Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

Arthur prowls the halls in search of his manservant. Merlin ought to be preparing him for bed, but of course he’s nowhere to be found. Rounding the corner to the corridor outside the kitchens Arthur finally spots him down the hallway, nestled in an alcove by a window. He’s got his shoulder propped casually against the wall, conversing with a boy Arthur doesn’t recognize—maybe another servant?—whose back is to Arthur. Merlin’s jacket is missing, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows; it appears he was helping in the kitchens. The boy is laughing, talking animatedly, Merlin smiling as he listens.

Trust Merlin to be off tittering with a stranger when Arthur needs him. Just as Arthur opens his mouth to bellow his name, Merlin sees him over the boy’s shoulder, tilts his chin up in silent acknowledgement, and pushes off the wall as if to come. He smiles gently as he says a last word to the boy, but as he starts to step away the boy lunges forward and catches Merlin’s lips awkwardly in a kiss.

Merlin’s eyes widen in surprise. He steps back but the boy crowds forward until Merlin’s back hits the wall. Merlin’s brow furrows as the boy brings his hands to his face, trying to deepen the kiss. After a moment Merlin places a hand on the boy’s chest and pushes him off ever so gently.

Arthur is frozen in place by surprise. He doesn’t know why he’s still watching, though he hasn’t been here for long; it all happened quite quickly.

Merlin says something too quiet for Arthur to hear. It seems as though he’s speaking very softly, like he’s trying to let the boy down easy. He reaches for the boy’s shoulders, dipping down as he speaks, trying to get him to meet his eyes. Arthur has seen him successfully calm a spooked horse in the same manner many a time. He squeezes the boy’s shoulders with a final word then takes off quickly, advancing toward Arthur. Arthur jolts, clamps his mouth shut when he realises it’d fallen open.

Merlin blows past Arthur, not meeting his eyes, and Arthur just has time to notice the hint of pink in his cheeks before Merlin rounds the corner ahead of him, tossing over his shoulder in a low voice, “Come on, then.”

Arthur spares one last glance at the boy, who stands quite still, facing the wall. He hasn’t moved a hair since Merlin pulled away, though his entire body seems to slump. Then he tails Merlin, who’s already halfway down the next hall.

Merlin seems determined to speed-walk the entire way to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur strides behind him, trying and failing to think of anything to say. When he enters his room, Merlin’s already flitting about, everywhere at once. He rushes through his chores in pointed silence, yanking the drapes shut, pulling the bedsheet back, tossing the pillows he knows Arthur dislikes sleeping with carelessly to the ground.

Arthur sits to pull off his boots. He clears his throat and asks, “What do you make of the numbers Sir Bedevere reported from his sweep through Mercia?”

Merlin stills for a moment, then resumes his work, pulling Arthur’s nightshirt from the wardrobe. “It seems to me not much has changed since Bayard’s death. Exports will suffer as his son transitions, of course, that’s unavoidable, but Essetir’s retreat has surely afforded the people some peace of mind, and if the rain this spring was any indicator, their crops this season should be abundant enough to meet their needs until commerce levels out.” He visibly relaxes as Arthur punts more questions his way, and they fall into their natural rhythm, debriefing on the day’s meetings.

Merlin deftly starts a fire as Arthur nurses a goblet of wine. They move on to discuss Arthur’s plans for tomorrow’s training session, and things feel normal again.

Until Merlin comes to stand by the table, hands clasped behind his back. He’s clearly about to ask to take leave for the night, which is why Arthur, unable to help himself, clears his throat and says, “So.”

Merlin groans, composure abandoned as he turns and jams the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Must you really? Can you please just leave it?”

Arthur scoffs. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Merlin shoots him a look. Arthur bites back a smile as Merlin turns away and begins to pace. He loves his ability to get Merlin worked up with so few words; it’s a skill he’s honed proudly over the years. “So,” he repeats, dragging the word out. “…Who was that?”

Merlin stops with his back to Arthur and sighs deeply, all of the fight seeming to drain from him in an instant. “He’s been helping out in the kitchens; he’s rather new.” He pauses, then adds quietly, seemingly to himself, “He’s just a kid.”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “And does he have a name?”

Merlin turns and squints suspiciously. “Why? You are not going to harass this poor boy, Arthur.”

Arthur feigns innocence, eyes wide. “Is the king not allowed to take an interest in his subjects?” Merlin stares until he adds, “And I must know what to tell the calligrapher to put on the wedding invitations, of course.”

Merlin rolls his eyes dramatically as he throws his arms up. “Yes, fine, make your jokes. His name is Gregory, he seemed to take a liking to me so I said I’d help him find his way around, but I—I didn’t realise he fancied me,” he says, sounding a bit horrified.

Arthur smirks. “Bit of a shock, isn’t it? Can’t help but wonder what he sees.”

“I mean it,” says Merlin sternly, “don’t you bully him. Poor kid would wither of humiliation if he found out the king witnessed that. And I suspect I already embarrassed him enough.” He sighs again, and his voice softens. “He can’t be older than I was when I first came to Camelot.”

“Yes, you were such an innocent flower yourself, then.” Merlin huffs a reluctant laugh and Arthur smiles, remembering the wiry boy who hadn’t hesitated to call the prince an ass. Well, they’ve both certainly grown up a bit since then. He eyes Merlin’s muscular forearms crossed over his broad chest. He’s got soot smeared on one wrist.

“I’m not a bully anymore, Merlin,” he says, dropping the joke and ignoring the proud look that appears in Merlin’s eyes. Sentimental idiot. “I won’t bother him. As you said, he’ll be floundering for years to come from the blow of your rejection.” That earns him another eye roll. “Besides, I get my fill teasing you, don’t I?”

Merlin shakes his head. “That you do, sire.”

Arthur dismisses Merlin for the night and ends up alone in front of the fire with the image of Merlin’s face melting into a frown as he’s kissed—which is disturbing, to say the least; worrisome at most.

2

It’s several days later when, after a rather ostentatious banquet keeping in tradition with the changing of seasons, Arthur finds himself only slightly tipsy as he meanders back to his chambers. Merlin is off helping Gaius to bed before attending to Arthur, as Gaius is getting quite old, moving more slowly these days than Arthur himself at the moment.

He passes a gaggle of servants huddled outside the great chamber who cease their conversation to dip their heads, mumbles of “your highness” chasing Arthur’s back as he strolls by. But then he stops, turns, because the back of one of those heads looks familiar—a messy mop of long, light brown hair.

He doubles back, and before he’s given his mouth permission, it’s identifying the head: “Gregory,” he says quite loudly, and more confidently than he feels; it could very well be someone else entirely, after all. But the head whips around, the rest of the servants vanish in an instant, and suddenly Arthur finds himself standing alone with the boy who fancies his manservant.

