Chapter Text
Merlin’s steps dragged him forward, each one landing against the stone with a dull thud that seemed both near and impossibly far, as though he were hearing not his own body but the echo of some other presence moving in tandem with him. The sound was muffled like it reached him from beneath water. The walls crowded close, stone pressing in on either side until the air itself thickened, clinging to his skin and filling his chest with suffocating weight. Every breath he drew was an effort, heavy in his lungs, as if he were drowning on dry land. Something sat over his head, enclosing him, strange and unfamiliar until awareness cut cold through the haze. Iron. A helmet. The weight of it pressed hard against his skull, trapping him, shrinking the world to the narrow tunnel before his eyes. The edge of the visor carved his vision into fragments, leaving only blurred streaks of firelight smeared at the margins. His own breath rebounded off the metal, heat gathering against his skin.
His fingers clenched around the long shaft he bore. The wood bit rough into his palm, dragging at his arm until his muscles ached. A spear. His grip faltered. He stumbled as he turned the corner, his balance uncertain, his body swaying as though it no longer belonged to him, as though his will had been severed from flesh and bone. And yet he knew where he was. The corridor stretched out before him, familiar in every detail. He had walked this path before. Uther’s chamber lay at its end. The knowledge twisted inside him, dread curling tight in his stomach until his insides roiled. Still his feet carried him. He felt his own body rebel, nerves screaming to turn back, to stop, to fight against the invisible force that propelled him onward. His chest burned, the pounding of his heart feral, each violent beat slamming against his ribs with such force he thought it might break him apart. Panic clawed at his throat, raw and bitter, scraping against every breath, and yet his pace did not falter. The doors loomed ahead, massive, black against the stone. He reached them. His skin prickled, every muscle taut with dread. Then, in the instant before he could pass, one door flew wide, the wood cracking back against stone with a sound that shattered the silence.
Morgana stood before him, and the sight struck him motionless. His body seized as though every nerve had turned to stone. Her hand clutched a knife, the steel glistening wet, her fingers slick with blood. It ran thick across her palm, sliding over the hilt to stain her wrist, dripping in heavy lines that marked her skin like wounds of their own. Dark drops clung to the fabric of her gown, turning the cloth into a canvas of ruin. Her face was drained to the color of bone, her eyes wide, fever-bright, lips parted as if she could not draw a breath. She looked both ghost and fury, and yet behind her came Morgause, unshaken, her hand closing firmly on her sister’s arm. She pulled her forward with unrelenting force, guiding her out of the chamber, her strength the only thing holding Morgana upright. They moved as though bound, the truth of what they had done hanging in the air. Merlin felt it crash into him with the violence of a blow. His chest heaved, his throat raw before his own voice tore out, broken and hoarse.
— “No… no!”
The cry ripped through him, ragged with terror, scouring his lungs until it seemed to shred him from the inside out. The sound echoed loud enough to wake the whole castle, yet powerless to stop them. He felt himself unravel in that cry, the helplessness cutting deeper than any blade. The women turned at once, the shock on their faces hardening into resolve, their expressions sharpened by a merciless clarity. Skirts flared with the violent sweep of movement, snapping in the rush as their bodies surged into flight. They vanished down the passage like shadows wrenched free from the light, already beyond his grasp. Merlin’s lungs seized. He dragged for air that would not come, his chest clamped tight until his vision swam. His body jolted with the force of it, a violent rupture that hurled him back into himself.
He woke. His body snapped upright, the echo of his cry still burning raw on his lips, his breath torn harsh and uneven from his chest. Sweat clung damp at his temples, hot trails sliding down his face, his skin fevered. For an instant the dream did not loose its hold; its weight pinned him fast, iron crushing his skull, the echo of the helmet’s confinement choking him even as he gasped in open air. The image seared into his sight would not fade, Morgana’s hand red with blood, the knife still dripping carved across his vision. Arthur woke at once, wrenched violently from the depths of sleep by the sound that tore from Merlin’s throat. His eyes flew open into darkness, his heart jolting hard against his ribs. The instinctive rush of alarm seized him, dragging him upright with a sharp breath. Beside him, Merlin sat rigid, his body taut as a bowstring, chest heaving in broken bursts, his breath shallow and ragged as if he had been running for his life. Sweat clung in damp streaks across his temples, dampening the unruly curls plastered to his skin, shining along the line of his throat. His face was drained of colour, hollowed by something that had clung to him beyond the veil of sleep, as though he had been dragged back from another world and could not shed its terror.
