Coronation Cake
At last, the longest day of Arthur Pendragon's life was over. The day on which he had been crowned King of all Camelot, as crowds cheered and rejoiced in the streets. The day on which a whole host of responsibilities had barged into his life without so much as knocking, and proceeded to smack him upside the head.
It was these responsibilities that Arthur was trying his hardest to ignore, pretending to believe that every day for the rest of his life would be more than just dry council meetings and treaty talks. He sat in his chair before the fire, on that uncharacteristically dismal January day, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky. The people of his kingdom would be celebrating until well past dawn, and yet here he sat, alone, exhausted from a day of false cheer and frustrated by the feelings of helplessness that washed over him.
From this day forth, he was no longer in control of his life. Every second of every day would be dictated by protocol, routine, and necessity. His appetite for adventure would be quashed by formalities, just as his actual appetite had been by the stress of the day.
A traitorous roar of hunger from his stomach proved the latter to be false. Indeed he was hungry, famished even, but to fetch something to eat would be to join that damnable banquet, surrounded by hundreds of faces and voices, each reminding him of his stifling new role with every well-meaning word.
Prince – no, king now – Arthur would much rather sit alone in a dimly lit room, sinking deeper into a mire of uncertainty and dread. He was not sulking, not at all. Pendragons did not sulk. He was simply deep in contemplation of the life that lay ahead of him, contemplation that just happened to seem an awful lot like sulking to the untrained eye.
It said something for the state of his preoccupied mind that he did not once pause to consider the whereabouts of his servant, Merlin, who had been conspicuously absent since the end of the ceremony.
xxxXxxx
As it so happened, Merlin was actually in the otherwise-deserted castle kitchen, toiling over a bowl of batter as he made his third attempt at a recognisable cake.
The head cook would have beaten him mercilessly had she seen the horrific mess that had been made in her kitchen by the hapless manservant; flour was liberally dusted across every available surface, at least two eggs lay smashed on the floor, and the servant himself was coated in a mess of batter.
Merlin had been attempting for more than an hour to create a cake for Arthur, something truly special that would commemorate the event and demonstrate his faith in the blonde's ability to rule. The warlock knew perfectly well that his master doubted his own abilities, and desperately needed something, some small act of kindness to lift him out of his despondence.
That was why this cake was so incredibly important. It would be just the thing to cheer up the king – and to get some food into him. Merlin knew full well that Arthur had not eaten more than half an apple all day, and it would not do for such a great ruler to collapse from starvation.
A burning smell reached the brunette's nostrils, prompting a curse as he scrambled to remove this latest failed attempt from the oven before it caught fire, just like the last one (the first had merely blackened).
Merlin groaned with frustration. This was utterly hopeless. Thoroughly exasperated, he reached a decision that would have sent his mentor, Gaius, into conniption fits. There was nothing else for it; Magic would have to be used.
Settling himself before this most recent failure, he began to concentrate, picturing the perfect cake in his mind's eye.
"Ixcay vacanil fecte na regis."
The spell came intuitively, making him wonder whether his true calling had been as a common kitchen witch. As the glow of the magic faded, Merlin held his breath, waiting to see what monstrosity his good intentions had created.
What he saw made his jaw drop in amazement. The cake before him was a single-tier, triple-layer vanilla affair, with strawberry crème filling. It was liberally frosted with a thick layer of rich buttercream icing, and the top was decorated with a circle of neatly formed meringues. At the absolute center of this circle sat the crowning touch – a perfectly ripe summer cherry. What struck him, however, was not the perfection, but the size. The cake before him was absurdly large, a decadent affair truly worthy of a king.
Grinning widely, the warlock gathered up the cake, though not before using a quick spell to clean the worst of the batter from his clothing, and set off towards his master's chamber.
xxxXxxx
Footsteps on the stones of the corridor went almost unnoticed by Arthur, at least until a thud and a familiar yelp caught his attention. Merlin, of course. Only he could be so infuriatingly clumsy. Before the blonde could so much as wonder why his servant was in the corridor, his door swung open with considerable force, revealing the aforementioned bumbling idiot, bearing a massive cake.
