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merlin_holidaysTitle: Wassail
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
catarotta
Author:bananahater336
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: ~1800
Warnings: Schmoop!
Summary: Merlin and Arthur go wassailing on a Yule night.
Author's Notes: This was beta'd by Y. It's based loosely on the old Germanic custom of "wassailing," which you really don't have to have any prior knowledge about because it's pretty much caroling - with ale involved!
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Wassail! wassail! all over the town, Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown; Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree; With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
Merlin's face is flushed red, high in his cheeks and in patches along his neck. Arthur doesn’t know what to attribute it to, really – the ale or the cold. Either way, he is smiling, and Arthur has always been rather fond of that.
The ritual is an ancient one, meant to help the orchard harvests. In recent years, it’s been extended to urge the good health of the people and the crops. Arthur knows that Merlin channels the energy from the songs and good cheer into the drink and the air and the land, bringing balance back to the land. Merlin made the drink: mulled ale, apples and potatoes. It’s sweet and warm and blessed. They are spending the night carrying it to each door in the lower town, to the farmers who need its blessings most, and as they walk, they sing.
“I’m surprised you decided to come,” Merlin is saying. The snow is packed, and it crunches beneath their feet. Ahead of them, the knights are singing loudly, stumbling into each other, their swords clanking together. Merlin scolded them when he saw them; there’s no reason for them to have weapons on a Yule night, he informed them. It’s sacred. Arthur thinks he’s naïve to believe that, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him so.
“I like Yule just as much as the next person,” Arthur protests, pausing to right Merlin when he slips on an icy patch, with one hand at his shoulder blades and the other on the bowl of warm ale he’s carrying in his arms. He leans into Arthur for a moment, and Arthur lets himself run his hand along the length of his spine, imagining the fire-warmed room and the thick furs on his bed, the way Merlin first stretches and sprawls across the mattress, then curls up close against Arthur’s side, the dark mop of his hair tucked onto his shoulder. “Honestly, Merlin, we’ll have none to offer if you slosh it everywhere.”
“There’s plenty!” Merlin sticks his tongue out, then beams at him in that cheek-splitting way he has when he’s especially endeared to Arthur. “Imagine how they’ll feel, your people, to see their king at their door, spooning out wassail.”
“Don’t sound so pleased.” Arthur’s face warms. He knows Merlin’s right though. The crop was bad this year. The people need what comfort and hope they can have. “You have good ideas once a year, and this happens to be your good idea for the year.”
Merlin is unfazed; that smile doesn’t fade.
The farmers especially appreciate the warm drink when they approach their doors; their hands and faces are the white of cold and hunger, and Arthur’s throat aches at the sight of them. Then Merlin decides the tradition needs updating. With a murmur and a sweep of his hand, he lights a fire, there in the middle of the path, among the tottering houses and cottages. He thrusts the bowl at Arthur, who manages not to slosh it all over himself. Then Merlin goes door to door, knocking and inviting everyone out into the night air.
Arthur sends Elyan off to fetch Gwen, and they reappear, wrapped up against the cold and carrying cuts of meat, various cheeses and loaves of bread from the palace kitchen. Music bursts suddenly through the cold air; one of the farmer women sings. The people are dancing, and sorcerers run down from the palace with more drink.
Merlin throws himself at Arthur, wrapping his arms around him tightly. He’s drunk, and the kiss he plants on Arthur’s cheek is sloppy, and he’s completely unconcerned if anyone notices them. Arthur laughs, planting his hands on his hips to steady him when they both stumble. “That’s it; no more for you. I’ll have to carry you to bed if you keep this up.”
Merlin hums. “You’ll carry me anyway. You like to.”
“Just for that, I’m having Gwaine do it.”
“No,” he whines, pressing close to him and nosing at his neck. “If Gwaine does, he’ll seduce me.”
“Will he now?”
“Yes! Successfully too. Then what will you do? You’ll be in your big bed all alone.”
“Alright, alright.” Arthur pinches him. “Cheeky.”