“Your majesty,” he breathes, eyes wide as a deer caught on the wrong side of Arthur’s crossbow. He lowers his head as Arthur studies him. He’s pale with freckles spilled across his nose, and only comes up to Arthur’s shoulder.

He realises they’ve been standing in silence for a few seconds too long, and that Gregory is, in fact, waiting for him to speak, no doubt wondering why the king sought to pull him aside. Arthur clears his throat, wondering the same thing himself, and Gregory chances a glance up, long eyelashes fanning over his brown eyes. He’s undeniably handsome, though he really is quite young.

“Gregory,” Arthur repeats, searching for his next words. “You work in the kitchens, don’t you?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Arthur crosses his arms, going for casual. “And how are you finding Camelot?”

“Oh, it’s stunning, your majesty, just beautiful. I come from a small village by a lake,” says Gregory, picking up speed as he rambles nervously, “nothing like this at all, I’d never seen a castle before, let alone worked in one, it’s an honor, your majesty, and the views from the battlement are unmatched, although you know that, of course, I don’t have to tell you, and everyone here is just so friendly, they’ve all been quite welcoming.” He snaps his mouth shut suddenly, blush spreading across his freckled cheeks. “Your majesty.”

A smile plays on Arthur’s lips. He doesn’t think Merlin has ever once called him “your majesty,” except perhaps in jest. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says kindly. And he can’t stop what comes next; he strikes a nonchalant tone as he asks, “Welcoming, you say? That’s right—you don’t happen to know my manservant, Merlin?”

Gregory’s blush deepens. “Yes, your majesty, I do. He’s been a great help especially. He’s quite, er, kind.” He swallows.

Arthur is absolutely delighted. “Kind, is he?”

Behind Gregory, a flash of red and blue and brown streaks by. Merlin reappears in the archway a second later, blinking in their direction. Arthur’s lips curls into a smile as he watches Merlin register what’s going on.

“Arthur,” Merlin snaps, striding over.

Gregory jumps, whirling around as Merlin appears at their sides. “Merlin,” he says, and if he’d been treating Arthur reverently, it’s nothing compared to the way he gazes at his servant, gone absolutely gooey-eyed.

“Hello, Gregory,” says Merlin says warmly, and Arthur wonders whether Gregory detects the subtle trace of pity in Merlin’s eyes. Then he’s fixed once more with a long-suffering look from Merlin, as if Merlin is the one who tolerates Arthur. Arthur stares right back until Merlin purses his lips. “My lord,” he corrects himself, in a rather sarcastic tone. “What are you doing?” he demands.

Arthur claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, who nearly buckles under the weight. “I was just making young Gregory’s acquaintance,” he says merrily. “Actually, we were discussing you, weren’t we, Gregory?” Merlin’s glare narrows.

Gregory’s eyes dart between the two of them, trying to figure out what’s going on, and Arthur begrudgingly starts to feel a bit bad for the bloke. “I—y-yes, we were, your majesty.”

“He’s quite dashing, isn’t he, our Merlin?” Arthur declares. Poor Gregory flushes bright red.

“Right,” Merlin mutters from gritted teeth, “let’s get you to bed, shall we, sire? Goodnight, Gregory.” And before Arthur can properly enjoy the furious look on Merlin’s face, he’s being led away, Merlin’s arm heavy over his shoulders, propelling them both forward.

“Goodnight, Gregory!” Arthur parrots.

He can barely contain his laughter as Merlin marches them down the hallway. Merlin waits to turn the corner before shoving Arthur away from him. “What is the matter with you?! You’ve traumatized the poor boy!”

Arthur throws his head back with a proper laugh. “I was being nice!” he protests. “Come on, he got to talk to the king. I’m his majesty,” he drawls.

Merlin swats at Arthur again, swearing under his breath as he stalks off to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur follows, still chuckling as he pulls the door shut behind them. “Honestly, Merlin, I did no harm. He was confused, nothing more.”

“Yes, but why did you corner him in the first place?” Merlin fumes. “When I specifically asked you not to?”

“Did you ask me,” muses Arthur, “or did you command me? Not that that’s a thing you’re allowed to do—”

“Arthur!” Merlin lets out a frustrated groan. “I know you live to antagonize me, but why drag him into it? That boy is completely clueless, he’s never harmed a fly.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Why do you?” Merlin snaps.

Arthur scowls. “I couldn’t care less about that child.”

Merlin crosses his arms. “Then why are you sticking your regal nose into my business?”

“My regal nose?”

“Shut up! Answer the question!” demands Merlin, contradictory as ever.

Arthur huffs, falling into a chair. Bickering with Merlin is exhausting. “Quite protective of your little paramour, aren’t you?”

“Paramour?” Merlin gapes. “Really, what the hell are you on about?”

“Well he kissed you, didn’t he?”

“Arthur, just because you happen to have the worst timing in the world doesn’t mean you’re actually entitled to involve yourself in things that have nothing to do with you.”

“You are my servant,” says Arthur, glaring.

Merlin looks purely bewildered. “You aren’t truly that possessive, are you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t care who you kiss.”

“You sure are acting like you do,” Merlin bites. Then an exasperated, “And I didn’t kiss anyone!”

“I don’t care who you kiss,” Arthur repeats firmly. “But maybe I do care when people—when a bloke does that to you, when it’s clearly against your will. Is that a bloody crime?”

Merlin’s eyebrows knit together. His mouth opens and shuts. For once, he seems to be at a loss for words. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a tuft sticking up at an odd angle. “You—you have a problem because he’s a man?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Arthur shrugs, looking away. “It’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it? Presumptuous of him, really.”

Merlin is quiet. When Arthur looks back to him, he’s chewing on a thumbnail, something Arthur’s never seen him do. Merlin drops his hand, jams his hands onto his hips. He looks deep in thought. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops himself.

“What?” Arthur demands.

Merlin licks his lips, meets Arthur’s eyes. He shakes his head.

“Come on, out with it.”

Merlin holds his gaze with a rather stoic look, then his eyes dart away. “I—well. I mean, I do fancy blokes.”

Arthur blinks. He’s heard what Merlin’s just said, but it takes a moment for the words to sink in. “Oh,” he says like an idiot, after too long of a pause.

Merlin makes a funny noise, like he’s strangled an attempted laugh in his throat. “I—you. You knew that, didn’t you?”

Arthur clears his throat, mind blank. He speaks slowly, choosing each word carefully. “Honestly, Merlin, before the other night I don’t think I’d ever known of you—well, doing—anything, with, er, anyone.”

Brilliant.