— “Merlin,” Arthur’s voice broke rough from his throat, still heavy with sleep yet sharpened by the edge of fear that had torn him awake. “What is it? What’s happening?”
The question hung only an instant before silence crushed it, recognition pressing down on Arthur. His gaze locked on Merlin’s eyes, wide and wild, their usual brightness clouded by the lingering violence of nightmare. He saw the tremor running through his arms, the way his shoulders quivered with strain, the echo of his cry still clinging in the air, ringing in Arthur’s ears. It was just a dream. But a dream that had left Merlin torn open. Arthur shifted closer, closing the space between them. His arms wrapped around Merlin, gathering him in and holding him as if sheer strength alone might keep the terror from devouring him whole. He pressed him against his chest, pulled him tight until every shiver of Merlin’s body met the solid weight of his own, until he could feel the tremble of each breath against his ribs. He bent his head low, lips brushing through damp curls, grazing fevered skin, then pressing firm against his brow in a kiss.
— “Tell me,” Arthur murmured against his skin. “Tell me what you saw.”
Merlin’s breath came in harsh bursts, each inhale ragged, each exhale unsteady, dragging itself out of his chest with effort. His ribs rose too quickly against Arthur’s body, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the panic still gripping him. For a moment no words would come, his throat thick with fear, his tongue heavy. At last he forced sound into the air, stammered fragments breaking loose, jagged with the weight of terror.
— “It was… I was walking the corridors,” he began, his voice scraping the silence, shaking so hard the words almost fell apart. “But it wasn’t right. I knew it from the first step. There was a helmet on my head, pressing down. And in my hand, a spear.”
His grip on Arthur’s arm tightened, nails biting deep as if he needed the solidity of flesh to keep himself from sliding back into the dream. He pressed forward, voice faltering but unwilling to stop, the images pushing through him.
— “I turned a corner,” he said, the words spilling faster, “and I was in the hallway to your father’s chambers. Right outside the door.” His chest hitched, breath breaking unevenly, and for a heartbeat he stalled, caught on what came next. Then he pushed it through. “The door opened. Morgana stepped out. She had a knife, and it was covered in blood. Her hand was smeared with it too.”
His eyes were wide as he spoke, as though he still saw the red dripping from her skin. His voice cracked.
— “She looked like she was in shock. White as bone. But her eyes…” He swallowed hard, the motion jerking his throat.” A shiver ran through him as he forced the last pieces free. “And Morgause was there. She was pulling her out, guiding her away. I shouted. I tried to raise the alarm. They ran down the hall. And then I woke.”
Silence fell, the words cut short though the images still clung. His chest rose and fell in quick jolts, sweat dampening his skin, every muscle trembling. Arthur listened, each detail sinking sharp into him. The nightmare struck too close, pressing hard against his own memory, the vision that had once set his sleep alight, the fire, Camelot burning, Merlin ablaze with power. Merlin’s broken recounting carried the same echo, the same weight of prophecy. Arthur’s lips parted, words aching to rise. He longed to confess what he had seen, to admit his own dream had spilled into waking life, that Morgana’s strike had unfolded just as his nightmare had shown him. The truth pressed heavy against his ribs, but he held it back. Merlin still shook against him, and Arthur could not give him that burden now. So he drew him closer still, tightening his hold until there was no space left between them, his arms a barrier against the remnants of terror that clung to Merlin. Arthur shifted his weight, guiding him across his body until Merlin lay flush against him, chest to chest, the heat of damp skin sealing them together from shoulder to hip. Merlin yielded without hesitation, his limbs falling into place with trust, his legs settling astride Arthur’s hips, his weight draped heavy across him. His cheek pressed hard into the ridge of Arthur’s clavicle, his breath still uneven, drawn in ragged bursts that shuddered across Arthur’s skin. Yet already the rhythm began to shift, no longer frantic but dragged slowly into the steadier beat beneath his ear, pulled down by the constancy of the heartbeat that thudded there.