Merlin presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, light and sweet, just before Gwen sweeps him off to dance with her. Arthur watches, laughs when Merlin stumbles.
“Sire?”
He turns his attention to the small woman who has appeared at his side and is curtseying low. She has flour in her hair, and Arthur knows that she works in the kitchens, is one of the cooks that brought down food. “Yes? You may rise.”
“Thank you, sire.” She straightens with a smile and meets his eyes. “Thank you for this. My mother, she lives here in the lower town. My father passed some years ago, and she has trouble getting by. I help where I can but…” She shakes her head, trails off. “This sort of magic – this will help us all. The earth takes care of its own. Thank you.” She takes his hand, kisses his ring, then bows and backs away.
Arthur swallows, drinks down the rest of his ale, seeks out Merlin who is laughing. The earth cares for its own. He is happy to be caring for his people.
***
Arthur wakes the next morning on his stomach with Merlin trying to worm his way under him. “The sun’s too bright,” he mutters by way of explanation.
“And why not just pull the blankets over your head?”
“You’re warmer,” he says simply. “Besides, you smell like the fires from last night.”
“Magic fires?”
“Magic,” he says simply, and allows himself to be drawn up to nestle into the pillows, blanketed by Arthur. “You know,” he says softly, “last night was wonderful. You lifted everyone’s spirits. It’s not often that the people get to feast with their king.”
Arthur pets his knuckles against Merlin’s cheek. “Do you think it will help?”
“Hm?”
“The wassailing. Do you think it will help?”
Merlin wraps his arms around his neck, nuzzles their noses together. “Wassailing has the best sort of magic, Arthur. All of its energies are good, and they’re all sent into the earth and into its people, and it takes care of its own when we take care of our own. I have a good feeling about this coming year.”
“You’re not prophesying, are you?”
“Mmm, no. Not right now. But I’d be happy to scry for you later.”
Arthur chuckles. “The only time you ever want to be helpful is if you’re allowed to use magic.”
“Of course.” Merlin presses their lips together slowly. “It’s my best talent.”
“One of, perhaps.” Arthur murmurs. “You have others.”
Merlin laughs, hooks his arms around Arthur’s back and rolls them over. “All you have to do is ask, you know. I’m your lover.”
“You’re my mistress.”
He just laughs again, kissing him firmly. He tips his head to the side, practically vibrating when Arthur parts his lips for him. He licks his way into his mouth, sliding his hand down his side, and Arthur draws a knee up so Merlin can settle between his legs.
They kiss slowly, their tongues sliding together, teeth nipping at lips. Their breaths come a little faster, audible, and Arthur realizes that at some point, they started rocking together – achingly slow slides of skin against skin – and he runs his heel up Merlin’s calf, his back arching. He slides his hand into Merlin’s hair, holding him in against him, hard, the kiss almost bruising, his teeth scraping against the corner of Merlin’s mouth.
“Let me, let me,” Merlin stills him with a brush of his fingers against his skin, from his collar bones to his hips. If Arthur didn’t know better, he would think Merlin did it with magic, the way he can make his mind and body quiet and patient with just his hands. He pushes off of him for a moment, and when he returns, it’s with fingers slick with oil, warmed by magic, and Arthur shudders when one presses into him, slow and firm. He goes boneless at the feeling, and Merlin presses his lips to the crown of his shoulder.
“Oh, you beautiful thing,” Merlin murmurs, running his mouth over his skin. He slides another finger into him, and a third at Arthur’s urging. He pumps them slowly, his eyes on Arthur’s face. Arthur tips his head back, his legs flexing and his heels pressing down against the linens as he pushes down against Merlin’s hand, rocking his hips.
His sorcerer moves up to kiss him again, his hand sure and steady, rubbing against his spot so that Arthur groans, softly, against his mouth, his teeth sinking into Merlin’s lip. He presses his cock against Merlin’s hip. “Merlin,” he breathes out. “Come on.”
Merlin butts his nose against Arthur’s cheek. He slides his hand away to rest against Arthur’s leg, spreading him open, and he settles between them, kissing the corner of his mouth as he guides himself into him. He grins when Arthur arches up at the feel of him. “Better?”