Merlin makes the strangled-laugh sound again and crosses his arms. “Right. Brilliant. Of course.” He pauses. “Why would you?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Merlin raises a hand, effectively silencing Arthur. “I know you didn’t. I—why are we talking about this? Do we talk about this? We don’t. Do we? We don’t.”

Arthur clears his throat again and looks away. His mind starts to blink back to life. “I suppose we don’t.”

“Right.”

Silence. Arthur closes his eyes, focusing on the rings of white that appear on the black canvas of his eyelids. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. Merlin stands with his arms loose at his sides, staring vacantly at a spot behind Arthur’s ear. Suddenly, Arthur feels as tired as Merlin looks.

“Merlin,” he says.

Merlin starts, looking around. At the same time they register the state of the room; the fact that nothing’s been done to prepare Arthur for bed. “Right,” Merlin repeats. He sighs. “Am I dismissed, my lord?”

“Go to bed, Merlin,” says Arthur gently. Merlin flicks his eyes to Arthur’s once more, expression indecipherable, before fleeing.

3

Merlin is skittish for the next few days, not meeting Arthur’s eyes or spending more time in his presence than necessary. Arthur has resolved to not bring it up again, though, and Merlin eventually seems to forget about the exchange.

But Arthur doesn’t. He tucks this innocuous piece of knowledge away in a corner of his brain where it simmers quietly, and in the most unsuspecting moments he’ll find himself contemplating it: the fact that Merlin likes men. Arthur isn’t bothered by it; he’s known other men who share the same proclivity, although it’s perhaps more rare than not.

What bothers him is that he hadn’t known. That Merlin had never told him. Or, no—it’s more that Arthur himself never noticed. In the ten years Merlin’s been his manservant, always a constant in his life, Arthur has never thought once about what Merlin does in his (admittedly rare) spare time, who he sees. If he has a lover waiting for him when he leaves Arthur’s side for the night. The idea feels unlikely, nonsensical.

And the idea that, if Merlin were to have someone like that in his life—surely he’s had to at some point, hasn’t he?—it’d be a man.

That Arthur spends his energy thinking on it at all is becoming increasingly frustrating.

The truth is, Arthur cares deeply for Merlin. It’s not a feeling he lets himself examine often, because something about admitting it, even to himself, makes him uncomfortable. But how could he not, after their many years together? There is closeness, comfort—a bond, even—that comes with their relationship. They have history between them. Arthur respects Merlin, trusts him and his judgment. He values Merlin’s opinion above all others.

Merlin is the only person Arthur’s ever interacted with who’s never viewed him as Prince Arthur or King Arthur. He just sees Arthur.

These days, Merlin advises him on just about everything: political strategy, economic policies, his personal affairs. There is a seat at the round table reserved for him, the one to Arthur’s right, but Merlin prefers to stand off to the side instead. Arthur even offered several years ago, not long after he became king, to promote Merlin formally and recognize him as an official advisor in his court. But Merlin had been adamantly against the idea. Any sort of fanfare or attention embarrasses him. He never seems to want anything in return for his unconditional loyalty to Arthur—not recognition, nor reward, nor even credit. He appears content to be Arthur’s manservant, to continue on as they have in years past.

And Merlin had said they don’t talk about their relationships with each other, but that’s not strictly true. Arthur’s had many love interests over the years (despite several turning out to be creatures of the magical sort)—there’d been Sophia, Vivian, Elena, Gwen, Mithian. Merlin had never hesitated to give his opinion on a single one of them, whether Arthur asked for it or not.

But that unlimited insight, Arthur is realising, only goes one way. While he may be able to acknowledge that Merlin knows him better than anyone, he feels unsettled that he’s unable to say the same. For all the time they spend together, Merlin is still something of a mystery.

He’s never known Merlin to be in love—to be remotely interested in anyone in a romantic manner, really. Has there really been no one for him?

Or is Arthur just exceptionally unobservant when it comes to the personal affairs of his manservant?

He starts watching Merlin. From the training field, during feasts, when they bring their horses in to stable after a ride. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t seem to stop his eyes from seeking Merlin out. He’s always talking with someone: townsfolk, knights, other servants. Merlin seems to know everyone in Camelot. Gregory can often be found trailing along after him; Merlin appears to keep a polite distance between them, but remains friendly nonetheless.

Arthur becomes hyper-aware of his manservant’s interactions, trying to decipher Merlin’s body language as he laughs with a squire or stablehand. He notices a confidence in Merlin that he didn’t possess when they first met; it rather suits him. Perhaps it came with the lean, taut muscles that appeared gradually over the last couple years, finally filling out his lanky frame. Arthur can’t call him a beanpole anymore.

He’ll enter a room to find Merlin socializing and sidle along the wall, attempting to remain unseen, but it seems Merlin has a talent for detecting him in a crowded space. It’s never long before Merlin’s eyes find him, and his lips will quirk in that private little smile he reserves for Arthur alone.

The thoughts plaguing Arthur are ceaseless and unwelcome. He finds himself becoming irritated by the smallest of Merlin’s mannerisms: his fingers drumming the table when he’s impatient; the subtlest hint of a smirk on his face when he’s trying not to laugh at Arthur. The way he’ll often materialize out of thin air and startle Arthur by speaking directly into his ear, murmuring “sire” or “my lord” in that deep voice he sometimes gets.

Arthur grows grumpy, distracted, and he knows Merlin notices—because he's ever present, just as he’s always been. Despite his many friends, he seems to not have a life away from Arthur. A question Arthur has wondered at many times over the years returns to nag at him: why is Merlin so completely devoted to him?

No matter the reason, Merlin is slowly consuming him, without trying or seemingly being remotely aware of it.

4

It’s months before the subject comes up again.

Arthur and his men are finishing up a patrol, just a standard surveillance of Camelot’s borders. They’ve been away for only a handful of days—himself, Leon, Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, and Merlin. Arthur doesn’t often accompany his knights on patrols anymore, but he likes to every once in a while to build camaraderie, show he’s still one of them. It’s always a nice excuse to get away from his duties at the castle. And they do tend to have a bit of fun.

Arthur reclines on a log by the fire, content to watch his men joke and laugh after a long day’s ride. It’s their final night camping before returning home. Over by the horses, Elyan explains something to Lancelot, looking focused as he gestures to the reins in his hand. Percival and Leon are arm wrestling loudly across the fire, Percival growing frustrated as Leon gives him a run for his money.

And next to them sit Gwaine and Merlin, huddled in conversation. Arthur watches Gwaine sling an arm around Merlin’s shoulder, pull him in close to say something into his ear. Merlin barks out a laugh, shoving him. “You’re disgusting,” Arthur hears him say. Gwaine roars with laughter, that look in his eyes which promises trouble. Merlin shakes his head, grinning, and his eyes wander until they meet Arthur’s. Gwaine follows Merlin’s gaze, smirking at Arthur and lifting his cup as if to toast him.