Wait a second.
Arthur gaped in confusion as the skinny boy made his way into the room, awkwardly balancing the dessert and grinning from ear to ear. He was even more disheveled than usual – was that batter in his hair? – and he seemed rather pleased with himself.
"Merlin -" Arthur began, but was abruptly cut off by Merlin's cheerful exclamation.
"Surprise!" The brunette laughed giddily. "I have cake!"
"Yes Merlin, anyone with eyes can see that. The question here is why."
"It's for you, you silly prat," the boy replied, exaggerating his exasperation with a dramatic roll of the eyes.
"And what exactly did I do to deserve this, exactly?" Arthur raised a skeptical eyebrow as his servant set the unwieldy cake down on the table before him.
"You became King," Merlin replied, "and it's worth celebrating. Everyone else seems to think so, anyways."
"So 'everyone else' seems to think that I should be happy that my questing days are over. They think that I am actually ready for this responsibility. That I am fit to be king."
"Exactly!" Merlin clearly heard the despondence in his master's tone, and it concerned him deeply, but he knew that only his aggressive cheer could lift Arthur from his current state.
"They don't understand." The king snapped.
"I don't understand it either," grinned his servant. "Here you are being a sulky clotpole, while you could be eating cake!"
"You never shut up, do you?" Arthur glared over at the boy he saw as a cheeky imbecile.
"Not when it comes to cake."
The blonde's exasperated groan only made Merlin more cheerful. This annoyance, which most sane people would have regarded as downright alarming, was actually a positive sign; To the warlock, it meant that the Pendragon was finally starting to return to himself.
"All right, then. Get on with it."
Thoroughly tired of this nonsense, Arthur watched as his servant cut a sizable slice and upended it neatly onto a plate that seemed to appear out of thin air. The brunette was grinning like a loon, and the royal was unsure whether or not he ought to take this as a sign that the idiot had finally come unhinged.
"And here it is," Merlin placed the slice before his master and proffered a fork. "A cake fit to celebrate the coronation of the greatest king that Albion will ever know."
Just as anticipated, this appealed to the blonde's vanity, and he grudgingly accepted the utensil.
After what felt to the warlock like an eternity of waiting, Arthur finally raised a morsel of cake to his lips and took a reluctant bite, chewed thoughtfully, and proceeded to run his tongue across his lips, seeking any missed traces of frosting as he pondered the flavor.
Merlin, who had been holding his breath as he awaited the verdict, flushed with pleasure as he heard the faint groan that escaped the king's lips and saw the way that his expression became one of lazy ecstasy. Those gorgeous blue eyes, half-lidded, and a lopsided grin that suggested that he had forgotten the presence of his servant.
This expression only lasted for a fraction of a moment, however, before the blonde stabbed the delicate fork back into the generous slice of cake that the brunette had eagerly lain before him. With incredible speed he raised a second heaping forkful to his mouth, devouring it with no regard for decorum.
Arthur was completely certain that he had never tasted something so incredible, far more delicious than it had any right to be. After all, it was merely a trifle made by Merlin, of all people. Useless, clumsy Merlin. As this thought struck him, he paused, swallowing his current mouthful, and looked across at his manservant with dangerous eyes.
"It seems that you aren't completely useless after all, Merlin. This is actually acceptable." it was far more than acceptable, but the prince wasn't about to admit that out loud. He wouldn't want the skinny twit to think that he was being praised.
He paused to take in the delighted expression that lit up the brunette's face – how had he never noticed the endearing way that the young man's ears turned pink when he blushed?
With each passing moment he felt a mounting urge to shovel more of that delightful cake into his mouth, and it took a surprising amount of discipline for him to abstain long enough to get these next words out.
"So," he continued "Where exactly did you learn this... skill?" His tone was dangerous and almost suspicious.