“Much,” Arthur sighs, pressing his thighs to Merlin’s hips. “If only you always listened so well. Things would be much easier.”
“And you would be much lazier,” Merlin teases, rocking his hips forward, holding himself up on arms lean with muscle acquired from household work and farm work, a life full of using his hands. Arthur likes to watch Merlin when Merlin fucks him, the way his whole body arches and slides. It’s a solid movement, with none of the fluidity Arthur expected from Merlin as lover; he’s a young tree with deep roots. Arthur wants to shield him from strong winds, but Merlin’s planted himself to stay.
He holds Merlin’s sharp, sweet face between his hands, draws him down to kiss him and Merlin obliges, settling on his elbows, and Arthur devours him with his mouth and his body and his hands. When he comes, he feels as if his back will break with it, his muscles tightening then unwinding, a spool of thread.
He loses time, somewhere. When his vision swims into focus again, Merlin lies beside him, his hand resting against his heart, and he’s grinning wolfishly. “You just swooned,” he says smugly. “You just swooned, because I was making love to you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Arthur scoffs, rolling onto his side away from him. “I was tired. You were shoving ale into my hands all night; I’m surprised I was even awake long enough for it.”
“Mmm. It shows just how fantastic I am.” He curls his arms around his chest, kisses Arthur’s shoulder. “You know.” His voice is soft, suddenly enough that Arthur’s heart stops. “I wasn’t joking, earlier, when I said that the best sort of magic is that when we look after each other. That’s true. And you’re a good king, who looks after his people. I’m proud of you.”
Arthur shifts onto his back, looks steadily at him. He thinks about Merlin and his flushed face and bright smile and the fact that good magic is selfless. Someday, he’ll tell Merlin that he would forsake his whole kingdom if Merlin would be with him forever. But he knows that would only make Merlin unbearable to be around, so instead he smiles at him. “Good.”
Merlin sticks his tongue out, then smiles back.
Recipient:
catarottaAuthor:
bananahater336Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: ~1800
Warnings: Schmoop!
Summary: Merlin and Arthur go wassailing on a Yule night.
Author's Notes: This was beta'd by Y. It's based loosely on the old Germanic custom of "wassailing," which you really don't have to have any prior knowledge about because it's pretty much caroling - with ale involved!
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Wassail! wassail! all over the town, Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown; Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree; With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.
Merlin's face is flushed red, high in his cheeks and in patches along his neck. Arthur doesn’t know what to attribute it to, really – the ale or the cold. Either way, he is smiling, and Arthur has always been rather fond of that.
The ritual is an ancient one, meant to help the orchard harvests. In recent years, it’s been extended to urge the good health of the people and the crops. Arthur knows that Merlin channels the energy from the songs and good cheer into the drink and the air and the land, bringing balance back to the land. Merlin made the drink: mulled ale, apples and potatoes. It’s sweet and warm and blessed. They are spending the night carrying it to each door in the lower town, to the farmers who need its blessings most, and as they walk, they sing.
“I’m surprised you decided to come,” Merlin is saying. The snow is packed, and it crunches beneath their feet. Ahead of them, the knights are singing loudly, stumbling into each other, their swords clanking together. Merlin scolded them when he saw them; there’s no reason for them to have weapons on a Yule night, he informed them. It’s sacred. Arthur thinks he’s naïve to believe that, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him so.
“I like Yule just as much as the next person,” Arthur protests, pausing to right Merlin when he slips on an icy patch, with one hand at his shoulder blades and the other on the bowl of warm ale he’s carrying in his arms. He leans into Arthur for a moment, and Arthur lets himself run his hand along the length of his spine, imagining the fire-warmed room and the thick furs on his bed, the way Merlin first stretches and sprawls across the mattress, then curls up close against Arthur’s side, the dark mop of his hair tucked onto his shoulder. “Honestly, Merlin, we’ll have none to offer if you slosh it everywhere.”