Arthur shifts, looking away. He watches Leon succumb to Percival, who gets up to fill their cups of mead in a show of good sportsmanship. Lance and Elyan wander back over and Gwaine joins them, his own cup sloshing. Arthur feels Merlin settle down beside him.

“More mead?” he asks. Arthur shakes his head. They sit in comfortable silence, watching Gwaine attempt to rouse everyone into a song.

Arthur glances at Merlin, who’s smiling at the bawdy lyrics, arms propped on his knees.

“Gwaine,” he hears himself say. He pauses to clear his throat.

Merlin turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“He’s… handsome, isn’t he?”

Merlin blinks, his face cast in shadows in the dark. He looks at Arthur as though he can see right into his brain. Arthur worries he’s upset him, but then Merlin just laughs and says, “Yes, of course he is.”

Arthur hesitates, then says, slowly, “Are you…?”

“No, Arthur.”

Arthur shoots Merlin a glance. Merlin just smiles that private smile. He supposes enough time has passed for the subject not to feel so touchy anymore. His shoulders loosen a bit.

“Though he’s offered,” adds Merlin offhand, looking to Gwaine across the fire.

Arthur sucks in a breath. “Oh.” He’s not surprised; it’s why he asked, after all. Gwaine flirts with everyone, but he’s always liked Merlin especially, and Arthur knows they’re close.

Vague in his mind, a memory flickers: Gwaine sleeping in Merlin’s bed his first few days in Camelot.

“But you don’t…?” He can’t seem to get out a complete sentence tonight.

Merlin is still watching Gwaine, who attempts to dance a jig, eliciting merry laughter from his audience. “Gwaine’s my friend,” he says. “It’s not like that between us.” He shrugs, shoulder bumping Arthur’s. “He’s not really my type, I suppose.”

Arthur hums, turning Merlin’s words over in his mind. “Quite cocky, isn’t he?”

This prompts a loud laugh from Merlin. He shoots Arthur an odd look and knocks sideways into him. Arthur smiles, confused.

After a minute, he attempts, “I’m sorry for—several weeks ago. I—when you—”

Merlin cuts him off. “’S all right, Arthur, you don’t have to.” Arthur shrugs. There’s a pause, then Merlin says, “It was weird for a moment, wasn’t it?” and laughs softly.

Arthur laughs too, surprised. “Just a bit.”

Merlin sighs, letting his head fall back to gaze at the sky. Arthur moves to lie back as well. His eyes trace the few constellations he’s familiar with and they settle into their quiet.

Then a thought occurs that makes Arthur slightly queasy. He sits back up. “Not that I think it’s weird. I don’t.”

Merlin looks amused. “No?”

“I don’t think you’re weird for it,” he stammers. “I mean, obviously you’re weird. But I don’t—not for—I don’t think you’re strange for liking men, I mean.”

“That’s a relief, sire.”

Arthur’s own words from before ring in his ears: It’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it? He winces. “I’m serious. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m judging you for it. Or that I see you any differently.”

Merlin’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t.”

“Well. Good.”

He’ll leave it at that.

“It’s just,” he hears himself continue, “I suppose I’ve just realised I don’t know all that much about your personal life.”

Merlin’s eyes flicker over his face, then away. “Not much to know.”

“Sometimes you puzzle me.”

He snorts. “You never fathomed me out?”

“No,” says Arthur honestly.

The fire crackles loudly. Merlin stands after a moment. “Think I’ll go to bed.” He moves toward their shared tent, waving off the knights as they cajole him to join them.

Arthur sighs and tips his head back to look at the stars once more. Then he stands, slowly makes his way over to his men. He accepts a fresh cup of mead from Percival and settles down, pretending to listen to the story Lancelot recounts while he lets his thoughts wander.

5

An hour or so later, everyone begins to disperse for the night. Arthur leaves Leon out by the fire to keep watch, pushes into his tent, and narrowly avoids tripping over Merlin’s boots, which lay discarded by the entrance. He begins the meticulous process of stripping off his chainmail, eyeing Merlin, who lies curled up on his cot. Arthur can tell he’s awake, but he makes no gesture to rise and help Arthur undress.

Arthur knocks an elbow into Merlin’s back as he worms under his blankets. Merlin shifts away and re-settles, quiet. Arthur wishes he’d rise to the bait and react in some way, though he doesn’t know why. He sighs loudly, turning his back to Merlin. He tries to get comfortable, but he doesn’t feel tired in the slightest. Something is bothering him; he can’t quiet his mind. He rolls over again, then onto his back. Folds his hands behind his head.

“You awake?” he asks finally.

He’s met with silence, and wonders if he was wrong, if Merlin really is asleep. But after a long minute, he replies, “Yes, my lord.”

Arthur shivers. He sits up and pulls his knees in, hooking his arms round his legs. Merlin sighs and flips over to face him. His eyes blaze, two bright points in the darkness.

Arthur watches the spot next to him, letting his eyes adjust to the blackness. Slowly, more of Merlin’s face comes into view: a shock of dark hair, the straight slope of his nose. His cheekbones. His lips.

Arthur thinks he might understand what Gregory sees when he looks at him.

Merlin sits up and hugs his legs, mirroring Arthur’s position. “What?”

It’s a small tent; there’s not much space between them. Arthur looks away, flexing his hands. He’s conscious of Merlin’s eyes on him.

There’s an intensity that accompanies being the recipient of Merlin’s full attention. Arthur feels on edge, as if his skin is buzzing. It’s like a shot of adrenaline.

Before he can think, he’s kneeling, leaning into Merlin’s space. Merlin frowns up at Arthur looming over him. He looks very serious. Arthur’s hand separates from his body; he watches it float up to hover by Merlin’s face, then settle on his cheek. He’s surprised to feel Merlin’s skin under his fingers.

Merlin laughs nervously. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. His jaw is rough with stubble.

Arthur’s thumb moves to smooth the frown from Merlin’s brow. Merlin inhales sharply, and Arthur isn’t sure his own lungs are functioning at all. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he doesn’t know. He just wants to—

His hand moves slowly, slowly, trailing along Merlin’s jaw, until his thumb brushes Merlin’s bottom lip.

Merlin scrambles backward until he hits the wall of the tent, making the material bend and warp. “What are you doing?” he says again, louder, sounding alarmed this time. “Arthur. Are you drunk?”

The spell is broken. Arthur blinks back to himself and exhales. Is he drunk? No. “Yes,” he says.

Merlin stays very still. Arthur watches him for what feels like a long time, then lies back down, turning onto his side. Feels himself shaking.

