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Entry tags:
Merlin - Blacksmith
It's probably about time I add a tag for challenge fics and/or "things ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
camelot_fleet has coerced me into writing". *g*
Title: Blacksmith
Rating: R
Genre: Slash, Tom/Other (Highlight for Spoiler: Tom/Uther)
Length: 480 words
Spoilers: Er, that Tom exists?
Prompt: #217 - Tom PWP. Smut starring Tom with any other character except Gwen.
Author's Notes: For the Prompt Fest going on over atcamelot_fleet
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tom was a blacksmith, and a damned good one at that. There was a time he worked for the royal household, got whatever he needed, held a title and everything. Those days are past, taken as easily as they were given, all for love. Looking to the swell of his new wife’s belly, knowing there was a life kicking inside, a life that he made and a life that he would help shape and guide, he refused to regret any decision he may have made.
Still, there were nights, fewer and farther between now, when he stayed late in the forge, sun long past set and fires dwindling low, that he took a moment and remembered.
He remembered hands upon his skin, undressing him slowly and chuckling softly. He remembered the night air, cool in contrast to the heat of the forge where he had spent most of his day. He remembered hands, strong and callused, hesitant for permission, always asking and never taking. He remembered the oil, slick upon his skin, smoothing around and smoothing within. He remembered something far better than oil, the weight of it in his hand, the stretch of him around it.
He remembered a work table brushed clear of near everything, the coarse wood beneath his hands, marks brought on by fingernails and not tools carved into its surface. He remembered laughing, cursing, begging for more and being begged in return. He remembered a shout so loud it brought the guards running, only for them to be dismissed with a glare. He remembered there was no embarrassment, no apology, and no regrets.
He remembered it happening far more than once.
He remembered the time when a hand slipped, oil slick skin sliding too close to where the hot poker lay. He remembered wrapping the burned skin, using his own salves to sooth away the pain. He remembered the court physician finding out anyway when he caught sight of the mark after a lance was dropped at a tournament, the handle having rubbed against the still healing skin. He remembered the sheepish grin and the mouthing of the words, “No apologies.” He remembered the court advisors in an uproar.
He remembered a seamstress coyly offering him a pair of gloves, “fit for a king”, and that king refusing to be seen in public without them, daring those same advisors to find any injury on him to mention. He remembered it not being enough. He remembered the seamstress consoling him, offering him a tankard of hard ale. He remembered the look of betrayal when he glanced to the doorway to see a gloved hand gripping tightly to the frame.
He remembered Uther telling him it was for the best, that he would be happier this way. He remembered the seamstress consoling him in new ways for his new life. He remembered never seeing that scar again.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
camelot_fleet has coerced me into writing". *g*Title: Blacksmith
Rating: R
Genre: Slash, Tom/Other (Highlight for Spoiler: Tom/Uther)
Length: 480 words
Spoilers: Er, that Tom exists?
Prompt: #217 - Tom PWP. Smut starring Tom with any other character except Gwen.
Author's Notes: For the Prompt Fest going on over at
camelot_fleetDisclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tom was a blacksmith, and a damned good one at that. There was a time he worked for the royal household, got whatever he needed, held a title and everything. Those days are past, taken as easily as they were given, all for love. Looking to the swell of his new wife’s belly, knowing there was a life kicking inside, a life that he made and a life that he would help shape and guide, he refused to regret any decision he may have made.
Still, there were nights, fewer and farther between now, when he stayed late in the forge, sun long past set and fires dwindling low, that he took a moment and remembered.
He remembered hands upon his skin, undressing him slowly and chuckling softly. He remembered the night air, cool in contrast to the heat of the forge where he had spent most of his day. He remembered hands, strong and callused, hesitant for permission, always asking and never taking. He remembered the oil, slick upon his skin, smoothing around and smoothing within. He remembered something far better than oil, the weight of it in his hand, the stretch of him around it.
He remembered a work table brushed clear of near everything, the coarse wood beneath his hands, marks brought on by fingernails and not tools carved into its surface. He remembered laughing, cursing, begging for more and being begged in return. He remembered a shout so loud it brought the guards running, only for them to be dismissed with a glare. He remembered there was no embarrassment, no apology, and no regrets.
He remembered it happening far more than once.
He remembered the time when a hand slipped, oil slick skin sliding too close to where the hot poker lay. He remembered wrapping the burned skin, using his own salves to sooth away the pain. He remembered the court physician finding out anyway when he caught sight of the mark after a lance was dropped at a tournament, the handle having rubbed against the still healing skin. He remembered the sheepish grin and the mouthing of the words, “No apologies.” He remembered the court advisors in an uproar.
He remembered a seamstress coyly offering him a pair of gloves, “fit for a king”, and that king refusing to be seen in public without them, daring those same advisors to find any injury on him to mention. He remembered it not being enough. He remembered the seamstress consoling him, offering him a tankard of hard ale. He remembered the look of betrayal when he glanced to the doorway to see a gloved hand gripping tightly to the frame.
He remembered Uther telling him it was for the best, that he would be happier this way. He remembered the seamstress consoling him in new ways for his new life. He remembered never seeing that scar again.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
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*sniffles of joy*
I need a Tom icon, dammit.
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I have to admit that I saw originally saw your prompt and was like, "Huh, I wonder if anyone will do that one," and then it sat in the back of my mind and then it wanted to be in the front of my mind and then this happened and... Yeah.
So very happy that you like! It really was the only pairing I could see outside of Tom/Gwen's Nameless Mother Who I Would Totally Get Jossed On, so bonus points for you thinking it worked!
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Lovely memories that Tom had there... very visceral. And wow, that explains Uther's gloves! (although I chose this to be an AU cause if Uther had Tom executed for magic, it would break my haert into itty bitty pieces)
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Torn about Uther - he could still be bitter, or his hatred of magic could have blinded him, even to someone he once cared about. Then again, the one time he admitted he was wrong was about having Tom killed, so there's that. Mainly though, this is the first thing I thought of when I saw the prompt. I do believe I might have been in an Uther-centric mood. *g*
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I love your use of Tom's POV, and the way you pack so much story into such a small space!
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