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It’s nearly supper when Artie finally meets Merlin in the armory.
The only way to ensure its emptiness, so she could help Artie—or “Arthur”, according to the tournament roster—out of her armor without worrying about being exposed. If Uther knew…Merlin shuddered when Morgan had mentioned it, helping them figure out the logistics of getting the princess of Camelot into this damned tournament.
Artie had insisted she was ready, that she needed to fight against fair opponents to know for sure if Morgan and Leon were going easy on her, or if she was actually as competent a fighter as they kept telling her.
Both were still hesitant, of course, but Artie couldn’t be swayed.
She needed this, to be sure.
And to be free, Merlin knew. For just a few days, to be seen as every other fighter—not a princess, not even a woman, simply an opponent.
She had certainly done so.
No one was surprised she lasted through the first day, though there had been a palpable sigh of relief amongst the group. The second day was impressive. But the third? Artie hadn’t won, but she’d made it further than even Morgan, and into the top five.
Even Leon had the decency to look a tad infuriated—that a fighter of Artie’s caliber couldn’t be permitted into the ranks of Camelot’s finest simply because she’s a woman?
Of course, petitioning Uther at this point would mean admitting that Artie had been training at all, and for long enough to have reached her current ability.
Hell to pay.
Now, though, all Merlin could think about was the sheen of sweat inevitably coating her lover’s body under all that armor—custom-forged by Gwynn with no small amount of pride in his friend and spite towards Uther—of the sigh of relief as Artie would slip into the bath Merlin had prepared for her, her hums of pleasure as Merlin would bathe her and scrub the dirt and sweat from her hair, the half-caught hiss as Merlin massaged salve into the aches in her shoulders and everywhere else it would surely be needed, the gentle kisses Merlin would pepper along each bruise and cut on Artie’s skin…Merlin doesn’t even try to keep her face straight when Artie finally shows up, glancing around to be certain they’re alone.
Of course, Merlin had made sure of that with a couple minor spells.
Upon catching her eye, Artie strides towards her with such purpose that for a moment Merlin wonders if she’d missed something important.
Artie tosses her helmet aside on a nearby table, her long blonde hair falling half-loose down her shoulders. Her eyes glint in the torchlit darkness. She pulls something from her right arm, just below the pauldron.
“This is yours.”
Ah. Merlin smirks. Her own scarf, of course, only just redder than Artie’s cheeks—whether flushed from the fighting or the heat or something else entirely. Merlin had tied it there that morning while dressing her, had caught the moment Artie had finally noticed it as she’d entered the pitch.
“Every worthwhile knight needs a lady’s favor.” She leans in dangerously close to Artie. “And you couldn’t exactly give your own.” That had been given to Morgan, just to keep up appearances, though Merlin had helped Gwynn stitch a subtle little hammer on one corner of the fabric.
Artie corners her against the stone wall and kisses her, hungrily, pushing the scarf into her hand.
Merlin can only barely grasp it, aiming instead for where she knows the armor’s clasps should be, but then Artie’s kissing down her jaw and growling against her neck, “You’re going to want this back,” scraping her teeth against the skin like a promise. “And,” she bites, “you’re going to do it again, every tournament.”
Merlin, breathless, still manages to sound smug. “Is that an order, my lady?”
Artie suddenly hitches her skirts up to her waist and uses that hold to keep her pinned to the wall, sliding one hand down to Merlin’s knee as she takes a knee herself, still in full armor. She hooks Merlin’s leg over her shoulder, grins against the bare flesh of her inner thighs, places a kiss there just to hear Merlin’s breath catch. “You tell me.”
She plays coy, taps her chin as if she’s actually debating it. “If this is my reward every time…” She looks down into Artie’s wide eyes, blue turned stormy at her impertinence and darkened with want. “…I suppose I could be convinced.” Merlin rakes her fingers through Artie’s sweat-drenched bangs towards the back of her head and those blues flutter closed on instinct. But she doesn’t tug, no, just lets her hand sit, woven through that golden hair, Artie’s beautifully reddened lips parted slightly for the gasp waiting to fall from them at Merlin’s hand.
When it doesn’t come, she cracks one eye open, and that’s when Merlin pulls, gentle but firm, exposing Artie’s pale throat to the torchlight. She doesn’t gasp, but moans, and Merlin’s grateful one of her earlier spells muffled any sounds that might come from the armory.
She lets her hand slip to Artie’s cheek, caressing it, Artie kissing her palm as it passes, then to the back of her neck, beckoning her close once more.
Artie obliges eagerly, the sweat from her cheeks slicking Merlin’s thighs.