6

Arthur doesn’t remember falling asleep, though when he wakes in the morning, he supposes he must have. Merlin is already gone from the tent. He dresses slowly and exits to see Merlin tending to the horses. The sun isn’t quite risen yet.

Merlin looks over his shoulder, sees him and nods, then turns back to his work.

They don’t talk about it.

Arthur is grateful for this; he can’t figure out what’s happened, though he knows he himself was the instigator. Packing up the campsite, riding back to the castle, briefing the council—it’s understood between them: they don’t speak a word of last night. They hardly speak at all.

After the council meeting, Merlin begs off with some ridiculous excuse and Arthur doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. Come nighttime, another servant appears with Arthur’s supper tray, tending to all of Merlin’s usual chores.

Merlin is absent the next day as well. He’s not present for Arthur’s meals, not at training, not while Arthur procrastinates from having to write a very boring treatise pertaining to the distribution of grains. He’s getting fed up, and it’s much easier to attribute his anger to Merlin avoiding him rather than acknowledge that it is he who has altered something between them.

That night, the same servant attends to him for supper. Arthur requests a jug of red wine; waits patiently as his chambers are tidied. Then he dismisses the servant and sends his guard to fetch Merlin. No point in chasing after him himself.

Merlin slips in quietly while Arthur sits sipping his wine. He watches Merlin assess the pristine state of the room.

Finally Merlin looks at him. “You summoned me?” he says dryly.

“Sit,” says Arthur. He tips his chin at the chair across from him. “Have a drink.”

Merlin eyes the wine and extra goblet set in front of the chair. “I’m fine, thanks.” He makes for the door.

“I said sit.”

Merlin turns slowly, anger written plainly across his face. He truly does hate being told what to do, especially by Arthur.

He crosses the room and makes a show of pulling the chair out, scraping its legs loudly against the floor. Arthur rolls his eyes as Merlin sits and crosses his arms, looking extremely put upon.

“Have a drink,” he repeats.

Merlin glares at him a moment longer then reaches for the jug, filling his goblet to the brim. He downs half of it in one go, never breaking eye contact, and slams the cup down. Red wine splatters onto the table. “There,” he says, “happy?” He really is quite cross.

“Not really.”

Arthur searches for words that will dissolve this unbearable tension, that will mend whatever it is he’s managed to break. But before he finds them, Merlin’s anger boils over.

“What is this, Arthur? What are you doing? Are you mocking me?”

“What? No. No.”

“Then what? Why are you tormenting me? What are you trying to do?”

“I’m not tormenting you, Merlin,” says Arthur, exasperated. “I’m not trying to do anything.”

“You are!” cries Merlin. “Of course you are! What was that, the other night? You weren’t drunk, you—you’ve been acting strange ever since, ever since I told you—”

He stops, flustered, and drains the rest of his wine.

“I know I have,” Arthur says. “Believe me, I know.”

Merlin’s tone grows cold. “What, do I disgust you? Am I really that repulsive?”

“No!” He’s quickly losing control of the conversation; perhaps he never had it in the first place. How does Merlin disarm him so easily?

“What, then?”

“Merlin, listen,” he tries. “You know I don’t think that. You know I—you know I’m fond of you.”

Merlin barks out an unkind laugh, one Arthur has never heard before. “Fond of me,” he repeats. “Right. Sure.” He lapses into silence, glowering as he pours himself more wine.

“If you would just—”

“Just what? I’m sitting, I’m drinking.” He takes a big gulp as if to prove the point.

“Just shut up, would you? I’m trying to tell you something!”

“Go right ahead.” Merlin sweeps his arms dramatically, spilling more wine.

Arthur bites out a frustrated groan and pushes his chair back, knocking it to the ground. He doesn’t bother to right it, instead pacing quick steps along the length of the table. Merlin tracks him, goblet clenched in his fist.

Arthur can’t, he can’t think—he stops in front of Merlin and slams a hand on the table. “Get up.”

Merlin laughs in disbelief. “'Sit, Merlin. Drink, Merlin. Stand, Merlin.' I’m not an animal, you know.” He rises anyway, coming face to face with Arthur.

“You—” Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Merlin so annoyed; it’s catching. He feeds off of it, biting out, “You are the most irreverent, disobedient, insolent, infuriating—”

It’s not what he means to say at all. Merlin opens his mouth to retaliate, eyes flashing, but Arthur swoops in first and catches his stupid neckerchief in his fist. Merlin blinks, clearly thrown. His eyes match the blue of the scarf. Arthur twists it in his fingers, gripping tighter. It feels softer than it looks.

Merlin flinches, as if he thinks Arthur’s going to hit him. His lips part and Arthur smells the wine on his breath. His face looks smooth; he must’ve shaved this morning. Arthur surges forward suddenly, startling a cry out of Merlin, and presses their foreheads together.

Merlin stills for an impossible second, then flies backward, far from Arthur’s reach.

“No,” he says loudly. “I’m not doing this, I’m not—”

He continues to stumble away, looking at Arthur like he doesn’t recognize him.

“Merlin,” Arthur chokes out.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

“You—you can’t—” Merlin backs into the wardrobe and lets out a wretched sound, then he’s babbling. “You can’t do that, Arthur, you can’t, I’m not, I won’t, I don’t, I don’t understand—”

Arthur looks on in horror, frozen.

“You can’t do that!” Merlin cries. He shakes his head frantically, eyes desperate. “Why are you doing this?” he gasps. “You—you’re being cruel.” His voice breaks off at the last word, and Arthur can’t stand it, can’t stand the wounded look in Merlin’s eyes; he can’t stand himself for putting it there.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he croaks.

“Well you are!” Suddenly Merlin is vibrating with rage. “I’m a human being, Arthur! I feel things, I’m a real person! I’m not here for your entertainment! This isn’t fair, this isn’t funny!”

“I don’t—”

“No! This isn’t a game, this is my life! You don’t get to come in and decide to try things with me just because, just because you’re—having a laugh, or—”

“It’s not a joke!” protests Arthur.

“Then what, Arthur?! What? Have you gone mad? Why do you care all of a sudden what I do, who I’m doing it with? Why are you treating me like this?!”

Arthur feels his face grow hot. “I’m trying to tell you.” His voice comes out quiet. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening. I’m sorry, really I am. I never meant—I never meant to make you feel this way. I haven’t—I haven’t been able to—”

Merlin breathes heavily, eyeing him like a hunted animal.

He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been thinking straight. I’m trying to figure out—”

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m not here for you to experiment on.”

“Merlin.”

“You think this isn’t real to me? You think I care about Gwaine, about some kid? You really think there could be anyone else for me?”

Arthur blinks, feeling as though he’s missed something critical. “Anyone… other than who?”

“Anyone other than you, you insensitive prat!” Merlin cries, stunning Arthur into silence. He catches his breath and lunges to the table to pour himself more wine, immediately chugging it down.