“There’s plenty!” Merlin sticks his tongue out, then beams at him in that cheek-splitting way he has when he’s especially endeared to Arthur. “Imagine how they’ll feel, your people, to see their king at their door, spooning out wassail.”
“Don’t sound so pleased.” Arthur’s face warms. He knows Merlin’s right though. The crop was bad this year. The people need what comfort and hope they can have. “You have good ideas once a year, and this happens to be your good idea for the year.”
Merlin is unfazed; that smile doesn’t fade.
The farmers especially appreciate the warm drink when they approach their doors; their hands and faces are the white of cold and hunger, and Arthur’s throat aches at the sight of them. Then Merlin decides the tradition needs updating. With a murmur and a sweep of his hand, he lights a fire, there in the middle of the path, among the tottering houses and cottages. He thrusts the bowl at Arthur, who manages not to slosh it all over himself. Then Merlin goes door to door, knocking and inviting everyone out into the night air.
Arthur sends Elyan off to fetch Gwen, and they reappear, wrapped up against the cold and carrying cuts of meat, various cheeses and loaves of bread from the palace kitchen. Music bursts suddenly through the cold air; one of the farmer women sings. The people are dancing, and sorcerers run down from the palace with more drink.
Merlin throws himself at Arthur, wrapping his arms around him tightly. He’s drunk, and the kiss he plants on Arthur’s cheek is sloppy, and he’s completely unconcerned if anyone notices them. Arthur laughs, planting his hands on his hips to steady him when they both stumble. “That’s it; no more for you. I’ll have to carry you to bed if you keep this up.”
Merlin hums. “You’ll carry me anyway. You like to.”
“Just for that, I’m having Gwaine do it.”
“No,” he whines, pressing close to him and nosing at his neck. “If Gwaine does, he’ll seduce me.”
“Will he now?”
“Yes! Successfully too. Then what will you do? You’ll be in your big bed all alone.”
“Alright, alright.” Arthur pinches him. “Cheeky.”
Merlin presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, light and sweet, just before Gwen sweeps him off to dance with her. Arthur watches, laughs when Merlin stumbles.
“Sire?”
He turns his attention to the small woman who has appeared at his side and is curtseying low. She has flour in her hair, and Arthur knows that she works in the kitchens, is one of the cooks that brought down food. “Yes? You may rise.”
“Thank you, sire.” She straightens with a smile and meets his eyes. “Thank you for this. My mother, she lives here in the lower town. My father passed some years ago, and she has trouble getting by. I help where I can but…” She shakes her head, trails off. “This sort of magic – this will help us all. The earth takes care of its own. Thank you.” She takes his hand, kisses his ring, then bows and backs away.
Arthur swallows, drinks down the rest of his ale, seeks out Merlin who is laughing. The earth cares for its own. He is happy to be caring for his people.
***
Arthur wakes the next morning on his stomach with Merlin trying to worm his way under him. “The sun’s too bright,” he mutters by way of explanation.
“And why not just pull the blankets over your head?”
“You’re warmer,” he says simply. “Besides, you smell like the fires from last night.”
“Magic fires?”
“Magic,” he says simply, and allows himself to be drawn up to nestle into the pillows, blanketed by Arthur. “You know,” he says softly, “last night was wonderful. You lifted everyone’s spirits. It’s not often that the people get to feast with their king.”
Arthur pets his knuckles against Merlin’s cheek. “Do you think it will help?”
“Hm?”
“The wassailing. Do you think it will help?”
Merlin wraps his arms around his neck, nuzzles their noses together. “Wassailing has the best sort of magic, Arthur. All of its energies are good, and they’re all sent into the earth and into its people, and it takes care of its own when we take care of our own. I have a good feeling about this coming year.”
“You’re not prophesying, are you?”
“Mmm, no. Not right now. But I’d be happy to scry for you later.”
Arthur chuckles. “The only time you ever want to be helpful is if you’re allowed to use magic.”
“Of course.” Merlin presses their lips together slowly. “It’s my best talent.”
“One of, perhaps.” Arthur murmurs. “You have others.”