Arthur’s hand moved across his back, tracing long circles meant only to soothe. His palm followed the length of his spine, pressing firm against the ridges of bone, easing into the taut muscles that flinched beneath his touch, then gliding down to the curve of his waist where tension still coiled tight. His hand lingered there, pressing steady until the knot softened, before sweeping upward again with the same rhythm, over and over, until Merlin’s body began to yield beneath it. Each stroke bled warmth into him, each pass pulling a fraction more of the fear away. The trembling that had racked Merlin’s frame eased slowly under the weight of that touch, the ragged edge of his breathing softening as his chest fell into rhythm with Arthur’s. The embrace shifted by degrees, drawn out of the remnants of fear and into something heavier. It was not hurried, but it rose all the same, winding itself into the heat that pulsed between them. What had begun as solace swelled with hunger, changing the nature of their closeness until comfort alone no longer defined it. Every point of contact deepened it, every place where their bodies sealed together seemed to thrum. The press of skin against skin burned hotter with each movement, the damp slide of sweat turning every shift into friction that carried urgency, dragging them further from stillness. Merlin moved first, his mouth pulled down by the heat of the body beneath him. His lips pressed tentative against Arthur’s chest, a kiss faint but weighted, lingering against the salt-slick skin. Another followed, firmer now, and another, tracing slow paths over the tense rise of muscle until he reached the hollow of Arthur’s throat. His breath hovered there for a moment before his mouth closed over tender flesh, tasting sweat, leaving a damp mark of heat.
Arthur’s head tipped back in answer, surrender plain in the arch of his neck, exposing the line of tendon and the throb of pulse that hammered so close to the surface. His hands shifted, driven lower. Fingers tightened until they dug into flesh, holding him with a bruising grip. His palms spread wide across the swell of Merlin’s ass, cupping the weight of him,. He dragged him down in one hard pull, grinding him into place until their groins locked together, the shock of pressure crushing their half-hard cocks between them. The jolt of it ripped a sound from both their throats, torn open by the suddenness of pleasure. Arthur thrust again, unable to stop the surge of his hips, pulling Merlin down harder with each movement until the friction burned sharper through every nerve. The heat struck through him like fire, too intense to contain. Every repetition built on the last, every slide of their cocks driving need deeper until it hollowed out thought. Merlin clung tighter, fingers pressing hard into Arthur’s shoulders, his breath shattering into uneven gasps that caught against Arthur’s ear. His whole body trembled with the rhythm, chest heaving, sweat dripping between them. Their groins slid together again and again, wet now with the mix of sweat and the first slick traces of precome, the glide of it making each thrust rougher, more desperate. The fever between them thickened until it swallowed every other sensation, until the world seemed to narrow to nothing but the grind of their bodies, the raw pull of flesh against flesh, and the ragged sounds they dragged from each other’s throats. Arthur’s grip faltered from the slick heat that made it impossible to hold him steady. His palm dragged lower across the damp plane, slipping down past the curve of muscle until his hand slid into the cleft between his thighs. The downward pull left his fingers brushing against the tight ring of muscle, hot and hidden, pulsing with a tension that seemed to leap against his touch. Merlin’s head snapped up, mouth tearing from the curve of Arthur’s throat, his breath breaking apart as a cry. It was raw, indecent in its nakedness, as if the sound had been wrenched from the very core of him. His body jolted with it, a tremor shaking through his frame, the weight of him pressing harder against Arthur.