"Erm, it's an old family recipe," Merlin replied uncertainly, squirming under that probing gaze. Suspicion was one reaction which he hadn't anticipated, and he was aware that his response could be the deciding factor the outcome of this entire affair.
"With recipes like this, it's remarkable that you're so scrawny." Arthur hadn't really meant to say this aloud - it had sort of slipped out - but it was a fair point.
"Miracle isn't it?" The warlock smirked, regaining his confidence. "Has something to do with the fact that I don't eat enough to feed a horse."
At any other time, the king would have uttered some irate retort about how he most certainly did not. Instead, Arthur merely gave a snort of derision before turning his attention back to the cake. He saw no reason to waste his breath berating his manservant when the mere anticipation of more of this dessert was causing his mouth to water.
Without so much as a hint of apprehension or pause for thought, he dug in.
This mouthful, much like the first, flooded his senses with a remarkable flavor, sweet and subtly tart yet reserved and delicate. It was breathtaking, and before he was fully aware of his actions the blonde had crammed a second forkful into his mouth. Another desperate mouthful followed, and then another, his cheeks bulging outwards as he chewed through the rich, moist dessert.
Merlin watched the way his king ate, delight fading to uncertainty. He had expected a positive reaction, but this was unprecedented, and seemed strangely gluttonous, even for Arthur.
The Pendragon was already halfway finished with the ample slice that he had been given, and his table manners were even more appalling than usual.
The brunette watched as each bite was larger than the last, icing smearing across those supple lips and crumbs scattering down the front of that crimson tunic. It was wonderful that his master was so thoroughly engrossed in the cake, but surely it couldn't have been all that appealing. After all, the spell dictated that it could only have been as good as what Merlin was capable of imagining, and he couldn't honestly say that he had ever enjoyed any exceptional cake.
Curiosity piqued, the brunette reached out with a spare fork, seemingly drawn from nowhere, and liberated a corner of the slice. This innocent action was met with a fierce glare.
"I was under the impression that this was my coronation cake. A king does not share his cake with the servants."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Are you forgetting that I'm the servant who baked it, clotpole? Technically that means that I get half."
Arthur sighed, exasperated by such ridiculous logic, but for once decided that it wasn't worth the effort to argue. At least this way the idiot would shut up.
"Fine," he snapped.
The aforementioned idiot gave a goofy grin, and neatly plucked the small portion of sponge cake and icing from the tines with the delicate motion of a perfectly formed mouth. As the flavor exploded onto his tongue, his eyes widened, with pleasure and with concern. It was incredible, certainly. The icing was that perfect balance of sweet and creamy, melting in his mouth, and the cake itself was... words failed him.
It was delicious beyond all description.
However, this also meant that his magic had done something terribly wrong. As the magnitude of what he had done sunk in, he could already feel the spell taking hold, instilling a fierce craving for more of that perfect dessert. The reason that Arthur was eating so quickly became apparent. He was eating this way because it was literally impossible to stop.
Merlin was not sure if the feeling that washed over him was horror or merely shock. This meant that, between the two of them, he and his master would be consuming the entire cake. The entire massive, rich, magically delicious cake. The anticipation was unbearable.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by his manservant, the blonde had rapidly finished the slice on his plate, and was busily cutting himself a new one. The slice was positively massive, and it spoke volumes that the king could barely wait until the slice was out before taking a huge, sloppy bite.
Devouring cake, which smeared across lips and fingers, fell into crumbs upon the table - that was how the evening would pass. Indulgent and pleasurable, but Merlin could not shake that feeling of dread. Nothing good would come of this cake, this binge on the singularly most incredible cake to ever touch mortal lips-
The warlock sighed heavily, giving in to the magic as he stuck his fork directly into the cake, not even bothering to cut a slice. A tentative mouthful brought an explosion of that exquisite flavor to his taste buds - he could see why Arthur was so engrossed in his second helping, shoveling it into his mouth with all the grace and dignity of a hog at a trough.
