Warnings: Teeth-rotting fluff
Note: written for the prompt I left on merlin_love on livejournal. No one took it up so I figured I would.
Arthur/Merlin - Arthur alone, playing with puppies and trying not to let anyone see him being so vulnerable. What Merlin does is up to the writer.
Disclaimer: The tv show, Merlin, and the show's characters do not belong to me. They are the property of Shine and BBC. This is not for profit.

"Fi, stop that!" A soft laugh seemed to come from beyond the stable doors and Merlin stopped for a moment, listening.

It sounded like it was Arthur who was laughing but that couldn't be right. Oh, Arthur laughed alright but usually it was a restrained kind of sound, coming from deep in his chest, something more to impress his father than any real enjoyment or else a kind of snide, sneering kind of laugh that distanced rather than invited you in to laugh with him. A reminder that he was the prince and Merlin shouldn't forget it.

Although he had to admit that once in a while, when Arthur was feeling particularly friendly, there was something almost light-hearted, a snicker, even the beginnings of a full-out raucous laugh before he'd turn it into a cough and a scowl when he saw Merlin starting to grin.

It would be too peasanty to belly laugh, of course, not noble enough for the great Prince Arthur. After all, as Merlin was constantly reminded, Royalty, with a capital R no less, does not guffaw. Or giggle or cackle or any of the other things that common folk might do.

Merlin tried not to roll his eyes at the memories.

"Fo, don't let Fee get the best spot. Come on, get over here. No, don't…." Another half-chuckle half-snort, as if the person had been jumped upon in the middle of all the laughter.

It did sound like Arthur, though, and Merlin was looking for him. It might be that he should investigate further. The king had sounded pretty adamant about talking with Arthur and Merlin didn't need to visit the stocks again any time soon, thank you very much.

"Fi, be nice to your brother." Another cackle that Merlin had to admit was not royal at all; it sounded a bit girly if truth be told. "Fee, be careful, you'll… ha, don't…." And there was a yip and more laughter, harder, longer and then it got quiet enough to hear hay moving, lots of it, enough that it was clear the man behind the door wasn't alone.

Now Merlin was really curious. What was going on?

No matter what Arthur said, he could be stealthy when he needed to be. Hunting wasn't for stealth, it was for killing things and Merlin really wanted no part of it. And if push came to shove, which it often did with the prince around, Merlin sometimes stumbled or stepped on a very snappy branch or grumbled –loudly - about things just to wind Arthur up. The prat needed a bit of that from time to time and Merlin was just the one to do it.

But now, he could hear yipping and a bit of a growl, overlaid with a clear loud laugh.

Merlin pushed the door open, just a touch, not enough for anyone to hear but he could see a little, a pile of straw and one brown boot-heel on its side kicking a bit. The same brown boot he'd cleaned yesterday.

He couldn't believe it. It was Arthur, his prat of a prince. Laughing, talking with someone, several someones if those names were any hint. Rolling around in the hay. With Arthur. His Arthur.

And he wasn't letting him get away with it. He'd had enough with Cedric trying to nudge him out. He wasn't about to let strangers take advantage of Arthur, getting him to laugh like that or whatever else they were doing in the hay and didn't that thought make him want to do something rash like maybe transport them someplace far, far away – he didn't want to kill them, well maybe just a little but send them someplace so far that it would take them years to get back - and then turn Arthur into a toad for a day or two or ten!

Damn it, Arthur was his, even if the prat didn't know it yet. Even if they hadn't acted on the looks and the touches and the sheer want of it all.

Stealthy still, Merlin pushed the door a little wider, getting ready to jump in and chew out Arthur Pendragon, the princeliest prat he'd ever known and whoever he was seeing behind Merlin's back.

There was another yip and a kind of high-pitched growl and he heard Arthur say, "Stop it, Merlin. Stop it, you silly lump. You really are the clumsiest…."

Merlin was flabbergasted. Arthur was berating him? How did he even know he was there? He hadn't gone into the stables yet and already he was getting insulted? Okay, he was a horrible servant and clumsy but still there was no reason to rub his face in it like that, at least not again. He'd already heard it once today from Uther and that had been quite enough. Unless it was a conspiracy, one of those royal things where it was 'gang up on Merlin' day and no one bothered to tell him.

"Merlin, stop, you oaf." The prince's voice pitched up and then down again, almost squeaky the whole time like some great girl's and then it turned sickeningly sweet. "Yes, I love you the best. Yes, I do. You are adorable, yes you are and… stop licking my face, you… ummph."

Okay, Merlin had had enough. No one else with his name or frankly no one except himself was going to be licking Arthur's face, not if he had anything to say about it.

Shoving the door open, stomping into the stables, Merlin looked around, about to call out to the prince and tell him just what he could do with the whole licking thing and if he thought Merlin was going to put up with it, he'd have another thing coming. But the tirade in his head came to an abrupt halt.