Arthur froze beneath him, his chest heaving. The reality of it struck with brutal clarity, a surge of desire so sharp it carved through restraint. It had haunted him in silence, night after night when he lay alone, the thought of losing himself inside Merlin’s body, the heat of it consuming him whole. He had imagined it until it tormented him, yet always pulled back, refusing to push, refusing to take before Merlin offered. That hesitation clung to him still, but the sound that had broken from Merlin, the way his body had jolted into the touch, left little room for doubt. Merlin bent to him, his mouth claiming Arthur’s. Hunger crashed into it, his tongue forcing its way past lips already parted. The kiss shattered into rough edges, tongues colliding with a fever that left both of them trembling. Merlin ground down harder, his hips pressing forward until their cocks met in full, both of them swollen hard, sliding with wet friction. The drag of skin against skin was scorching, every thrust of his hips striking sharper until groans were torn from their throats. They broke against each other’s mouths, swallowed and muffled by the clash of tongues, the sounds caught in the heat of the kiss. Arthur let the last thread of control unravel, fingers pressing deliberately between the tense line of muscle. His touch was no longer accidental. He traced the cleft with purpose, gliding across sweat-slick skin until he found again the tight entrance that had burned against his fingertips. He lingered there, circling the rim, tracing the seal that resisted and yet trembled beneath each pass of his hand. Merlin groaned into his mouth, the sound guttural. It vibrated against Arthur’s tongue, the muffled cry pressed into the kiss as though he could not hold it back. His whole body shook with it, his chest convulsing against Arthur’s, his hips grinding down as if every motion drew him deeper into the hunger consuming them both.
Merlin’s mouth broke from Arthur’s with a lingering press, lips clinging with a reluctance. The separation was drawn out, the taste of Arthur still heavy on his tongue, and when he finally let go it was only to trail lower, his mouth dragging down the tense column of Arthur’s throat. Each kiss landed open, his tongue catching against the slick sheen of sweat that coated overheated skin. He licked into the hollow where tendon met bone, drawing the sharp salt that clung there, and each drag seemed to leave Arthur trembling harder. The press of Merlin’s mouth seared like fire, branding Arthur with heat, every damp circle cooling only to flare again when Merlin’s ragged breath washed over it. Arthur shuddered beneath him, chest lifting with a suddenness he could not control, every muscle surrendering to the path being carved down his body. His head pressed back into the pillow, lips parted on a breath carrying the helpless ache of anticipation that spread through him like a fever. Merlin did not relent. His mouth moved with hunger, scattering wet imprints across the expanse of Arthur’s chest, each kiss sinking deeper into his skin as though he meant to drink from him. His lips lingered over hardened muscle, tongue flattening, tracing the ridges and dips with slow strokes, pulling the taste of sweat into his mouth as though it were something to be savored. Arthur’s hands twitched, one clawing at the tangled linen beside him while the other skimmed instinctively down the line of Merlin’s back. His palm swept over the damp curve of his spine, following it lower until it settled at the narrow dip of his waist, holding him there.
When Merlin shifted lower, sliding between his thighs, the movement dragged a raw sound from Arthur, half groan, half plea. The press of a firm thigh pushed against him, wedging close, forcing him open with a pressure that made his muscles yield. The friction of skin against skin sent sparks rushing through every nerve, his blood surging harder with each shift that rubbed him against the heat of Merlin’s body. Arthur’s back arched off the bed in answer, his breath breaking into a muffled cry, his hips lifting sharply, chasing the contact.
Still Merlin’s mouth did not stop. It trailed lower, lips marking Arthur’s abdomen, every muscle beneath twitching and contracting with each kiss that pressed into taut flesh. His tongue traced the hard grooves, licked the salt that gathered there, tasting the strain etched into every line. His hands pressed flat against Arthur’s chest, holding him down as his mouth moved further. The drag of Arthur’s cock slid against him in the shift, smearing wetness across the curve of his chest, sticky and hot, the contact rough enough to make Arthur’s groan turn helpless, his voice cracking with need that only grew sharper with every pass.
— “Merlin… what are you doing?”
