(no subject)
Title: Selective Use of Full Titles
Fandom: Merlin
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, one-sided at this point
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, foul & hateful language, mentions of homophobia/minor homophobic bullying, too many parentheses, overuse of the word "prat"
Written For: hs_bingo, for the prompt "class - p.e."
Wordcount: 660
A/N: Direct predecessor to "Inconvenient Insights," and set about two weeks prior.
Sport requirements, Merlin decided, were a special kind of torture instituted by a group of mysterious conspirators determined to inject misery into the lives of innocent students across the country. Possibly the work of demons beta-testing a new circle of Hell, since seven circles wouldn’t cut it after all these population explosions and new, technology-driven ways to sin. Or something.
It wasn’t just being forced to run about the field and be hit in the face repeatedly in the name of good health, although that would quite frankly be more than enough reason to despise the entire setup. But half the class (mostly boys) threw themselves into the pointless games as if they were knights preparing to joust their way to eternal fame and legend. Not only did this mean that the ball always served as an eye to a hurricane of unsportsmanlike elbows and feet ready to stomp, but anyone who flubbed a catch or missed a pass would be guaranteed a five-minute lesson on his genealogy and anatomy, with helpful and detailed instructions about how he could go about improving the arrangement of the latter.
The latter suggestions continued into the changing rooms, with an added garnish of dubious looks, pointedly turned backs and, on occasion, a threat of physical harm if Merlin ‘didn’t keep his faggy eyes off me.’ As nobody had ever actually lent any weight to their dire warnings, Merlin had given up on explaining that he had a type, and it wasn’t threat-bearing assholes, thanks, so stop implying that he’d touch them with a ten-foot pole.
That particular calm and non-threatening act of education usually got him far in more trouble, anyway, and oddly enough it had yet to reassure anyone.
This year, however, the torture had been almost exponentially enhanced. Merlin had class with That Prat Arthur Pendragon (always referred to by his full title.)
It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with That Prat Arthur Pendragon, or at least no great and abiding flaws that he did not share with half of the student body (prattishness being a widespread plague, although usually in lowercase). He was one of the obsessed sports-knights, one of the worst in fact, but not particularly creative with his insults. He generally didn’t get past Merlin’s sexual habits, which at least gave him the advantage of being accurate. And although he was often to be found sharing dirty jokes and critiques of classmates with the threat-bearing assholes, he had yet to actually slip a warning against ogling into the wave of indiscriminate insults.
(This was probably a good thing, as Merlin’s type did include messy pale hair if possible. It also included a lot of important things which disqualified That Prat Arthur Pendragon, including the ability to not be a superior git. But still.)
Of course, That Prat Arthur Pendragon did complicate things by ceasing to be a git for the occasional five-second interval. Merlin discovered this on one miserably rainy day in October, when a combination of slippery, wet grass and clumsiness sent him skidding across the field, tripping over somebody else, and landing face-first in the mud.
“You okay?” he heard that someone ask, and extracted his face from the mud to find that while the rest of ‘his’ team had vanished in pursuit of the ball, Arthur Pendragon was staring at him with what appeared to be genuine concern in his eyes.
(Very blue eyes, much brighter than anything else in sight on this particular sodden day. Merlin had never noticed that before. Not that he was taking any particular notice now.)
He should probably actually answer the question. “Uhm, yeah, I guess. Yeah, I’m fine.” Of course his voice cracked. Perfect.
Arthur straightened, face slipping back into his standard I-Don’t-Understand-Why-You-Can’t-Be-As-Fantastic-As-I-Am look. “Well, then stop lying in the mud and get playing, for God’s sake!” And with that he whirled and took off up the field. Merlin snorted after him, extracting himself from the mud.
Still an utter prat.
Fandom: Merlin
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, one-sided at this point
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, foul & hateful language, mentions of homophobia/minor homophobic bullying, too many parentheses, overuse of the word "prat"
Written For: hs_bingo, for the prompt "class - p.e."
Wordcount: 660
A/N: Direct predecessor to "Inconvenient Insights," and set about two weeks prior.
Sport requirements, Merlin decided, were a special kind of torture instituted by a group of mysterious conspirators determined to inject misery into the lives of innocent students across the country. Possibly the work of demons beta-testing a new circle of Hell, since seven circles wouldn’t cut it after all these population explosions and new, technology-driven ways to sin. Or something.
It wasn’t just being forced to run about the field and be hit in the face repeatedly in the name of good health, although that would quite frankly be more than enough reason to despise the entire setup. But half the class (mostly boys) threw themselves into the pointless games as if they were knights preparing to joust their way to eternal fame and legend. Not only did this mean that the ball always served as an eye to a hurricane of unsportsmanlike elbows and feet ready to stomp, but anyone who flubbed a catch or missed a pass would be guaranteed a five-minute lesson on his genealogy and anatomy, with helpful and detailed instructions about how he could go about improving the arrangement of the latter.
The latter suggestions continued into the changing rooms, with an added garnish of dubious looks, pointedly turned backs and, on occasion, a threat of physical harm if Merlin ‘didn’t keep his faggy eyes off me.’ As nobody had ever actually lent any weight to their dire warnings, Merlin had given up on explaining that he had a type, and it wasn’t threat-bearing assholes, thanks, so stop implying that he’d touch them with a ten-foot pole.
That particular calm and non-threatening act of education usually got him far in more trouble, anyway, and oddly enough it had yet to reassure anyone.
This year, however, the torture had been almost exponentially enhanced. Merlin had class with That Prat Arthur Pendragon (always referred to by his full title.)
It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with That Prat Arthur Pendragon, or at least no great and abiding flaws that he did not share with half of the student body (prattishness being a widespread plague, although usually in lowercase). He was one of the obsessed sports-knights, one of the worst in fact, but not particularly creative with his insults. He generally didn’t get past Merlin’s sexual habits, which at least gave him the advantage of being accurate. And although he was often to be found sharing dirty jokes and critiques of classmates with the threat-bearing assholes, he had yet to actually slip a warning against ogling into the wave of indiscriminate insults.
(This was probably a good thing, as Merlin’s type did include messy pale hair if possible. It also included a lot of important things which disqualified That Prat Arthur Pendragon, including the ability to not be a superior git. But still.)
Of course, That Prat Arthur Pendragon did complicate things by ceasing to be a git for the occasional five-second interval. Merlin discovered this on one miserably rainy day in October, when a combination of slippery, wet grass and clumsiness sent him skidding across the field, tripping over somebody else, and landing face-first in the mud.
“You okay?” he heard that someone ask, and extracted his face from the mud to find that while the rest of ‘his’ team had vanished in pursuit of the ball, Arthur Pendragon was staring at him with what appeared to be genuine concern in his eyes.
(Very blue eyes, much brighter than anything else in sight on this particular sodden day. Merlin had never noticed that before. Not that he was taking any particular notice now.)
He should probably actually answer the question. “Uhm, yeah, I guess. Yeah, I’m fine.” Of course his voice cracked. Perfect.
Arthur straightened, face slipping back into his standard I-Don’t-Understand-Why-You-Can’t-Be-As-Fantastic-As-I-Am look. “Well, then stop lying in the mud and get playing, for God’s sake!” And with that he whirled and took off up the field. Merlin snorted after him, extracting himself from the mud.
Still an utter prat.