When Merlin turns at last to face Arthur once again, expression hard, minutes have passed.

And still, all Arthur is able to manage is a pathetic, “Me?”

Merlin’s nostrils flare. “I’m done.” He moves for the door.

“Wait,” Arthur pleads, because Merlin’s confession has slotted something into place.

He finally understands why Merlin is so upset.

“Merlin, please. Please. Just listen.”

Merlin stills, his back to Arthur.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He lets the words sit, grapples for his next ones. “Maybe I am going mad,” he says, and attempts a laugh. “You—you’re driving me crazy.”

Merlin doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. Arthur can’t tell whether he’s heard him at all. “Please, can you look at me?”

A pause. Merlin wheels, face blank.

“Thank you,” says Arthur.

He gets it. He finally gets what’s happening.

Something akin to relief floods his veins, and he stops thinking about what he should say and instead just lets the words come. “I’m sorry. Merlin, I’m—I didn’t realise.”

Merlin’s mouth pinches. His eyes flit away, and Arthur has to strain to hear his words.

“How could you not know?”

He shakes his head. “I know. I do know. I’m sorry. But, Merlin, listen to me—I can’t stop thinking about you, okay? About you, kissing other men—being with someone, anyone... I don’t want you to.” He pauses. “Do you hear me?”

He needs Merlin to hear him.

"I don't believe you," says Merlin quietly. Arthur can see him shaking from across the room.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs. He crosses the room with long strides to where Merlin sags against the wall. “Do you really think me so sadistic?”

Merlin coughs out a pitiful sounding laugh. Several tears spill from his eyes. “I don’t know. Yes.”

Arthur takes a step forward and cups Merlin’s face with both hands, swiping at the tears on his cheeks. Merlin’s shining eyes meet his, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate this time to lean in, pressing his lips ever so slowly to Merlin’s.

He kisses him gently, cautious of frightening him, but Merlin doesn’t respond at all. Arthur pulls away, but only for a second before going back in, catching Merlin’s bottom lip between his own. He runs his tongue along the soft, warm flesh.

Merlin lets out a soft moan then jerks back, embarrassed. Arthur watches in fascination as his face flushes pink. Merlin flattens against the wall behind him, eyes darting between Arthur’s, and whispers, “You’re joking.”

Arthur laughs and moves his hands to box the wall behind Merlin’s head, crowding into his space. “I’m really not,” he says, then he’s dipping in again, nosing the skin along Merlin’s jaw.

He feels Merlin shiver. “Arthur,” he breathes. Arthur hums, then captures his lips once more, takes advantage of Merlin’s surprise to lick into the wet hole of his mouth.

Merlin sucks in a breath through his nose, suddenly coming to life. His hands spring to Arthur’s sides, and his lips begin to move against Arthur’s, and his tongue, and—oh, yes.

Arthur groans as he scoops Merlin’s face back into his hand, tilting their heads for a better angle. All at once, Merlin’s touching him everywhere: his back, his arms, his chest, his neck, his face, his hair. Merlin kisses him like they’re fighting, which Arthur should’ve expected; he pushes his tongue against Arthur’s, gives as good as he gets. This—this is what Arthur wants, what he needs, what he’s been denying, what he’s been chasing. He can’t believe he’s kissing Merlin; at the same time, it makes all the sense in the world.

Merlin nips at Arthur’s bottom lip with his teeth and Arthur pulls away, laughing breathlessly. No one has ever kissed him like this. He should’ve known, should’ve realised sooner, so much sooner. “Cheeky,” he murmurs, tucking his head into Merlin’s neck to kiss him there. Merlin’s hands flutter on his shoulders.

“Oh,” he sighs, twitching as Arthur sucks a bruise into the tender skin above his collarbone. “This can’t be happening, this isn’t real. There’s no way—Jesus, Arthur—” he babbles.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, and swallows his ridiculous words in his mouth. He can tell Merlin’s still holding back, restraining himself, wary of Arthur changing his mind or declaring it all a gag. He wants to fix that; he wants to crack him wide open.

He slows, kissing Merlin deeply. His cock pulses painfully in his breeches, and he ruts his hips forward until they meet Merlin’s, testing, and yes, he can feel Merlin’s length against his own, feel how hard he is—

Merlin moans loudly, head thudding against the stone wall. “Oh, fuck—stop, wait, stop—” Arthur pulls back to see what’s wrong, and Merlin is convulsing, his hips jerking in frantic motions. He buries his face in Arthur’s neck, mouthing against his skin. “No,” he gasps, “no, please, oh my god—oh, fuck, oh, Arthur—”

Arthur looks down and watches, mesmerized, as a wet spot appears at the front of Merlin’s trousers. “Fuck,” he whispers. The spot grows as Merlin whimpers into his neck, his open mouth hot like a brand. His hips push into the air as the wetness spreads. Arthur curls his fingers into the nape of Merlin’s neck, pets him there.

Merlin’s movements slow until he stills, gasping for air. He pulls back slowly, looking down at himself.

“Oh my god,” he rasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—I didn’t, I couldn’t—” He presses one hand to his mouth and moves the other to cover his crotch. Arthur gapes, shocked to see tears gathering in his eyes once more.

“Merlin,” he says. “Merlin, you’re fine, it’s alright—”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur, please—”

“Merlin, hush, stop that. Listen to me. You’re okay.” Merlin swats at Arthur’s hands as he reaches for him, but Arthur dodges him easily, pressing his hand to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin looks—he looks wrecked, absolutely mortified, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.

Arthur has seen Merlin happy, seen him sad, seen him tired and composed and proud and upset and disappointed and everything else in between. But this… he couldn’t have conjured the image of Merlin standing like this before him in his wildest dreams.

“Jesus,” he whispers, and Merlin tries to pull away again.

“I know, I’m—”

“No, stop. Merlin. Look at me.” He strokes his fingers along Merlin’s cheek, moves to bump their noses. He means to say something comforting, really he does, but then he glances down and what comes out instead is, “You’re—filthy.”

Merlin’s face crumples, a choked sob wrenching from his mouth. “I’m sorry. Please let me go.”

“I won’t,” says Arthur. “My god, Merlin. Will you look?”

Merlin heaves, chancing a look downward, and he moans in humiliation upon seeing the trail trickling down the leg of his trousers. But then he sees the hard outline of Arthur’s cock straining against his breeches and goes quiet. Arthur is so hard, he’s the hardest he’s ever been in his life, he’s sure of it.

He presses his forehead to Merlin’s, pecks a kiss on his lips. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says truthfully, and Merlin moans again, shaking his head. He moves to kiss the spot beneath Merlin’s ear, lapping up the sweat that’s collected there, and breathes out, “You make me so fucking hard.”

