed that—like he actually believed he'd done something wrong, just by getting sick, like he actually—like he actually believed he'd let Arthur down—

If anyone, Arthur thought, and his grip tightened on Merlin's too-warm body, still slouched, boneless, against his chest, if anyone's let anyone down today, it's me, it's not Merlin, it's me—

"We—" he forced himself to raise his head. To look at the others. His voice, when he tried to speak, sounded very far away in his own ears. "We need to get him back to Camelot."

Merlin didn't wake.

In the time it took them to make it back to the city, his eyes stayed stubbornly closed, his body slack as a doll—Arthur had been almost grateful for it, at first—at least the awful shivers had stopped—now, as he stumbled up the steep stone steps to Gaius' chambers and half a pace behind Gwaine, and cradling the still, motionless form of his servant in his arms, he thought he'd rather have the trembling again, horrible as it was, over this unmoving, almost deathly calm.

Arthur lowered Merlin onto the first cot he saw, huffing a little as he released the weight—he'd scarcely gotten the man settled when Guinevere spoke up—

"Water," she said, clearly, "cold water, lots of it—"

Gwaine dashed off for the pump before she could say another word.

"Help me get his clothes off," she added, to Arthur, one hand already taking hold of the rough brown fabric of Merlin's jacket, "he's burning up with fever, we need to cool him down."

Arthur didn't even think to protest—it took a bit of maneuvering to work Merlin's skinny arms out of the overlarge sleeves, to unwind the red scarf from his neck, ease the sweat-drenched blue tunic over his head—

"—his boots," Guinevere nodded to Merlin's feet, "get his boots, his socks—"

Arthur dashed to the foot of the bed, fumbled with the tarnished silver buckles, gleaming against the brown cloth, but the cold metal didn't want to give—come on, come on, come on—gods, you'd think the man had done them up with magic—Arthur's searching fingers finally found the clasp, and he flicked it open, wrenched off the wretched boots—note to self, buy Merlin boots that are easier to undo—well, first, never let Merlin think he needs to push himself until he collapses ever again, then let's do something about the boots—as Arthur tugged off Merlin's socks, Gwaine came barreling back in the door, clutching two enormous, overflowing buckets by their large handles—

"Wonderful, Gwaine, thank you," Guinevere spared him a nod and a slightly harried smile. She plunged her own kerchief in one of the buckets, pausing only to wring it out before sponging down Merlin's brow and temple. "Arthur, grab a rag and get his chest," she didn't look away from Merlin's flushed face, "his stomach, his arms, his back, too, if you can, I don't think this will be enough."

Arthur discarded the boots on the floor and bolted to the opposite end of the room to seize one of Gaius' rags, moving so fast the cluttered chambers blurred around him—he made it back to Merlin's bedside in scarcely an instant, and soaked the rag in the bucket, as Guinevere had done—he didn't stop to draw out the excess, just put it to Merlin's chest, let the water run in rivulets out over the bare skin—

Merlin twitched, and flinched at the icy rain pouring over his naked torso, a soft moan escaping through his pale lips—"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur murmured, on instinct—Guinevere glanced up, her dark eyes sweeping the scene—

"Oh, thank goodness," a shred of the tension in her pretty features seeped out, "oh, thank goodness, he's reacting to the cold, that's—that's a good sign, that's a very good sign, keep it up, Arthur."

The faintest stirrings of relief pricked at Arthur, and he nodded, dabbing lightly at the exposed stomach and ribs as he worked his way down.

"Leon, Elyan," Guinevere called, gingerly wiping down Merlin's blazing red cheeks with her kerchief, "go into Gaius' cabinets, tell me if he has any astragalus root—big, erm, brown things, lots of limbs," she added, at the knights' perplexed looks. "Get some sage, too, and keep an eye out for echinacea, big pink flowers, petals have a sort of droop to them—"

Leon and Elyan shot over to the cupboards, ripping open the creaking doors and rummaging through with feverish intensity. In seconds, Elyan had pulled out a heavy, pale brown clump covered in what appeared to be copious amounts of coarse black hair, and Guinevere shot him a tired smile.

"Fantastic, Elyan, that's exactly what I'm looking for! Gwaine," she continued, "get a fire going, and put that other bucket over it, get the water hot—"

Gwaine snatched up the bucket and sloshed over to the dark hearth with no further prompting.