The words tore out of Arthur in an unguarded plea trembling between wonder and desperation. The question hung unanswered, left to dissolve into the thick air between them, as Merlin pressed lower, his mouth trailing down the taut ridge of Arthur’s muscle with kisses that seared as they landed, tracing the line of his descent, until his lips hovered at the very base of Arthur’s cock. Arthur’s breath caught so violently it seemed to freeze in his chest, his ribs held in a grip of shock, the force of it leaving him suspended between dread and desire. Merlin bowed his head, his mouth parting with the faintest tremor of hesitation. His breath spilled hot against the swollen length, and the shiver that coursed through Arthur left his whole body arched, straining toward the heat. Then Merlin leaned in and pressed his mouth to him with the softest kiss, nothing more than a brush of lips. Arthur gasped so violently the sound ripped raw from his throat. His hand shot instinctively into Merlin’s hair, fingers locking in the thick strands. His hips jerked upward against his will, every thread of restraint shattering in the shock of that first touch. He had thought himself prepared for anything, but this broke him apart in an instant, left him grasping for air as though he had been undone by a single kiss. Merlin drew back only far enough to wet his lips, the taste of precome smearing across them, thick and unfamiliar, yet it seemed to pull him deeper. His tongue flicked across the tip in a tentative stroke and the reaction it wrenched from Arthur was instant. A groan erupted from his chest, the sound of a man unmade.
— “Merlin…” Arthur whispered, the word fractured, caught between a prayer and a cry. His hand trembled in dark hair, his grip unable to loosen, his chest heaving with the weight of every broken breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Merlin lifted his eyes then, gaze meeting Arthur’s. There was no doubt in him. Only desire and determination. Under the force of that look, Arthur felt what little restraint he had left unravel. Merlin’s hand closed around his cock, fingers wrapping with a firm grip, then his mouth followed, lips parting, opening slowly to take the head between them. The heat swallowed him, the taste flooding his tongue, thick, musky, overpowering every sense. Arthur’s reaction was uncontrollable. A cry tore out of him, jagged and almost pathetic in its nakedness, his body arching upward, chest bowing, hand dragging tight in Merlin’s hair. Merlin closed his eyes, surrendering completely, letting the raw throb of Arthur’s pulse against his tongue dictate every movement. He pushed deeper, opening his jaw wide, straining to take more, to prove he could hold him. The swollen length pressed to the back of his throat and his body betrayed him. The gag rose sharp and involuntary, a choke that forced him to pull back with a gasp, coughing softly, swallowing down the taste that clung thick at the back of his mouth. His throat worked, chest rising and falling in hard jerks as he steadied himself, breath rasping through his nose. Arthur’s grip tightened in alarm, his voice breaking with urgency, rough and panicked.
— “Careful, Merlin, you don’t have to. You’re not…”
The protest strangled itself in his throat, cut off when Merlin bent again, silencing him. He took him back into his mouth, slower this time, not as deep, his tongue curling wetly along the thick length. A groan rumbled low in his throat, the vibration shuddering along Arthur’s cock, sending a violent tremor through him that dragged a gasp out of his chest. His hips twitched helplessly, instinct fighting against his control, every nerve demanding movement. Arthur’s free hand clutched at the sheets, knuckles whitening, tendons straining as he battled himself, fighting not to thrust into the heat that threatened to consume him. The wet slide of Merlin’s mouth, the suction, the swirl of his tongue against sensitive skin, it shattered every comparison, every past experience stripped to nothing. It was unlike Merlin’s hand, unlike his own, unlike anything he had ever known.