“Stop.”

“Shut up, Merlin, I mean it. I can’t believe you—” he exhales hard, fingers scratching up into Merlin’s hair. He licks a path along the shell of Merlin’s ear and Merlin slumps into his arms. “You couldn’t help it, could you?”

Merlin inhales sharply, shakes his head. He curls his hands up over Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur keeps going, feeling like a man possessed. “Did you get too excited, Merlin? Did I make you come in your trousers?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, seizing Merlin’s neckerchief and attacking his mouth, moaning as he pushes his erection into Merlin’s hip. Merlin melts into the kiss, and he lets Arthur paw his scarf aside to wrap his fingers around his throat. Arthur pulls back to look at Merlin, watching his eyes widen as he tightens his grip. “Did you make a mess, Merlin?” he purrs.

He squeezes hard then lets go. Merlin sucks air in, looking stunned. Without thinking, Arthur reaches out and slaps Merlin’s cheek, just hard enough to put an affronted look on his face, just because he can. Merlin’s jaw drops and Arthur pushes his thumb into his lips, smearing it against his teeth, his gums. Merlin’s expression morphs into something wild, and he moans, opening his mouth to suck Arthur’s thumb inside. His cheeks hollow as he swirls his tongue around Arthur’s finger. Arthur groans, feeling himself grow impossibly harder.

He pulls his thumb out to drag over Merlin’s bottom lip. Merlin’s eyes move over his face. After a few seconds, he chances the smallest of smiles. “You arse,” he says.

Arthur laughs, palming his cock through his breeches. Merlin’s eyes flicker down to his groin. He looks ravenous. “Can I—?”

“Yes,” says Arthur.

“Are you sure? I can go if you—”

“I said yes, Merlin.” Arthur peels his tunic off, drops it to the ground. “Come to the bed.”

Merlin stands gaping, then lurches forward, tripping in his haste. Arthur snickers, moving backward until his knees hit the bed. He manages to wrestle off his breeches as he flops onto his back, leaving just his drawers on. Merlin comes to stand at the bedside, seeming hesitant again as he rakes his eyes over Arthur. Arthur props himself up on his elbows.

“Come here, will you?”

Merlin meets his gaze. His eyes have gone dark and liquid, like ink. “So bossy,” he says, but he shrugs his jacket off and steps out of his boots, kicking them aside, then climbs onto the bed carefully to kneel at Arthur’s side. Arthur looks at the mark staining Merlin’s trousers, his cock twitching.

“What would you have me do?” asks Merlin, voice low. Arthur marvels at the question. He’s positive he’s never heard Merlin utter such a subservient statement before. Before he can answer, Merlin continues, “Can I—can I touch you, my lord?”

Arthur nearly chokes. “Yes,” he says.

Merlin hovers a moment longer, then stretches out a trembling hand. He presses his palm to Arthur’s chest, spreads his fingers wide. His hands are large and soft and warm, tickling the hair there. Then he’s swinging his leg over to straddle Arthur, sitting his weight back on Arthur’s thighs. Arthur suddenly feels weak, and starts to collapse back onto the pillows, but he stops himself, wanting more than that to not take his eyes off of Merlin. He pushes back up to his elbows.

“Is this okay?” asks Merlin. Arthur licks his lips, nods. Merlin brings his other hand to clutch Arthur’s bicep, curving to the shape of the muscle. He takes his time, running his hands down Arthur’s sides, over his stomach, back up his chest. His fingertips just barely brush Arthur’s nipples, and Arthur breathes out hard through his nose. Merlin looks focused, as though he’s concentrating very hard.

Arthur pulls him down for a kiss. Merlin sighs into his mouth, rocking into Arthur’s lap. They move their tongues together sloppily. Merlin lets out a whoosh of air as they part, and his eyes flick down to the thin cloth stretched over Arthur’s cock. His hands move slowly, so slowly, until they’re resting on Arthur’s hips. Arthur’s head pounds, filling with blood as he watches Merlin look at him.

Merlin rubs his thighs a bit, then curls his fingers into the cloth, pulling it down until Arthur’s cock bobs free, smacking against his stomach. Merlin’s breath catches. “Oh my god,” he murmurs. Arthur shimmies his hips to let Merlin pull his drawers the rest of the way down and off. He re-settles on top of Arthur, gripping his thighs.

Arthur’s cock is flushed and pink, a dot of precum smearing his stomach. His balls draw in tight as Merlin drinks in the sight of Arthur laid out naked beneath him. “You’re unreal,” he says finally, shaking his head in disbelief as he meets Arthur’s eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Arthur. You’re golden.” He lets his gaze drift back down. Arthur huffs out an uncomfortable laugh, but he feels touched by Merlin’s words. No one’s ever said anything like that to him before.

He’s about to do something supremely embarrassing like beg Merlin to touch him, but then Merlin says, voice gone deep, “Can I use my mouth on you?”

Arthur grunts, falling back on the pillows. “Fuck. Yes, Merlin.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin asks again, hands hovering.

“What does it look like to you?”

Merlin laughs breathlessly, and he finally looks relaxed, like himself. Something tugs in Arthur’s chest at the small, wondrous smile spreading across Merlin’s face. “This is… you have no idea, Arthur. What I’d do for you. How long I’ve wanted you, wanted to touch you like this—”

Arthur smirks. “Been fantasizing about me?”

“No,” says Merlin, looking up at him. “I never dared, never let myself think—” He shakes his head. “I knew it could never happen.”

Arthur waits for a glib remark to come to him, but there’s nothing; what can he say to that? To Merlin, wanting him all these years, waiting in the shadows for someone he was sure would never have him.

Then Arthur doesn’t have to say anything, because Merlin is scooching back and dipping his head down. He presses kisses to Arthur’s hip, mouths at the skin at the crease of his thigh. Arthur squirms. He’s desperate for friction, needs Merlin to touch him, he needs—

Merlin ghosts his lips along Arthur’s cock, then licks a hot stripe up the shaft and swallows him down all at once. Arthur groans as Merlin takes him in, all of him, until his nose nestles into the wiry nest of hair at the base of Arthur’s cock. Arthur tries not to roll his hips up, but he can’t help it, he really can’t, it feels too good, Merlin feels too good. Merlin pulls up slowly, dragging his tongue along the underside, and releases the tip from his mouth with an absolutely vulgar wet pop.

“Fuck,” says Arthur. Merlin pumps his hand along Arthur’s length, smiles wickedly at the sound Arthur makes. He hocks spit onto his cock then ducks back down, sucking Arthur in again until his face is buried in his groin. He stays there a moment, breathing in deep.

“You’re starving for it, aren’t you?” Arthur growls. Merlin moans loudly, the sound vibrating against Arthur, crawling right into his skin.