"—if we can get Merlin's fever down far enough to wake him, we can get him some astragalus tea," Guinevere explained, when Elyan raised his eyebrows. "It'll work wonders, Gaius uses it all the time."

Arthur hastily returned to his own work, redoubling his efforts on cooling Merlin down—he didn't know how long he stood there, swiping at the man's burning, fevered skin—it felt like hours—certainly long enough for Gwaine to get a good fire going in the grate, long enough for Elyan and Leon to start clearing up, for lack of anything else to do, Arthur supposed—but the flush receded at last from Merlin's thin face, and Guinevere gently cleared away the last line of sweat, still clinging doggedly to his temple, a smile curving her lovely lips, before she pressed her palm to his brow.

"His fever's come down," she revealed. "I think we've done all we can for the moment."

Arthur smiled—the first time since Merlin collapsed in his arms, and it was still scarcely more than a quirk at the corner of his mouth. At the memory of it—the weight of Merlin against his chest, the horrible rasping sound of his breath as it left his lungs, the rapid, uneven flutter of his lashes as his eyes fell closed, the scorching heat of his skin as the temperature took hold, his slurred and shaking voice as he whispered his fervent apologies—Arthur couldn't keep back a wince, and the smile slipped from his face like it had never been. He scrubbed a tired hand down his slightly sunburned face at the thought of it. "How long has he been like this? Do you know?"

Guinevere frowned, her small mouth twisting up as she thought. On any other day, Arthur wouldn't have been able to keep from leaning in and kissing her at the sight—he loved her "concentration" face—but Merlin's slow, labored breathing on the bed between them wouldn't let him forget the matter at hand.

"Well," she said at last, and slowly, "I don't know, but if I had to guess, I'd say he made himself far worse than he would be, if he hadn't been working quite so hard lately."

Working hard? Horrible, burning guilt seized Arthur, blazing in his veins, bubbling up like acid in his stomach, tongues of unchecked flame scorching through his chest, searing up his throat like bile. "I—I worked him too hard?" He looked to Guinevere, in the desperate hope that she might say otherwise. "Did I—did I make him—did I work him until he was—?" Bad enough that he hadn't noticed the state of his own servant until the idiot had passed out in front of him, but worse still to think he'd put Merlin in that state to start with.

"Oh, no! No, Arthur, no," Guinevere's eyes went round—she reached across the bed, and placed her warm hand over his. "That is absolutely not what I meant at all, I promise. I don't think," she worried her lip, "well, I don't think Merlin's exactly been doing the best job looking after himself since Gaius went away. He took on Gaius' work in addition to his own for you—"

Arthur nodded. He knew that.

"—and then he threw himself into all these preparations for your anniversary, and of course he couldn't tell you about that bit—" she tightened her grasp on Arthur's hand as she spoke.

In spite of her intentions, Arthur only felt the weight on his chest grow heavier with every word—he should have seen—how had he not—? How had he not seen—? Merlin had been running himself into the ground like this ever since Gaius had gone away—and Arthur had noticed it, hadn't he—had thought—oh, gods, he'd thought how impressive it was, that Merlin managed to keep up with Gaius' job as well as his own—impressive, yes, not concerning, not worrying, not far too large and heavy a workload for one man to carry—how had he not seen—?

"—but—but this wasn't your fault," Guinevere broke in, as though she could read his mind, and shook her dark-haired head, brown curls bouncing with the movement. "Not in the slightest. Merlin's been pushing himself far too hard for far too long now. I just—" she glanced at the motionless form of Merlin between them, and there was the slightest tremble at the corner of her mouth. "I just wish I'd realized it had gotten this bad."

"No, it wasn't your fault, Guinevere," Arthur said at once—he knew the shame in her voice too well, knew her too well, and the gravity of his own blame fell back a bit in the face of the burden she had no need, no right, to bear. He squeezed her hand, and pulled his mouth up in a smile when she met his eyes. "You had no way of knowing. Merlin wasn't exactly announcing it in the city square, was he?"

Guinevere's eyes still betrayed her guilt, but her lips twitched marginally. "Perhaps he hung a banner."

Arthur huffed out a short, quiet laugh. "Perhaps."

"Erm—?" Elyan wheeled around, away from the hairy brown root still lying on the table, to look at his sister, his dark eyes wide. "Do you know how Gaius makes the tea? Leon and I have just been—we've sort of—erm—" he gestured, helplessly, to the root.