This could only end badly.
xxxXxxx
There was absolutely no way that Merlin could possibly have felt any worse. His thin frame was distorted by a hard, painful bulge of a stomach, pushing over the waistband of his breeches in a way that made him thankful that he had long since removed his belt.
The warlock shuddered at the thought of that constriction, the way that once-loose belt had dug into his flesh, tightening with each bite that passed his lips until it was nigh unbearable.
The brunette's attention turned to the platter set between himself and his master. The vast cake had been almost completely devoured, with only a dozen or so mouthfuls remaining, along with a few agonizingly sweet meringues. All of this was scattered haphazardly across the circular metal surface, testament to the way in which the young men had dove into the cake, tearing it apart with frenetic forks and desperate mouths.
If Merlin felt terrible, though, Arthur most certainly felt worse, though he would never utter a word of protest. He had easily eaten three-quarters of the moist, decadent dessert, and it showed.
The now-king's belt had burst off at some point, and a distended and impressive stomach had surged out, spherical against his tunic. Said tunic was smeared with icing and caked with crumbs, as were his fingers and most of his face. A slight trace of his pain was evident in his features, though the full extent of the sweet suffering was betrayed by the desperate way in which his free hand grasped at and massaged his stomach, attempting to relieve the tension as he continued to eat.
Yes, both the overstuffed king and his suffering manservant were still eating, driven as they were by that mischievous spell.
The manservant lifted his fork to his lips yet again, another bite working in those exhausted jaws. The strawberry crème - his mouth watered at the taste, just as it had with every bite that came before it. It was simply so flawless; sweet and piquant. Truly magnificent.
Arthur shoveled a meringue into his mouth, teeth working so rapidly that it was little wonder that they had long since begun to ache. The perfection of the cake occupied his mind so thoroughly that the small corner of reason, screaming for him to realize the insanity of what he was being compelled to do, went unacknowledged.
Another bite, this one punctuated by a groan from Merlin. Bewitched though he was, the king still mustered a smirk. The manservant had never been remotely competent at anything, and cake-eating was clearly no exception.
With each bite, the young men drew nearer to the last mouthful of that treacherous cake, neither attempting suppressing the moans and groans of pained ecstasy that were now escaping them.
The last meringue vanished, slipping between Merlin's lips at the exact moment that Arthur consumed the final bite of the dessert. The warlock swallowed heavily, exhausted, slumping forwards as he gingerly cradled his stomach. He heard Arthur belch, and then chuckle derisively.
"Not going to finish, then?"
Finish? Merlin's mind whirled as he scanned the empty platter, then shifted his gaze to the blonde. The gorgeously disheveled, triumphant king held the cherry garnish betwixt his thumb and forefinger, staring at it hungrily.
The brunette groaned in response, but did not look away as Arthur licked his lips, slowly and dramatically, and sucked on the sinful fruit for a long moment before popping it into that red mouth.
Heat rose in MerIin's cheeks. The king's face was flushed as well, but with exertion, rather than the embarrassment that gripped his servant. The warlock had just seen something so incredibly lustful, so fueled by desire, that it was nearly obscene; For a split second the blonde had appeared so incredibly attractive-
This exhilarating, terrifying thought was pushed from his mind by a jolt of magic, the sensation of that accidental spell lifting from the two unfortunate victims – though perhaps not so unfortunate considering the luxury in which they had just indulged.
It was now Arthur's turn to moan, a drawn out sound not dissimilar to the cry of a wounded heifer. To Merlin's complete and utter astonishment, however, it was not a moan of pain, but of longing. The king was staring despondently at the platter, licking what remained of the buttercream frosting from his fork.
The warlock was dumbfounded. Had the spell not been lifted from the blonde as well?
"So, your highness, how did you like your coronation cake?" the brunette teased. "Full yet?"
"There wasn't enough of it," the blonde pouted childishly.
Clearly not lifted, then. Suddenly, Arthur shuddered, a convulsion that lasted only a split second, but wracked him from his head to his feet. His vision seemed to clear, and he stared at the cake platter before him with confusion and something that could possibly have been amazement. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, causing him to look adorably clueless, if only for a moment.
