Basically, a little while a go on tumblr, people started sending me requests for three sentence ficlets. They gave me a pairing and a plot word, and this is what ended up happening.
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Morgana/Gwen, Gwen/Lancelot, Morgana/Morgause, Morgana/Uther, Merlin/Morgana, Percival/Gwaine, Colin/Bradley and John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 (that's like... overall. Most of them are G tbh. I'm not really sure how you rate drabbles :S)
Merlin would never have believed that Arthur was the snuggling kind of guy but, after that first embrace, it was all the manservant could do to not be cuddling Arthur. And they were cuddles; big, soft things, where Arthur would carefully wrap up his Merlin in strong arms, and lay them both on the bed, tangled together and toasty. Merlin, they decided, was more of a hugger; he would dash about doing this and that, pausing only to fleetingly wrap his arms around someone’s waist and then run off again; it was only when it came to Arthur, that he would be forced to stop... hugging Arthur was a commitment, for at least half an hour or so, but not necessarily one that Merlin didn’t enjoy.
“I told you to get back,” Arthur whispered, breath pulling painfully through cracked lips; breath he wished would just stop, so he could join the man in his arms. The magic was dying from Merlin’s eyes now; and Arthur looked away because he couldn’t stand it; he didn’t want to see that warm blue go cold; he didn’t want, he didn’t, he didn’t-
“I’m sorry,” and it was barely more than a whisper; barely more than heavy silence, but Arthur heard it, and he stared down at this boy, this man, who had made him fall in love, and had then got himself killed on a battle field, of all places. Merlin wasn’t even supposed to be on a battlefield; it wasn’t where he belonged, and now he was apologising, when all Arthur could think of was how he had led him here; how it was all his fault...
“I-“ Arthur began, “I-“ need you, want you, love you, “I...” but Merlin was gone, the smallest of smiles, still twisted through his face.
John/Sherlock, virgin (I think that was it :S)
“We could... give it a go,” Sherlock was slumped over the sofa, his chin resting on the arm, watching John, who was reading a paper in his favourite armchair. John looked over at him and grinned,
“We could... and really Sherlock, I’d be more than happy to ‘give it a go’, but I don’t want you sulking for hours after wards,” he said, turning the page,
“Why would I sulk?” Sherlock grumbled, and John just smiled even wider,
“Because, well, we’ll have found something I’m better at than you are,” and Sherlock the virgin didn’t really know what to say to that.
“Pass me the wine, Morgana,” Uther’s fingers twitched, leather twisting as he gestured towards the jug, and then his goblet, indicating that his ward should pour him some of the sticky, intoxicating liquid. He was unaware that Morgana has poisoned the stuff, exactly an hour earlier, which was precisely the right amount of time it took for the toxin to mature. She handed it over, eyes cool and, just before he drank, she moved closer, ran a hand up his front, cupped his face, and kissed him; one last kiss, to finalise the magic which the poison would then use to activate, before she pulled away, and he smiled at her warmly, and brought the goblet to his lips.
“Morgana, if I keep sneaking off, they’re going to suspect something! There are only so many times I can tell Gaius that the reason I have bruises is because I’ve been chained up and left for bloody serkets to eat (which is a seriously ridiculous story, you have to tell Morgause to think of something better, honestly), or that you had me hanging from your ceiling, because you were torturing me. I don’t think he even began to believe that one; no one tortures a man by binding them and then biting their necks, you know that?”
Percival/Gwaine, Sword (or it might have been armour... dkjsdgf)
“Why can’t you get that bloody chainmail fitted properly?” Gwaine asked in a huff, swinging his sword at Percival during training, and catching him on one of his bare arms. Percival shrugged, a slow grin twisting through his jaw, as he swiped away the blood and then crouched, defensive, flexing and tautening the muscles in his arms.
“I thought you liked it,” he replied, easily, before delivering to a gawping Gwaine the final blow, and sending him sprawling and spluttering onto the floor.
Gwen was the one they all expected to cry, when the day of the wedding came; when it was time for her to prepare for her future life as queen of Camelot, and wife to Arthur. They thought she would cling to Lancelot, in those last few moments, run her fingers through his hair, lips quivering, eyes filled with burning water.
They didn’t think it would be Lancelot, to break down in the middle of the hall, his face broken with harsh lines of despair, a tear working its way over the brim of his eyelid, visible to all, before he turned and walked from the hall.
Morgana had easily climbed the tree, and now she was sitting on one of the top branches, her legs swinging, shredding a brown leaf in her delicate fingers, watching as the pieces fluttered down to the ground. Far below, Gwen watched her, hands held open, trying to catch them all, lips curving up in delight, whenever one landed in her palm.
It was then, as Morgana saw the smiles lighting up the other girl’s face, that she realised she’d gift Gwen with anything to keep that expression in place; at that moment, there was nothing else that mattered.
Bradley/Colin, stomach ache (or something about being ill...)
Colin stumbled into his and Bradley’s bedroom, his face crumpled up, and moaning thickly,
“Bradley, this is it, this is the end; I’m dying, Bradley,” before flopping face first onto the bed. Bradley chuckled, before scooting over to him, hooking his hands under the slighter man’s arms, and hauling him up.
“I’m sure I can find a way to save you, Col,” he murmured, before kissing him softly, gently rubbing Colin’s stomach at the same time, and grinning when the other man sighed contentedly, the lines in his face straightening out into something more comfortable, as he settled down in Bradley’s arms.
Merlin/Arthur, hay fever
“Merlin, are you a complete idiot, or do you think it’s normal for people with hay fever to go messing around in fields, or whatever else you’ve been doing all day?” Arthur didn’t turn around as he addressed his ridiculous, lovely manservant; his attention was focused on the papers on his desk, but you’d be able to hear Merlin’s snuffling from a mile away.
After a few moments of Merlin not replying, Arthur let out an exasperated sigh, and span around to face the servant, perhaps to berate him some more for not taking care of himself properly, only he was pulled up short by the sight of Merlin, red-nosed and watery-eyed, and sheepishly holding out a bunch of flowers to him.
Merlin/Morgana, jelly beans
“Morgana can we please not stop, we’re going to be so late,” Merlin tugged anxiously on Morgana’s sleeve, even as he couldn’t help but grin; they were standing by a market stall, which was selling about a thousand different sweets. Morgana didn’t answer him, but simply continued to peruse the jelly beans on display, before seeming to make a decision, and slipping a long, slender white hand, into a pool of bright pink ones.
“Morgana...” Merlin began, a hint of warning in his voice, but she ignored him as always, laughing delightedly, as she took off, with the stolen sweets shoved into her mouth; Merlin chased after her, laughing just as loudly, and when he kissed her it tasted of little triumphs, and strawberries.
John/Sherlock, Sherlock’s white sheet of sex (okay I have no idea if that’s what people call it but w/e)
The blanket was really, very thin, John thought, as he struggled to work on his blog from across the room, but finding it near impossible with Sherlock sitting there, doing nothing but looking ridiculously attractive. He might as well have been naked, for all the good the sheet was doing; in fact the thing seemed to be enhancing certain areas of Sherlock’s body which John would prefer to be left unenhanced, thank you very much.
Sherlock cast him a wry smile, a twist of the lips which told his blogger that he knew exactly what he was doing; John glared at him for a moment, and then made a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to retrieve his old comfort blanket from the loft, which he just knew was worn down in all the right places.