Merlin||Merthur One shots

Matchmaker

A/N: I had to write something because I have been super inconsistent and have no ideas whatsoever. My friend Merlinstories gave me 3 words to write this oneshot off of: pigs, cuddles, and pizza.

We sat down on a horrifyingly pink leather couch, no couch such as this should've been allowed into existence. However, it was not so simple as just being seated. I had to shift the stuffed animal populace taking residence on the sofa, pleading me not to sit on them with their round glittery eyes. After a glance at their clearly miserable condition, I relented, taking pity on the creatures, namely a stuffed plush toy pig in the way of my butt's trajectory to the couch.

I should have known this was an awful idea, Gwen never was a very good matchmaker, yet she continued to try to prove her skill in that art. Perhaps she should take notes from Morgana, who was far superior in that dynamic. All her foreseen pairings had become couples, well except for her most recent prediction. She had hinted at it for a long while but never voiced it until her, myself, and Merlin went out for a picnic and she endured utter exclusion.

Amidst the laughs of Merlin and I, Morgana had leaned on the crosshatch red and white cloth leisurely propped up on an elbow. Regarding us with narrow, calculating eyes and unusual silence, she burst out fuming, "Just date each other already!" What irritated her further was that our sniggering only ceased for a moment. We simultaneously tilted our heads  at each other, then at her, squinting our eyes and pursing our lips at the foolishness of that thought. The proof that her comment left us nonplussed only magnified her lividity, making her nearly as pale as a corpse. Only a few moments later and we returned to our banter.  She to her seething scheming, from which we had suffered in her multiple failed attempts to get us together.

It didn't go unnoticed the excessive amount of jewelry my blind date wore, the majority not seeming to be the diamonds they were meant to represent. Additionally, she sported absurdly long, sparkly, acrylic nails, the type of which I only knew from my brief interactions with Gwen and Morgana's friends. The only thing that didn't make me evacuate on the spot was her familiarity. She was surprisingly more attractive than Gwen had described and evoked a sense of deja vu. That is, ignoring her vibrant pink dress and accessories, that gave off the impression of a bejeweled flamingo who had gotten lost and roamed into a restaurant out of pure accident.

I only remained at this arranged affair. firstly due to the promise I made to Gwen. I had vowed to at least give her a chance, although now I doubt my sanity of the time that promise was made. Secondly, with conviction, I would say the only other reason was her comeliness.

She had a natural beauty, surprisingly not assuming the plastic aspect of her attire. Wavy black hair lopped off at the chin, porcelain skin with rouge on the cheeks like a child's coveted doll. The most shocking feature would be her eyes, cold and thoughtful, blinking to fondness with her laugh. Gwen did have ability to adapt to my type, which hadn't always been a liking for lean women with black hair and startlingly sapphirine irises. In the past it tended to be light haired, warm eyed, graceful dames, this new attraction nearly the opposite of the former. Her failure in her occupation of advertising my suitor status- she couldn't see beyond their image, which tainted her perception of these women. Whereas this new mistress's looks may appear philosophical, I am positive that only air was contained in her pretty head.

I staged the necessity to use the bathroom to escape from bland conversation, whereof sports came to mention quite frequently. While not being able to differentiate one sport from another with a dagger to her throat, she seemed to have far more interest in the handsome athletes that played them.

I am certain that I saw a plentiful tally of pitying looks from men suffering on their respective dates aimed my way at my obviously fabricated bowel irritation. I called Gwen several times in those visits, pacing along the stall and begging for assistance but she would only chuckle, tell me to have a good night and hang up the phone.Earning a frustrated growl emerging from myself, which resonated from the echoing quality of the bathroom.

I wouldn't dare call my other friends to bail me out, for they had no idea of the set-up. Somehow I believe that it would be better to endure this torture than that of my companion's shaming wrath.

So I stayed with her through the wreck of a dinner, where she experienced the need to ask the waiters to call the chefs to our table concerning the organic-ness of the menu. That which was already clearly marked on the page. I had abided this without frustration regarding Merlin's diet, but her idiocy on the simple matter she had the cook repeatedly clarify forced me to grind my teeth in a plastered fake smile.

I even accepted her invitation into her apartment with politeness and surety that no "activities" would be performed. I would leave in a timely manner. One that bids adieu with the phrase "we'll be in touch", a contractual and automated response that equates to "we'll never be seeing each other again."

And there I sat, waiting out the clock, an armada of toys closing in on my position, cutting off my means of escape. I had never known the true feeling of claustrophobia until the moment when her thin arms wrapped around my stomach, her hair a mop splayed across my shirt as she nestled against my chest.

One more minute and the lovey dovey pop music blaring from her rose gold speaker died down in transition to the next horrid number. In between that brief pause of silence came a new bray, the trilling of my phone muffled in my pocket.

She peered at me in confusion from her spot on my chest. I gently rolled her off of me m, excusing myself from the room and stepping into the hall, silently giving a million thanks to whoever released me from my imprisonment. Even more so when I found out the identity of the caller from the listed contact, under the title of "idiot".

Before swiping to accept, I cleared my throat to mask my annoyance at the course of my evening. "Hey Merlin" I greeted, in an attempt to be casual, coming off as far too enthusiastic.

"Hi, you busy? I ordered some pizza just now and was wondering if you'd like to drop by."

"Yeah, I'm not busy at all actually." I fibbed without falter, leaning forward to view around the corner the girl resting on the cushion.  "I'll be right there."

She slung her arm over the side of the couch in a dazed state, such that it seemed that until that moment she was in a state midway between consciousness. In all honesty it was difficult to see her expression with her dark hair, which was surprisingly unruly when not primped and preened. It acted as a veil across her complexion. She smeared a hand across her face, in an attempt to wipe the tiredness from her eyes, speculating dreamily. "Where are you going?" She dragged her words out redundantly, perhaps to induce a pause on my exit. Lasting for a fleeting second as I, in a liberated saunter, crossed the room and swung open the door.

Halting at the frame of said door, I feigned urgency, contradictory to my previous traipse.
"I'm sorry, an emergency came up. We'll be in touch."

"Oh, okay. Bye then, see you soon." I was dashing down the corridor, skidding across the floor before I could here those words.

And needless to say, that night, Morgana's winning streak as matchmaker remained intact.