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Arthur stops just short of his wardrobe and furrows his brow. For the love of God, not this again.
Merlin is practically buried in Guinevere’s wardrobe, shuffling around inside of it. Arthur is sure he’d crawl into it if he could.
He crosses his arms and tries to look reproachful but it’s just humorous at this point. Merlin’s not even good at hiding this weird habit of his. And it makes Arthur think, just how many times has Merlin been in the rooms and snuck out a dress or two. How many has he tried on? Arthur tries to cast his mind back, remember a time Gwen might have complained about a looser dress. He can’t think of any but, to be fair, Merlin has only slowly bulked up.
But the muscles are obvious this time, he can barely work his hand and forearm in the sleeve of Guinevere’s lesser gown. There is no denying that now Merlin would stretch the fabric, if not tear it.
Arthur tries not to think too long on Merlin in the queen’s gowns or the fabric ripping to reveal slivers of skin and toned muscle.
No, thank you, not today.