Merlin began to move, hesitant at first, his mouth sliding in shallow pulls that barely covered Arthur, each tentative motion uneven and clumsy. Yet even in that awkwardness, the sensation was enough to make Arthur’s breath falter, his chest stuttering on sharp inhales as his fingers clenched harder into the dark strands of hair he gripped so desperately. Every small attempt to draw more of him into his mouth, every awkward glide of lips over sensitive skin, only seemed to stoke the fire burning hotter in Arthur’s gut. The hesitation did not last. Each new motion grew bolder, more insistent. The pull of his lips steadied, the rhythm gaining shape, and what had been clumsy transformed into something that burned with a fierce will. Arthur felt it in every drag, the determination behind the tremble of Merlin’s jaw, the resolve in the way his mouth fought to claim more of him. The weight of Arthur’s cock filled him, pressed heavy and hot against his tongue, each vein throbbing thick with the pulse of blood and desire. The taste of him coated his mouth, foreign yet intoxicating, until his senses drowned in it. The scent of sex clung to his nose, so strong it blurred thought, leaving only the primal rush that twisted through his stomach, not only the taste or the heat, but the realization that every gasp, every broken groan spilling above him was his doing. His lips, his tongue, his mouth alone had brought Arthur, the future king, to this point of helpless trembling, and the knowledge burned like fire in his veins.
His jaw began to ache, muscles strained by the relentless stretch, but the throb of pain was lost beneath the greater ache building in his chest and groin. His need cut deeper than discomfort, driving him to push harder, to drag his lips wider around the thick length that filled him. Spit slipped messily from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin, slicking his skin, but he no longer cared. His tongue worked with devotion, curling, pressing, stroking every ridge he could reach, desperate for more, desperate to hear Arthur’s voice break again. The hunger clawed at him until he could not stay still. He ground himself against the bed in rough, mindless thrusts, rutting into the sheets with no rhythm, only the desperate search for friction. Sparks shot through him with each drag, forcing muffled groans from his throat that vibrated around Arthur’s cock. The sound was obscene, sloppy, the wet suck of lips and tongue filling the air. Heat flushed Merlin’s face, shame and pride warring in equal measure, but even humiliation seemed to sharpen his hunger, to urge him further. His hands clutched at Arthur’s thighs, nails digging hard into the flesh. Arthur’s body trembled with restraint, he began to lift his hips in small, broken thrusts, the instinct to chase pleasure forcing through the thin walls of his control. His head fell back against the pillow, his eyes clenching shut as ragged sounds tore out of him, no longer words but raw fragments of breath and the fractured repetition of Merlin’s name.
Arthur had never known anything like it. Each sensation tore his control away piece by piece. He fought for breath, every muscle trembling as the pressure built too quickly, tightening around his ribs, winding him toward the breaking point. He tried to ground himself, but the force of pleasure devoured him. He forced his eyes open, searching for some tether, some last hold against the storm. And he saw Merlin between his thighs, lips swollen and red from the stretch, cheeks flushed with exertion, his chin dripping with spit. The sight struck him hard, stripped the last fragment of control he had clung to, and he felt himself unravel completely, the force of it shaking his body. He stumbled for words, broken sounds caught in his throat, and when his voice came, it cracked apart with urgency, a warning that barely held together.
— “Merlin… I… I’m going to…”
But Merlin only pushed harder, as though Arthur’s warning had ignited him rather than stopped him, as though the words themselves were fuel poured straight into the fire already consuming him. His lips sealed tighter, dragging with wet insistence along the thick length that pulsed helplessly against his tongue, his pace quickening with sudden ferocity. His hips ground down hard into the sheets, his body rutting in helpless desperation, every thrust rough and uncoordinated, as though the need clawing through him had taken full command. The low groan that rumbled from his throat was raw, almost a growl, vibrating deep against the heavy heat filling his mouth, the shudder of it wrapping hot and tight around Arthur until there was nothing left to hold back. Arthur’s body broke first, arching violently from the bed, every line of muscle drawn taut. His cry tore loose, ripped straight from his chest as his climax seized him. The first burst of release struck sudden and scorching, spilling thick and fast across Merlin’s tongue. His eyes flew open at the shock of it, startled by the sudden flood, but his throat swallowed by instinct, working convulsively to take it in. The taste hit him with force, heavy and bitter, coating every part of his mouth until it drowned him completely. The torrent came in waves, pulse after pulse, each one hotter and thicker.