"I- that cake…" he stammered, clearly in shock. "Merlin?"
"Seems that you were hungry, you greedy dollop-head." The warlock was not keen on mentioning that magic of any kind had been involved, lest it ruin the carefree atmosphere that he had originally sought to create (and which had somehow come to pass anyway, despite this spectacular incident).
"Ngh." The blonde grunted, clutching at his stomach. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he was suffering from a bellyache of epic proportions; A bellyache fit for a king.
"So, still worried about the kind of king that you'll be? Besides incredible, that is." The brunette spoke in a lighthearted, joshing tone, with particular emphasis on the flattery just to be on the safe side.
"No, you idiot!" Arthur exclaimed irately, then calmed himself somewhat before he continued. "What I'm worried about is this stomach-ache. It feels like I've been kicked in the gut by a mule!"
"Had firsthand experience with that, have we?" Merlin shot back. He himself knew exactly how this felt, having once been the victim of the flying hoof of Warrior, the supposedly noble white stallion that the blonde often rode into battle. Noble stallion indeed. It was practically as spoilt as its master.
The king's reply brought him back to the present. "It isn't as if it should matter to you," he said snippily, his tone aloof and a haughty expression plastered across his smug face.
As quickly as that expression appeared, however, it vanished, replace by a mask of pain too great to be suppressed. Though the warlock's first instinct was to rush to his master's side, his rapid attempt to rise was greeted by his own spasm of pain. Slumping back into his seat, he sighed. Ah well. He supposed that the prat was fully capable of handling the situation himself. This couldn't have been the first such ache that the Pendragon had experienced, and if his deplorable eating habits were any indication, it was certainly far from the last.
It was as this thought passed from his mind that a sweeping wave of exhaustion struck him, enfolding him within a blanket of drowsiness that was rapidly driving the pain from his thoughts.
An expansive yawn from Arthur indicated that he had been struck by a similar sensation, which was somewhat unsurprising. Merlin had observed that the king was rather like a bear in that regard, as after a large, indulgent meal such as this one, he would drift into a stupor and essentially hibernate for several long hours as he slept off his gorging.
Sleep... Merlin staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the table as he rose. The thought of his chambers was hazy in his mind as he turned towards the door, but a single step brought him to his knees. He collapsed heavily, clutching at his bloated stomach, sprawled onto the rug before the fire.
He would fall asleep there, and remain there until morning dawned, content in knowing that his master was satisfied, though perhaps not in the way that he would have hoped.
Unbeknownst to him, Arthur had also nodded off, face down on the cake platter, hands protectively cradling his newfound stomach.
Both dreamt of cake.
xxxXxxx
Cake.
This word was the first coherent thought to enter Arthur Pendragon's mind as the first rays of the morning sun struck him. This thought was rapidly followed by a second; the realization that he was clearly not in the royal bed, but rather face-down on a cold, metal surface, in a sitting position, with a horrific stomach ache.
In an instant, the events of the previous night flooded back to him. Merlin had brought him a cake, yammering on about his faith in Arthur, and then - Oh.
It hit him like a ton of bricks. He had eaten an entire, massive cake (with perhaps a little aid from that idiot servant) and then fallen asleep at the table where he had gorged, fully clothed and incredibly sticky.
He had eaten an entire cake. An entire massive, delicious, impossibly perfect cake.
Arthur sat bolt upright, his features twisting into an expression for which there was no name. Merlin! It went without saying that he must have been responsible for this decided lapse in his regal behavior (he refused to admit to himself that this gluttony was in many respects similar to that which he displayed at banquets and feasts – after all, he had his pride).
He surged to his feet, a momentary twist of pain, sharp and severe, coursing through his midsection, which was still swollen and distended – though far more malleable now – from the previous evening. He was determined to track down the manservant and do something unspeakably horrible to him. Yes, something horrible. The details could wait.
