He clenches his fists and shoves his bare feet into his boots--unsteady and cautious on his feet--and walks towards the sound of the river.
As soon as he gets out of the campsite and his surrounds become unfamiliar again, Merlin finds himself relaxing, watching the ground underfoot, considering each step he takes amidst the roots and leaves and wildflowers. His stride becomes meditative, even the lingering pain merely threading into the complex stimulus of the woods. He reaches out to brace his hand unnecessarily against tree trunks as he goes, the cushioning of moss softening the craggy bark beneath.
After relieving himself further downstream, he wanders back up alongside the river, the sandy bank crunching quietly underfoot, dampness staining the leather along the edges of his boots dark. Far too soon he gets to a point he recognises again; the broad, open stretch of water is half the reason they chose this spot; shallow and flat enough to cross on horseback, and just deep enough to cool down in after a long day's riding.
Merlin strips off quickly and strides in, though the water feels almost too cold, now; he hisses as he crouches into the deepest bit he can find. The water flowing over the most sensitive parts of him is almost too painful at first, at least until the chill of it numbs the skin it touches. He wants to close his eyes, but instead keeps them determinedly open, watching along the shore for movement as he washes. His fingers turn nearly senseless too, and his jaw aches from clenching it as he makes himself feel between his legs--he's tender, but not damaged, the flesh still hot and a little too yielding, even in the freezing water.
There's the sound of something crashing through the woods, and Merlin startles and teeters in his crouch, tipping to his knees instead, torn between trying to keep himself covered by the water and finding the best stance to defend himself; but then Lancelot bursts out of the trees by the riverside, stopping abruptly when he sees Merlin.
Merlin stares back at him, trying to project a disgruntled expression, keeping as much of himself below the water as he can.
"You--" Lancelot says, voice a little breathless and expression disconcerted.
"Me," Merlin confirms shortly, willing Lancelot to turn and leave again. It strikes him abruptly that he knows the feel and force of Lancelot's cock; and that Lancelot's lips--twisting now in confusion--are in turns soft and firm when he kisses.
Merlin feels himself flush all over and feels angry for it; he's not ready to remember yet without the accompanying outrage, even as a treacherous part of him feels gluttonously grateful for having opportunity to know Lancelot thus.
"I thought maybe--" Lancelot seems to be struggling to find a casual stance himself, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting uneasily on his hip. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course," Merlin says brusquely, not moving. He raises his eyebrow at Lancelot as Lancelot doesn't move either, nor stop watching him.
"I'll rest here a while," Lancelot says, utterly transparent, and wanders back from the shore a little--without ever fully turning away--to lean back against a tree trunk, as if he's merely leisurely taking in the morning, instead of providing unwanted guard.
The day after As Fey Would Have It (2/3)
As soon as he gets out of the campsite and his surrounds become unfamiliar again, Merlin finds himself relaxing, watching the ground underfoot, considering each step he takes amidst the roots and leaves and wildflowers. His stride becomes meditative, even the lingering pain merely threading into the complex stimulus of the woods. He reaches out to brace his hand unnecessarily against tree trunks as he goes, the cushioning of moss softening the craggy bark beneath.
After relieving himself further downstream, he wanders back up alongside the river, the sandy bank crunching quietly underfoot, dampness staining the leather along the edges of his boots dark. Far too soon he gets to a point he recognises again; the broad, open stretch of water is half the reason they chose this spot; shallow and flat enough to cross on horseback, and just deep enough to cool down in after a long day's riding.
Merlin strips off quickly and strides in, though the water feels almost too cold, now; he hisses as he crouches into the deepest bit he can find. The water flowing over the most sensitive parts of him is almost too painful at first, at least until the chill of it numbs the skin it touches. He wants to close his eyes, but instead keeps them determinedly open, watching along the shore for movement as he washes. His fingers turn nearly senseless too, and his jaw aches from clenching it as he makes himself feel between his legs--he's tender, but not damaged, the flesh still hot and a little too yielding, even in the freezing water.
There's the sound of something crashing through the woods, and Merlin startles and teeters in his crouch, tipping to his knees instead, torn between trying to keep himself covered by the water and finding the best stance to defend himself; but then Lancelot bursts out of the trees by the riverside, stopping abruptly when he sees Merlin.
Merlin stares back at him, trying to project a disgruntled expression, keeping as much of himself below the water as he can.
"You--" Lancelot says, voice a little breathless and expression disconcerted.
"Me," Merlin confirms shortly, willing Lancelot to turn and leave again. It strikes him abruptly that he knows the feel and force of Lancelot's cock; and that Lancelot's lips--twisting now in confusion--are in turns soft and firm when he kisses.
Merlin feels himself flush all over and feels angry for it; he's not ready to remember yet without the accompanying outrage, even as a treacherous part of him feels gluttonously grateful for having opportunity to know Lancelot thus.
"I thought maybe--" Lancelot seems to be struggling to find a casual stance himself, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting uneasily on his hip. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course," Merlin says brusquely, not moving. He raises his eyebrow at Lancelot as Lancelot doesn't move either, nor stop watching him.
"I'll rest here a while," Lancelot says, utterly transparent, and wanders back from the shore a little--without ever fully turning away--to lean back against a tree trunk, as if he's merely leisurely taking in the morning, instead of providing unwanted guard.