Merlin laughs, hooks his arms around Arthur’s back and rolls them over. “All you have to do is ask, you know. I’m your lover.”
“You’re my mistress.”
He just laughs again, kissing him firmly. He tips his head to the side, practically vibrating when Arthur parts his lips for him. He licks his way into his mouth, sliding his hand down his side, and Arthur draws a knee up so Merlin can settle between his legs.
They kiss slowly, their tongues sliding together, teeth nipping at lips. Their breaths come a little faster, audible, and Arthur realizes that at some point, they started rocking together – achingly slow slides of skin against skin – and he runs his heel up Merlin’s calf, his back arching. He slides his hand into Merlin’s hair, holding him in against him, hard, the kiss almost bruising, his teeth scraping against the corner of Merlin’s mouth.
“Let me, let me,” Merlin stills him with a brush of his fingers against his skin, from his collar bones to his hips. If Arthur didn’t know better, he would think Merlin did it with magic, the way he can make his mind and body quiet and patient with just his hands. He pushes off of him for a moment, and when he returns, it’s with fingers slick with oil, warmed by magic, and Arthur shudders when one presses into him, slow and firm. He goes boneless at the feeling, and Merlin presses his lips to the crown of his shoulder.
“Oh, you beautiful thing,” Merlin murmurs, running his mouth over his skin. He slides another finger into him, and a third at Arthur’s urging. He pumps them slowly, his eyes on Arthur’s face. Arthur tips his head back, his legs flexing and his heels pressing down against the linens as he pushes down against Merlin’s hand, rocking his hips.
His sorcerer moves up to kiss him again, his hand sure and steady, rubbing against his spot so that Arthur groans, softly, against his mouth, his teeth sinking into Merlin’s lip. He presses his cock against Merlin’s hip. “Merlin,” he breathes out. “Come on.”
Merlin butts his nose against Arthur’s cheek. He slides his hand away to rest against Arthur’s leg, spreading him open, and he settles between them, kissing the corner of his mouth as he guides himself into him. He grins when Arthur arches up at the feel of him. “Better?”
“Much,” Arthur sighs, pressing his thighs to Merlin’s hips. “If only you always listened so well. Things would be much easier.”
“And you would be much lazier,” Merlin teases, rocking his hips forward, holding himself up on arms lean with muscle acquired from household work and farm work, a life full of using his hands. Arthur likes to watch Merlin when Merlin fucks him, the way his whole body arches and slides. It’s a solid movement, with none of the fluidity Arthur expected from Merlin as lover; he’s a young tree with deep roots. Arthur wants to shield him from strong winds, but Merlin’s planted himself to stay.
He holds Merlin’s sharp, sweet face between his hands, draws him down to kiss him and Merlin obliges, settling on his elbows, and Arthur devours him with his mouth and his body and his hands. When he comes, he feels as if his back will break with it, his muscles tightening then unwinding, a spool of thread.
He loses time, somewhere. When his vision swims into focus again, Merlin lies beside him, his hand resting against his heart, and he’s grinning wolfishly. “You just swooned,” he says smugly. “You just swooned, because I was making love to you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Arthur scoffs, rolling onto his side away from him. “I was tired. You were shoving ale into my hands all night; I’m surprised I was even awake long enough for it.”
“Mmm. It shows just how fantastic I am.” He curls his arms around his chest, kisses Arthur’s shoulder. “You know.” His voice is soft, suddenly enough that Arthur’s heart stops. “I wasn’t joking, earlier, when I said that the best sort of magic is that when we look after each other. That’s true. And you’re a good king, who looks after his people. I’m proud of you.”
Arthur shifts onto his back, looks steadily at him. He thinks about Merlin and his flushed face and bright smile and the fact that good magic is selfless. Someday, he’ll tell Merlin that he would forsake his whole kingdom if Merlin would be with him forever. But he knows that would only make Merlin unbearable to be around, so instead he smiles at him. “Good.”
Merlin sticks his tongue out, then smiles back.
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Date: 2011-12-16 11:52 pm (UTC)