A snore from the floor near the fireplace told him that he did not have far to search. The blonde opened his mouth to bellow, to scare the living daylights out of the hapless warlock, but was caught off guard by the sleepy mumble that issued forth from the brunette's undeniably kissable lips.
"Ngh... Stupid magic cake."
That certainly explained matters. Some sorcerer had enchanted the treat, and the two of them had fallen victim to the spell.
"Mmm. Thick prat... my cherry... Git." Even in his sleep, Merlin was as insolent as ever.
Having heard enough, Arthur snatched Merlin's collar and yanked the brunette to his feet, snapping him rudely out of his peaceful sleep.
"Hmm?" The brunette yawned sleepily.
His vision rapidly focused, and he took in the scene with a broad smirk, once again appearing strangely pleased with himself. Gradually however, his expression changed to one of genuine amusement, mouth twitching at the corners as it turned into a mirthful grin, accompanied by some equally mirthful giggles that only intensified as he looked the Pendragon over.
The royal glared dangerously at the laughing servant, willing him to be silent, but to no avail.
"Shut up, Merlin," he growled.
"But- but just look at yourself!" The warlock grinned, laughter fading as he eyed the king with what could best be described as an appraising stare.
Arthur grumbled something that may have been vulgar, and followed his servant's gaze, determined to find out what exactly was amusing Merlin's simple mind. Those dark, penetrating sapphire eyes seemed to be locked onto his stomach, twin orbs twinkling with mirth, giddy cheer and – was that desire?
Wait, his stomach?
The blonde looked down apprehensively, and nearly fell over with shock at the sight that awaited him. Where yesterday there had been a taunt, muscled abdomen, there was now a soft, generous bulge of fat padding out a swollen stomach, pouching up over his waistband and causing his tunic to ride up awkwardly.
He touched it cautiously, confirming that it was indeed real, not noticing that the brunette no longer appeared nearly as cheerful.
That is, he did not notice until a curse from the servant brought Arthur's attention back to the scrawny twit. It seemed that Merlin had developed a paunch of his own, which he was prodding at irately with an expression of annoyance. It was a pronounced softness, though not nearly as large as Arthur's, and felt foreign and strange beneath his pale, probing fingers. This must be what satisfaction felt like, the warlock thought distractedly. Not so terrible, actually.
A regal voice cut into his musings. "I don't suppose that you'd care to explain this." The tone smoldered with displeasure.
"Um..." Merlin began, seemingly abandoned by his pithy wit and sarcasm.
He took a deep breath, preparing to phrase the forthcoming statement simply and truthfully. Quite honestly, it was not an unpleasant side-effect, not if it meant that he could enjoy the sight of his master so exceedingly well-endowed. The warlock swallowed heavily, careful not to allow this rush of appreciation to enter his voice.
"I guess that's what magic cake does, Arthur. Magical fat."
"Wonderful," the blonde spat sarcastically.
"I certainly think so," the brunette smirked, only half-kidding, relishing the dumbfounded expression that crossed his master's face.
Merlin took the moment of silence that followed to run his eyes up and down Arthur's flawless form, taking in the way that this newfound weight was perfectly juxtaposed against his muscular chest and powerful legs. The warlock's lips parted slightly as he gazed at the way that the sunlight caught in that golden hair, and every facet of those pure, sparkling blue eyes. He could feel himself beginning to blush, turning a fetching shade of scarlet as every moment that they had spent together took on a new meaning.
Two sides of the same coin. Was this what the dragon had meant?
It was then that he chanced a glance into the other man's eyes, and realized that the king was staring at him intently, lips slightly parted just as his own had been.
The blonde's mind was spinning. His servant's words had been so flippant, and yet they were still somehow earnest. As if this was not strange enough, now he had caught said servant appreciating his form, with a stare that smouldered so darkly that it could never be mistaken for innocent curiosity.
An internal grin. It wasn't as though the king had never appreciated the manservant in this way, tracing every angle of that narrow face with his eyes and allowing his gaze to linger for just a moment too long on that firm, pert behind whenever Merlin turned his back.