Because he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Arthur Pendragon, the Prince of Camelot, according to Arthur's own boring self-serving pronouncements the noblest and best knight in the realm and also the pratliest, most annoying, stubborn and supercilious clotpole he'd ever met was lying there in the hay.

Covered in puppies.

There were little tails waggling fiercely and wet noses pushing into places they really shouldn't go, tearing at Arthur's favourite shirt – favourite because Arthur had told him only yesterday to be extra careful with it and that Merlin'd be in the stocks for sure if anything got on it. A shirt that now had drool on it and hay and what looked like dirt, at least Merlin hoped it was dirt, because obviously Arthur had been rolling around in a stable.

With puppies.

Growling, yipping, adorable puppies.

By the time Merlin's brain caught up with his eyes and open mouth, Arthur had scrambled to his feet, scattering little brown and black dogs every which way. There were some persistent tail-waggers gnawing at Arthur's boots, boots that Merlin had cleaned to a high polish only yesterday and who knew what puppy drool would do to the leather. One of the pups, his tail waving frantically, was trying to climb up Arthur's leg and doing a darn good job of it, too.

Arthur just stood there, looking red-faced but with his nose in the air, frowning the way he always did whenever he wanted to intimidate, hands on hips like he wasn't about to admit to being lowly enough to play with dogs and how dare Merlin interrupt his private time.

"Don't you ever knock, Merlin?" Arthur's voice was an unsettling mixture of fury and embarrassment. The infuriated look that he sent Merlin's way didn't bode well, either.

Of course, at that moment, the leg-climbing pup fell over backwards into the hay. Clumsy, paws in the air, wiggling enough to bury himself in straw, he couldn't seem to turn over and get to his feet. His little protests, yips and growls and indignation, sounded almost like he were berating Arthur for not rescuing him, so much like Merlin's indignant grumblings that he wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Realizing that the prince wouldn't appreciate a laugh at his expense, Merlin tucked his lips in and bit down, tried to look contrite, tried to keep the chuckle he felt rising in his chest from erupting . It was a near thing.

With a flat mouth and reddening cheeks and eyes so narrow that Merlin worried Arthur would go permanently squinty-eyed from it, the prince glared at Merlin, then glanced down as the squirming little pup finally righted himself and began to climb up the boot and chew on the prat's breeches. Arthur seemed to soften then, almost smiling before he remembered who was watching him.

"If you ever speak of this to anyone…." He pointed one finger at Merlin, threatening dire retribution.

"I wouldn't, I won't." Merlin put his hands up, surrendering. But he couldn't keep the grin buried any longer. "Besides, no one would believe that the prince plays with puppies."

"Merlin," Arthur growled. "I can still throw you into the deepest darkest dungeon in Camelot… and throw away the key. No one would ever find you."

Leaning down, Merlin pulled up the rambunctious pup and began to rub behind his ear. The wiggling and chewing was too much and he let out a laugh. "So what's his name?"

Clearly uncomfortable, Arthur shot him a withering look but then must have thought better of it. "He's the clumsiest, noisiest and most useless of all the dogs here." Straightening, looking like the prat he knew so well, Arthur smirked. "His name is Merlin."

Merlin's grin turned wicked. "Ah, then he must be yours."

Wiggling a bit, the pup pushed his nose under his neckerchief and began sniffling at his neck. The whiskers tickled but Merlin wasn't paying much attention. He was watching Arthur instead.

For a moment, Arthur stared at the dog, watching him licking at Merlin's skin, nuzzling his collarbone. Then he seemed to shake free of whatever he'd been thinking, tilted his head, looking at Merlin through his fringe. "Why do you say that?"

Gently, Merlin took the little pup and put him back down on the straw with the others. There was a moment of yips and growls and the hunting of tails and then the puppies chased each other into the straw bales, looking for new adventures.

He laughed softly, watching the antics, and then shaking his head, Merlin stepped forward into Arthur's space. He was still smiling, daring and invitation and a kind of breathless anticipation in the way he gazed at his prince.

Arthur's eyes darkened, looking back at Merlin with such intensity that it would seem the air between them had disappeared. But still he made no move. Instead, his voice low, heavy with need, he repeated, "Why do you say that?" And stood there waiting.

Taking courage into his hands, Merlin reached up, pulled his prat to him. For a moment, his mouth hovering close over the man he wanted, desired, needed, and then he plunged in. Tasting him, filling him with everything he couldn't say. Sparking electric, brilliant, hot, telling of devotion, passion, lust. Love.

Merlin pulled back, catching his breath, the taste of Arthur in his mouth, wanting so much to dive in again. Arthur must have felt the same way because he started to pull Merlin's head back down for more kisses. But he had to answer him first.

"You asked why I said that." Brushing his lips over Arthur's, Merlin said softly, "It's simple. Merlin is always Arthur's."

And then there were no more questions.