Arthur’s hand tightened instinctively in his hair, to cling to the only point of grounding he could find as the waves overtook him. His fingers dragged at the roots, trembling with the force of his release, urging Merlin closer with a desperate kind of need. There was no resistance to meet, only Merlin’s surrender, his lips sealed around him, his throat working with each pulse. His own body twisted under the force, jerking uncontrollably, as if the act of being used like this was enough to shatter him entirely. He bucked harder into the sheets, rutting in wild, mindless thrusts until the friction was unbearable, tearing his climax out of him in violent spasms. His release was messy, soaking the linen beneath him in hot streaks as his body seized. The force of it tore groans from his throat, choked and broken by the length still filling his mouth, his cries smothered into Arthur’s flesh. Somewhere in the background, a chair skidded sharply against the floorboards, books fell from a shelf, jolted out of place as his magic flared loose. At last he surrendered, Arthur slipping free from the swollen stretch of his mouth. Merlin gasped at once, air tearing into his chest in ragged, desperate pulls. His lungs burned, his throat raw, his whole body trembling violently with the aftershocks. A final spurt caught him, hot against his cheek, scalding where it struck his flushed skin before dripping slowly down across the fevered flush of his face. He swiped at it clumsily with a shaking hand, smearing spit and come together in streaks along his chin. His lips were raw and swollen, glistening with the mess of it, and he licked at them, tasting the sharp bitterness again, swallowing down the last of what lingered in his mouth.
His breath came shallow, rattling in his chest, every exhale breaking apart as his body continued to tremble under the force of his own climax. His limbs felt weak, boneless, his muscles twitching with exhaustion, but when he finally lifted his gaze, the crooked pull of his lips betrayed the surge of pride burning through him. His face was flushed bright, unashamed, and the exhaustion only made his expression more defiant in its satisfaction. Arthur collapsed fully into the pillow, his body sinking as if every bone had given way, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts. A laugh broke out of him, unsteady, edged with disbelief. His body still quivered, muscles loose and quaking as the last of the tension drained away, leaving him shivering. Arthur was still smiling when his hand found Merlin’s arm. His grip was steady and he tugged until Merlin’s body gave in to the pull and collapsed against him. There was not even the shadow of resistance. Merlin folded into him as if he belonged there, his chest pressed flush to Arthur’s, his face buried into the heat of his skin, the dampness of sweat clinging to them both. Arthur’s arms locked around him with a fierceness that betrayed far more than satisfaction; it was not the loose embrace of contentment but the desperate hold of a man who could not bring himself to let go. The strength in it told its own truth, that in this raw aftermath he feared loosening his grasp even for a moment would allow Merlin to slip away from him. He bent his mouth into the dark tangle of hair pressed beneath his chin and kissed it.
— “That was… gods, that was so good. I don’t know what came over you, but thank you.”
The words rumbled low in his chest, vibrating softly against Merlin’s ear, sinking through him. Merlin’s answer came first in the weight of his body, the way he melted further into Arthur, boneless with exhaustion, the long sigh spilling from his lungs as if his entire being exhaled its surrender. He let himself be held, the last of his strength dissolving until he was draped entirely in Arthur’s arms, his legs tangling lazily with Arthur’s under the twisted wreckage of sheets. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled against the skin of Arthur’s chest, his lips dragging heat over flesh still damp with sweat.
— “I didn’t think. I just… wanted to.”
Arthur’s chest constricted with the nakedness of that truth, a swell of something sharper than lust tightening in him. His hand rose helplessly, cupping Merlin’s face and guiding it upward until he was caught in the blue blaze of his eyes. He bent, closing the distance with a kiss that was both an answer and a vow, his voice spilling in fragments against Merlin’s lips.
— “Then I like your wants.”
The kiss that followed was slow, weighted with the heaviness of satisfaction and the intimacy of release. Their mouths pressed together with a languid hunger, until Arthur felt himself dissolving into it. On Merlin’s lips clung the taste of him, the proof of what they had shared. Instead of recoiling from that bitter tang, Arthur drew him closer, his tongue chasing it, wrapping himself tighter in the intimacy of it. The rawness of that exchange, the knowledge of exactly what lingered between them, tore a groan from him, as his arms cinched even harder around Merlin, pressing him close enough that no air remained between their bodies. The outside world lay silent and distant, the castle sunk into the dominion of night, but within their chamber the heat of their bodies made its own cocoon. The exhaustion creeping into their limbs finally broke the kiss, their foreheads falling together, pressed close. They sank back into the pillows still joined, Arthur’s hold never loosening, his body refusing to release the weight he cradled against him. His breath steadied only when Merlin’s did, the rhythm pulling them both downward into the drag of unconsciousness. Wrapped in each other, they slipped at last into the dreamless dark.