"Arthur?" The warlock queried, confused and more than a little nervous.
"Yes, I am. Arthur, King of Camelot and entitled to take whatever it is that I want." His stare was hungry, even predatory. "And do you know what I want, Merlin?"
The brunette swallowed, blush intensifying as the blonde took a step closer, standing a mere heartbeat away from his pale, trembling form. "What, clotpole?" he asked weakly, praying for the answer that he longed to hear.
"You, you insufferable dolt. I want you."
I want you.
Those three words, from the man he lived to serve. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, roaring in his ears. His vision slipped in and out of focus, and the last thing that he heard before the world went black around him was the sound of his name, a desperate cry torn from those perfect lips.
"Merlin!"
xxxXxxx
The first thing that the warlock saw when he opened his eyes was Arthur's face, as the king hovered over him with an expression of concern on that handsome visage. He found that he was lying on something strangely soft and comfortable, realizing groggily that the blonde must have lain him on the bed.
Upon seeing the brunette's eyes flutter open, the Pendragon gave a sigh of relief. That had most certainly not been the reaction that he had expected. Desperate, needy touches? Perhaps. A dead faint? Not exactly.
"So, does this mean that you're going to kiss me?" These were the first words out of Merlin's mouth, cheeky, teasing and all the proof that the king needed that his servant would be perfectly fine.
"Something like that, yes," Arthur chuckled, leaning over from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
He pressed his lips softly against those of his manservant, a chaste kiss that indicated that there was no real need to rush. Yes, he would have preferred a more passionate embrace, but there was no sense in giving the twit another fainting attack. Merlin really was a girl sometimes, swooning before him like some fragile maiden - the blonde would never be allowing his servant to live this one down.
Their lips parted after a long moment had passed, and the king proceeded to help the brunette into a sitting position, propped up against the headboard. He then proceeded to shove said brunette over, just as the thinner man was settling comfortably, so that he had some room for himself. Typical pigheaded Arthur.
Of course, the brunette could not resist the urge to shove Arthur in return, and a minor flurry of movement and chaos ensued.
Once they had finally settled, after a fair bit of bickering and a flung pillow, Merlin hummed contentedly. Snuggled into a bed that was infinitely more comfortable than his own, he rested his head on his master's broad shoulder. The moment was perfect, a moment of mutual bliss, at least until the decidedly disrespectful warlock spoke, grinning in the way that always warned Arthur that a blow to his confidence was soon to follow.
"Oi, prat. Do you realize that you've got icing in your hair?"
The servant conceded that he deserved the ruthless way in which the king twisted his oversized ear, causing him to wince with pain. In typical retaliatory fashion, the brunette reached across and poked his master firmly in the stomach, delighting in the way that his finger sank into the softness.
"You're squishy," Merlin observed. "King Squishy of Camelot."
An annoyed huff was his reply, as Arthur refused to dignify the comment with a response.
Heedless, servant touched that impressive paunch again, more gently this time, sinking his fingers delicately into the fat with a giddy smile (resisting the temptation to give it a firm squeeze).
The king almost recoiled from the touch. Almost. Then he remembered the conclusion that they had come to. This fat, magical in origin, was only temporary, and only he and his servant would ever see it or know of the incident. If Merlin was so fascinated by it then there was no harm in a simple touch. After all, it was a gesture of admiration, and Arthur's vanity was such that he was not about to refuse it. He was incredible, fat and all, and Merlin clearly knew it.
A smirk. Perhaps having a servant for a lover would not be so terrible – after all, he had always wanted Merlin down on his knees where he belonged. The warlock rolled his eyes and punched the blonde in the shoulder, as if to say that he knew exactly what the other was thinking, and that it was not likely to happen in a million years.
No words passed between them for many long minutes, minutes that stretched on, perhaps even into hours. They were two sides of the same coin; they did not need words.
At any rate, words or not, Merlin knew that whenever the stresses of kingship began to wear on his master, there would always be cake.
Heaping mountains of cake.
FIN