Now Merlin cries out, Artie wasting no time at all in bringing her pleasure. Swearing, her hips buck in Artie’s firm grip, still keeping her pressed to the stone wall. She feels the vibration of Artie laughing against her, and bites her lip to stifle another moan at the sensation. “Fuck, Artie, that’s it.”
She pauses, then, looking up at Merlin with an expression that might’ve been described as ‘curious’ had Merlin the wherewithal to meet it. Artie licks her lips, almost absentmindedly, then, “Call me ‘Arthur’.”
Merlin catches both her breath and her lover’s eye then, one brow raised. “Still now?”
Artie nods.
Merlin catches the slight hesitance in the movement, as if she almost expects to be denied this. As if Merlin would deny her anything.
“Arthur,” she whispers. “My Arthur.”
Arthur’s shoulders drop at the sound, relief palpable, and she rests her cheek on Merlin’s thigh for a moment. “Keep calling me that. Until my armor is off for the day.”
Merlin nods, fingers curling into her golden hair.
“Say it again?” It’s quiet, ardent.
“My Arthur.”
Arthur rewards her for it, earning another choked gasp, and for a moment she doesn’t think she’s heard anything more holy than the sound of her chosen name on Merlin’s lips. Not any of the gods, old or new, not of this castle nor of the druids. This is what sacred must feel like. Being worshipped in one’s own name. Receiving these offerings of pleasure, drawn from Merlin’s body by Arthur’s own tongue. Her name. Her voice. Her lover.
“Mine.” She growls against Merlin’s body before she can stop herself, and once more she moans at the vibration.
Her legs are trembling now, and Arthur holds her steady against the wall, taking the sting of Merlin’s fingers in her hair as a physical hymn, harmonizing with the uneven tones she pants out.
“Ar-Arthur!” she cries, finally, her short nails digging into her scalp as the building tension releases as a crashing wave. Arthur lets it hit her, unarmed as she is to Merlin, despite the literal pieces of metal still strapped to her body.
She waits for Merlin’s breathing to even out again, slyly licking another shiver from her as she slowly regains her bearings. When Merlin’s hands slip from her hair, she sits back on her heels until she pulls her back up—face to face—and kisses her own taste from Arthur’s lips.
They’re both breathing hard when they part again, but it’s a grounded sort of breath, anchored in each other’s touch.
Arthur kisses the bite on Merlin’s neck, humming at the bruise she’s left there. Her scarf had been tucked into her belt—Arthur pulls it out now, re-ties it tenderly where it’s meant to lay, leaves another soft kiss on her cheek.
Merlin scrunches her nose at that, her thumbs hooked into the metal plates over Arthur’s thighs. Almost sadly, “We should probably get you out of this before they stop serving supper.”
Arthur rests her forehead on Merlin’s shoulder with a sigh. “Probably.” She feels Merlin’s fingers creep up to rest on the back of her neck again.
“You know…if you want me to keep calling you ‘Arthur’, I will. Armor or not.”
Arthur’s breath catches in her throat. She steps back, turns away before Merlin can see the tears building in the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t know why they’re there. Why, why, why? Why can’t I just— The edge of the table creaks under her weight.
Merlin follows her, wordlessly straightens her back and starts undoing the armor clasps, one by one, each piece of plate gently placed on the table beside Arthur’s discarded helmet.
Eventually, Artie manages to speak, the weight of the metal off her shoulders but another, heavier weight in its place. “You shouldn’t.”
Merlin pulls a hooded cloak over Artie, left in basic trousers and a light tunic—enough to get her to her chambers for a proper wash. “I ‘shouldn’t’, or you don’t want me to?”
Damn Merlin and her awareness sometimes.
“You—both,” she says. “Don’t call me that name if I’m not competing.”
Merlin raises an eyebrow over her shoulder, bundling the armor in a hidden niche to retrieve later. “Alright, then.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
Artie decides she doesn’t need her to.
Merlin claps the dust from her hands and grimaces at the small cloud it raises. “Well. We’re both going to need a bath after this.”
“I’m not sharing.” Artie smirks.
“Then learn to wash yourself, prat,” Merlin retorts, a fond bite in her voice.
“You know what?” Artie leans against the armory door, blocking her in. “While we’re at it, you can’t call me ‘prat’ anymore, either.”
“Oh?”
“Or ‘dollophead’. I think you should address me properly, no?”
Merlin seems to consider it for a moment, then, “Nah.” And she flicks the latch on the armory door, sending Artie tumbling backwards as it swings open.