A knock split the quiet and Merlin jolted upright, his body snapping tense, while beside him Arthur groaned into the pillow, the sound rough and guttural with irritation more than alarm. He turned his head with heavy reluctance, voice muffled in the sheets as he cursed the interruption. Before either of them could steady themselves, the door swung inward, and George stepped into the chamber with a tray balanced carefully in his hands. The moment seemed to fracture around the sight. George froze mid-step, his body stiffening, the tray tilting precariously as his eyes locked onto Merlin’s. Wide and startled, Merlin’s stare collided with his, a jolt of shock that knocked the air from his lungs, his face burning with the knowledge of what George had walked in on, the intimacy still written across his disheveled body and flushed skin. Arthur moved slower, dragging himself upright with the weary grace of a man pulled unwillingly from rest. His chest rose broad and bare above the twisted sheets, the muscles flexing as he stretched long, a yawn breaking from his mouth. Words slurred beneath his breath about the lateness of the hour, until his eyes lifted at last and landed on George. Realization struck like cold water. His composure faltered for a heartbeat, heat rising in a rush that pricked his skin with the sharp sting of embarrassment. His jaw set hard, and when he spoke, his voice carried the crisp bite of authority.
— “What are you waiting for to set down the breakfast? An official invitation?”
The sharpness cracked the air. George startled, flinching visibly, the tray rattling faintly in his hands before he stumbled forward in fumbling haste. He placed it on the table, the clatter of dishes betraying his rush, every movement stiff with the urgency to retreat. His shoulders hunched, his back rigid, the desire to escape written in every line of him as he turned toward the door almost at once. He had nearly reached it when Arthur’s voice cut again, flat and deceptively calm.
— “George.”
The man froze, his spine locking straight, though he did not dare turn. The silence thickened for a beat before Arthur’s words dropped lower, his tone steady but heavy with warning, the weight of a threat sharp beneath the control.
— “If I hear even the faintest whisper in the corridors over the next days, I’ll know where it came from. And believe me, you do not want to know the punishment for that.”
George’s shoulders tensed visibly. His head inclined in a stiff gesture of obedience.
— “Yes, Sire.”
He slipped through the door at once, the wood closing sharply behind him. Silence settled back into the room. It pressed down heavy, broken only when Merlin let himself collapse backward into the mattress with a muffled groan. He buried his face into the sheets, his voice strangled against the fabric, rough with mortification.
— “Brilliant.”
Arthur’s eyes lingered on him, his lips twitching with the smallest curve of reluctant amusement. Merlin shoved himself upright again with a weary sigh, dragging a hand across his face as though to wipe away the humiliation clinging there.
— “I’m probably late already. Gaius will be waiting.”
Arthur’s hand shot out before he could rise, closing around his arm with a grip softened by the undercurrent of affection that lingered between them. His eyes caught Merlin’s, the command in his tone tempered by insistence born of care.
— “Eat something first.”
Merlin’s gaze lifted, exasperation etched into the set of his mouth, but the warmth in Arthur’s insistence unraveled the worst of it. He held Arthur’s eyes for a long moment, the silence weighted with a battle he already knew he would lose, until the smallest smile betrayed him, tugging faintly at the corner of his lips. He leaned forward then, closing the distance in a brief kiss. Arthur’s lips met his with equal warmth. At last Merlin drew back, his expression gentler now, the reluctant smile lingering at the edges of his face. The tension slipped from his shoulders. Together they rose from the bed, bodies still carrying the weight of the night, the weariness heavy in their limbs as the morning pressed forward.