Merthur One-shots

(I Keep Telling Myself) I'm Not The Desperate Type

Smut

Summary: Merlin wants to help Arthur with his restlessness during a tournament. But like. . . with feelings, too.

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Merlin dislikes tournaments.  

The barbaric showcasing of strength, overcast with the very real danger of death, it just seems stupid to him.  Fighting just for the sake of fighting, just for the satisfaction of knowing that at one moment, you are the better swordsman than your opponent.  In the six months he’s been at Arthur’s side, through the three tournaments he’s endured so far, he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand the thrill.  

He knows Arthur certainly does.  The Prince becomes more talkative each time a tournament rolls around, seemingly bursting with newfound energy, something Merlin notices easily.  In the mornings, when he dresses Arthur in his heavy chainmail and armour, before the fighting begins for the day, the Prince is always rattling on about whoever his opponent shall be--the way he’ll defeat him easily; the way Merlin should look forward to a quicker chore load in the evening, for Arthur intends to not bare a single scratch over his armour.  

Merlin always agrees readily, because he can feel the way Arthur is practically buzzing under his hands, restless and eager to finish dressing and get out into the dusty arena.  

And in the evenings, after the long hours of fighting, Arthur emerging victorious as always, Merlin wishes he knew some way to liberate Arthur of his excessive energy.  The Prince is always so high strung, so eager to get back out and show his prowess once more, he can hardly ever sleep at all during tournaments.  Merlin tries everything he can think of, from sweet warmed wine, to soothing oils in Arthur’s baths; Nothing eases the Prince’s vigorous highs.  But Merlin is nothing if not determined.  

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Waiting around in the servants tent while Arthur is preparing to enter the arena with the other knights is Merlin’s least favorite part of tournaments.  

There’s never anything to do, besides stand there and listen to the sounds of the crowd on the other side of the canvas walls, and stare at the dirt covering his boots.  It gets quite tedious after a while.  

He doesn’t usually like to mingle with the other servants either, mostly because he still feels out of place, as if he’s not truly meant to be there.  He’s only been Arthur’s servant for six months, and even if that’s long enough to get to know the Prince, and become something of his friend, he likes to think, it isn’t exactly long enough to become great at all the things a servant is meant to do.  Sometimes he thinks he can hear the other servants laughing at him, gossiping amongst each other, wondering why he of all people received the privilege of serving Prince Arthur.  

And despite the prophecy, despite Kilgharrah’s reassurance that Merlin is more than worthy of his role in protecting and serving Arthur, he can’t help but feel inferior in those moments.  Thoughts creep their way into his head, whispering that maybe he doesn’t deserve any of this, that he really is just an incompetant excuse for a manservant at the end of the day.  

Today, he stands in the corner of the tent, trying his hardest to sink into the background, to stay out of the large gathering of noblemen's manservants.  He tries to be unnoticable; Tries not to hear anything they’re saying.  But it’s not a very big tent, and voices tend to carry.