Guinevere laughed then, too, one hand jumping to her mouth to cover the sound. "Oh—oh, yes, I'm sorry," she gave Arthur's hand one last squeeze before leaving the bedside to join Elyan at the table. "Here, I'll show you…"

Merlin barely opened his eyes when Guinevere roused him to give him the tea—the fever had waned significantly, but Arthur still didn't think he was entirely lucid—he all but poured the tea down Merlin's throat himself, to the last drop, refused to let up until the cup had run completely dry.

Leaving was the absolute last thing he wanted to do just then—he owed this much to Merlin, at least, owed it to the man to stay with him until he'd finally woken—but there were, Guinevere and Leon reminded him, court matters to be taken care of, and nobles to be appeased, and Gwaine outright refused to leave Merlin's side for anything—he was in trustworthy, if not altogether capable, hands and Arthur must content himself with that—hours passed before he could return—the matins rang out before he made his way back to the physician's chambers, and he was briefly, intensely grateful to Guinevere, that she didn't try to stop him, didn't try to lead him to bed instead—perhaps she realized he wouldn't, couldn't, sleep until he'd made this right.

Gwaine put up a bit of a fight at first, but the shadows under his bloodshot eyes spoke for him, and he eventually took himself up to Merlin's room with, if not good grace, at least a less-than-courteous resignation.

Arthur sat in the chair his knight vacated, staring down into Merlin's still, sleeping face. Now that there was nothing left to do—no fever to fight or tea to brew, no speeches to give or crown to wear, no meetings to hold—now that he was on his own, he couldn't hide from the truth anymore—it stared back at him, silent and accusing and so terribly stark in the flickering light of the hearth fire, casting fleeting shadows over Merlin's sharp features.

Didn't the idiot know, didn't he realize, didn't he see that nothing, certainly not some stupid day on the calendar, a day that would be there next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, didn't Merlin see that nothing in the world would ever matter so much to Arthur that he would want his servant to drive himself to his limits? Didn't Merlin see, didn't Merlin realize—didn't he—didn't he realize—?

Maybe—and the guilt flooded back in like the ocean in a storm, rising in his chest like the tide, frothing furiously in his lungs—maybe he didn't. Maybe Merlin didn't realize, maybe he didn't know, because when had Arthur ever given him cause to think otherwise—when had Arthur ever—had he ever—had he ever—?

"A-Arthur?"

"Merlin!" Arthur startled, jerked, leapt from his seat—he lifted a hand, on instinct, to Merlin's bony back to steady him while he struggled to rise from the thin mattress. "How—?" He hesitated. "How are you feeling?"

Merlin's head bobbed up at once to look at him. A tiny frown twisted his mouth as he finally pushed himself upright. "I've had better," he said, hoarsely, after a second, and a small, tired smile found its way onto his face. "What happened?"

Arthur almost laughed. It would be easier, he reflected, to tell him what hadn't. "Guinevere brought your fever down. Some sort of tea, she says Gaius uses it often, she—" he broke off abruptly as he remembered, "—she said to give you some, if you woke, hang on—" he hurried to the table, where Gwaine had apparently left the kettle, and hastily poured a steaming cup—thin coils of vapor rose off the smooth amber surface as he offered it to Merlin. "Here."

Merlin eyed it warily. "It's astragalus root, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

"I take it you don't enjoy it."

"Not in the slightest."

"Well, I'm hardly going to face Guinevere's wrath just to spare your delicate sensibilities," Arthur motioned to the cup. "Drink."

Merlin scowled, but obligingly sipped.

Near-total silence reigned for the next several minutes, nothing but the crackle of the fire, and the reluctant Merlin unhappily drinking his tea—Arthur shifted slightly in his seat—tried not to look at him—

"I'm sorry," Merlin said at last—only, he didn't say the words so much as he whispered them into his tea—it was as if he half-hoped Arthur wouldn't hear them at all.

I'm sorry, Arthur—I was trying to give you a good anniversary, a really good anniversary—I guess I kind of ruined it—Arthur's stomach jolted unpleasantly. He didn't have to ask what Merlin meant—he already knew.

