чертчертчерт, я люблю этот фик, и похеру, что он слэшерный. он афигенный, и я мечтаю писать вот так же клево хотя бы на русском, чертчертчерт...

"Arthur—I have known you since you were a fat child, do not force me to take extreme actions here," she warned him.
"I was never fat," Arthur sulked, slumping onto a kitchen stool.
Wisely, it seemed, most of the house staff had fled for safer quarters, which appeared to be the general protocol for whenever the Duchess of Kent appeared. Arthur couldn't remember a time when she hadn't hovered around the edges of his life, either thrust together to smile obligingly at cameras for cheery photographs of royal cousins in harmony or hiding from their elders together in cloakrooms and sneaking gin in their grandmother's powder room.
"You could barely run and you know it, you tiny pig," Morgana told him.

+

"OhmiGod," Gwen squeaked. "You did. He did. He kissed you."
"What!" Merlin cried, alarmed at how his therapeutic shout at Gwen had spiraled so violently out of control. "No! I lied! You know me! I lie about these things!"
Gwen ignored him and said, "Oh my God—you're going to be a princess!"

+

"What?" Everett balked when Arthur called to wake him. "Sod off, Arfur!"
"I'm taking the Queen of Denmark's pastry chef's car and I'm driving to the airstrip right now," Arthur told him calmly, belying the epic struggle of contorting himself into the man's damned Smart Car, which was clearly designed for fucking hobbits. "If your fucking tin can isn't there in an hour I will personally distribute the photographs of you from that party that never occurred with that thing that never happened."

(отсюда) 'Drastically Redefining Protocol'