Merlin pins Arthur’s hip bones to the mattress and starts bobbing his head up and down, lips wrapped tight, pausing every now and again to lap his tongue at the head of Arthur’s cock. Arthur forgets everything that’s not Merlin’s hot mouth on him. He throws his head back, panting, eyes squeezing shut, and threads his hands into Merlin’s hair. Merlin slurps crudely, and Arthur hears himself ranting, “Christ, Merlin, you, you—”

Merlin pulls off again, laughs “You,” then cups Arthur’s balls. Arthur’s eyes fly open. Merlin’s pink tongue pokes between his lips as he rolls Arthur’s balls in one hand and pumps his cock messily with the other. His lips are red and slick with spit.

He watches Merlin take him back into his mouth, working him deftly. He grips Merlin’s hair again, tighter, and finds that Merlin will let him control him like this; he lets him move his head up and down, faster or slower. He groans at the revelation, and Merlin whines around him, making Arthur’s hips snap up faster. Then Merlin stretches a hand up to tweak Arthur’s nipple, and he kneads Arthur’s balls at the same time, and a sound rips from deep inside Arthur’s chest. He feels warmth spreading, pressure building, and he loses control, fucking Merlin’s mouth quickly, pushing his head all the way down, holding him there until he gags.

At the sound of Merlin choking, Arthur loosens his grip, but his hips won’t stop pushing. He registers a soft slapping sound, sees Merlin’s hand down the front of his trousers as he sucks him. “Oh,” Arthur gasps. He pulls Merlin’s hair, trying to pry him off, and says urgently, “I’m going to come, fuck, Merlin, I’m gonna come—”

But Merlin won’t pull off; he swats at Arthur’s hands and hums around his cock and burrows down, sucking enthusiastically until Arthur’s muscles start to contract. Merlin stays put as pleasure bursts Arthur’s insides and he gushes into Merlin’s mouth. Presses down as far as he can, swallows until cum oozes out. Arthur moans at the sight, and he comes, and he comes.

After what feels like a very long time, his body stills, and Merlin pulls off of him gently. Arthur yelps as his cock slips from Merlin’s mouth, throbbing. Merlin swallows, a string of spit trickling down his chin. He breathes heavily, looking like nothing Arthur’s ever seen before.

“Wow,” says Arthur stupidly. He feels as though his bones have melted into goo.

He slowly comes back to his body and focuses his eyes on Merlin, who kneels over him, mouth moving wordlessly as he works himself in his trousers. Arthur is still heady from his orgasm, trying to understand how Merlin is hard again already. And he hasn’t, he wants—

“Take it out,” he rasps, “I want to see you.”

Merlin shudders, and he doesn’t need to be told twice; he pushes his trousers down until his cock springs out, hand moving impossibly fast over himself. With his free hand he tangles his fingers into the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up to let Arthur see a trail of dark hair leading down to his crotch.

Merlin’s cock is large and swollen, the skin flushed dark. Arthur goes dizzy watching Merlin hump forward into the air, pinching his foreskin over the tip of his cock every few strokes. He keens and arches, fucks into his hand faster until his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering.

”Come for me, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, then Merlin’s grunting loudly, a stream of “uh, uh, uh, uh, uh” as he spurts thick ropes of cum.

It’s incredible how much spills out of him considering he’d orgasmed not half an hour ago. He shoots up onto himself, onto his tunic; it lands on his cock and he uses it as lube, coming even more. “That’s it,” coaxes Arthur, transfixed.

Merlin strokes the gooey mess over his cock once more then finally stutters to a stop. He groans, falling to the pillows beside Arthur, where he pants for a long time. Arthur watches his chest rise and fall rapidly, watches his cock soften. The candle beside the bed cuts a sharp shadow across Merlin’s cheekbones.

Arthur half expects Merlin’s shyness to creep back in, but after several minutes, Merlin turns his head to look at him, a dimple appearing as he smiles. Affection blooms in Arthur’s chest. He presses a finger to Merlin’s dimple. Merlin's smile widens, and then he reaches over and swipes his cum-covered hand across Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur squawks. “You little—!” He rolls onto Merlin, pins his wrists above his head. Merlin screeches, laughing, and thrashes until he gets an arm free. He wedges a hand into Arthur’s armpit, startling a cry out of him, and they wrestle for a minute until they collapse once more on their sides, face to face. Merlin beams, glowing, and Arthur can feel his own smile stretching. Their musky scent fills the air.

“Have I charmed you?” grins Merlin.

Arthur tweaks his ear. “I fear it is I who has seduced you.”

Merlin laughs and looks down at himself. “Ugh. I’m soaked.”

Arthur’s hand settles at the nape of Merlin’s neck. “You’ll need some new clothes.”

“You can buy me some,” Merlin quips.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “You know, for a moment there, I thought you might finally be obedient.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Arthur grins. He feels completely bewitched. “That would be my mistake.”

Merlin’s face grows serious. “Is it?” he asks.

“Is what what?”

“A mistake. This.” He gestures between them.

Arthur frowns. “What are you on about?”

Merlin’s smile has turned sad. “Come on, Arthur. I wouldn’t hold it against you. You’re the king.”

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin.”

“I’m not. I’m being realistic.”

Arthur studies Merlin’s face, then pulls his head in under his chin. He presses his lips to the top of Merlin’s head, holds him there, and when he lets go he waits for Merlin to meet his eyes.

“This is the reality: I am the king.” Merlin’s eyebrow twitches; Arthur knows he’s holding back from pointing out that that’s exactly what he just said. “And as the king, I can do exactly as I wish. And do you know what I wish to do?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Don’t say me, that’s so corny.”

Arthur ignores him. “I wish to do this with you, Merlin, again, and again, and again.”

Merlin gazes at him, quiet.

“I’m not experimenting because I’m curious. And I couldn’t care less what other people may have to say. And if you think I intend to let you go off pretending as if this never happened, then I regret to inform you that you're sorely mistaken.”

Merlin’s eyes dart between his. Arthur leans in, kissing him slow and deep. When they pull apart, Merlin looks at peace once more.

Arthur stretches, slow like a cat, and props his head in his hand to appraise Merlin. His shirt and trousers are indeed soaked, wet splotches drying into stains. His neckerchief disappeared at some point, and his hair looks simply absurd. The mark Arthur sucked into his skin peeks out from his skewed collar.

“Fancy I’d like to parade you around like this,” he drawls. “Send you walking through the castle, perhaps out into the courtyard, so people can see what I’ve done to you. You might know I was serious then.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Though what would poor Gregory think?”

Merlin gives him a look. “You’re incorrigible.”

Arthur laughs and gathers him into a kiss, and they do it again, and again, and again.