But it appeared Merlin didn't need him to ask. "Today—" His free hand fisted around the blankets slung over his legs. He ran his thumb over the fraying edge. "Today isn't really a day you want to remember all that much, is it? And—and I understand—I mean, I don't, no, I don't understand, that's—that's the wrong—I only meant—"

The point, Merlin, Arthur thought—had it been any other day, he would have said it, too—but this time—this time—he shut his mouth.

"—well, today just—" Merlin swallowed. "—just isn't a good day for you."

Arthur didn't bother to answer. Merlin would know it was the truth even if he denied it until his dying breath.

"But it's—it's not—it's not right," Merlin continued, haltingly—it occurred to Arthur, for the first time, that maybe this wasn't any easier on Merlin than it was on him. "It's not right because it's your anniversary, and you deserve to have at least one good memory of your anniversary—everyone does, but especially you—forget I said that," he added, sharply, when Arthur looked at him, "that bit will just go to your head—look, I—I just meant, everyone deserves to have a good memory of their anniversary, and I thought if you had a good one," he uncurled his fingers from around the blankets, and picked at the loose threads, "I th-thought if you had a good one, it might help with the badones."

Arthur swallowed hard—damn Merlin, he thought, blinking furiously, damn the stupid idiot, being so stupid and nice and loyal and trying so hard—trying so hard for me—

"But I—" Merlin pulled him from his thoughts, still gazing into his tea, "—I guess I ruined—" His cheeks colored. It was almost as if he caught himself in the act of saying something he shouldn't. "—I guess it didn't work."

—the shake in his shoulders and the flush in his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes and guess I kind of ruined it huh—

"Merlin," he said, and it was like he couldn't stop himself, "Merlin, look at me, you didn't ruin anything."

Merlin froze. His head snapped up.

"You did give me a good memory of my anniversary today—a really good one, if I'm being honest, the best one I've ever—don't look so pleased with yourself, you're still an idiot," he tacked on hastily, when Merlin began to grin. "Did you stop, even once, to think, hmm, maybe I should tell someone I'm so ill I'm going to swoon like a maiden—"

Merlin went pink to the tips of his overlarge ears. "I did not—!"

"—no, I bet you didn't, because you're an idiot," Arthur concluded, and sat down, heavily, in the chair by the bed again.

"I wasn't that ill. I wasn't!" Merlin added when Arthur raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Besides, it was your anniversary! What was I supposed to? Skip it? I don't think so! I'd been planning it for weeks!" He appeared so indignant at the very thought, Arthur almost laughed, and let him off the hook.

"Funny thing about anniversaries, Merlin," he schooled his features into the sternest scowl he could manage, "they're an annual thing. Suppose I should have known you haven't figured that out yet, I mean, I shouldn't expect that much from you—"

Merlin huffed, and opened his mouth to retort, so Arthur hastened on.

"—but my point is, the anniversary would have been there next year, Merlin. And the year after that. You shouldn't have ignored what you needed for what you thought I did."

Merlin bit his lip. "I just—" he shifted uncomfortably on the cot. "—I wanted to make sure you were all right—"

"Thank you for that," Arthur said sincerely. "Really. Thank you, Merlin. But you should have made sure you were all right first. My anniversary may not be my favorite day, but it is just a day, and you matter far more to me than any—" Oh, no, oh, gods, the stupid idiot was grinning like a loon, abort abort abort—

"You'reanidiotandyoushouldn'thavegonemuckingabouttheforestwhenyouweresickallrightnowgobacktosleepMerlinthankyou!"

Merlin sniggered, and took a sip of tea to hide it.

Arthur didn't stop to think—he grabbed the bottom of the teacup in Merlin's hands, and tipped it up until the liquid splashed over the man's face, and he sputtered, dripping the warm liquid all over the cot.

"Arthur!"

Arthur swallowed back the laugh bubbling in his throat, and reluctantly handed Merlin the nearest dry rag—Guinevere would have his head served for dinner tomorrow night if he didn't—Merlin scrubbed the residue off his face with a grimace, and swayed slightly, a tearing tree in a fierce gale—

"Merlin?" Arthur bit down, hard, on his bottom lip to hide the grin.

"Mm?" Merlin flung the tea-drenched rag into the nearest basket, and settled slowly back on the cot.

Arthur wondered, for a minute, if he might be going too far. Nope. "So I guess you did need the fainting couch after all."

"Oh, you ass—!"

#merlin #bbc merlin #emrys' grimoire

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