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1.
Unfortunately for Merlin, it’s getting terribly hard to get Arthur alone, these days. Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin getting him alone tends to make things, er— terribly hard. But it’s not like it’s Merlin’s fault.
Obviously he’s really glad that Uther’s dead and Arthur’s king and he’s doing all these nice things like letting commoners become knights, and he’s also really glad that Arthur’s council seems to appreciate the direction he’s going in and respect all of his thoughts and opinions. He is, obviously, almost disgustingly proud of what a good leader Arthur is, how many lords and ladies and whatnots (even from neighbouring kingdoms!) are coming to ask his advice, and he does, obviously, get somewhat misty-eyed every time he realises that he himself is here to see it. But sometimes—
“Yes, thank you,” says Arthur, with one hand clenching white around the doorframe. “I’ll take it under advisement and confer with my council in the morning. Was there anything else?”
The tone of his voice suggests that there better bloody not be, and Merlin smirks down at the floor, tucked out of sight behind the door. Lord Bernard or Baltrude or Benadryl starts to say something, and Arthur says, very loudly, “Till tomorrow, then,” and shuts the door right in his face. Merlin snickers, and pulls his hand out of Arthur’s trousers. Arthur glares at him.
“It’s not funny, Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin slides his hands over Arthur’s belt, tugging sharply so that he’s back to where he was a few minutes ago.
“It’s a bit funny,” he says. “You better hope it doesn’t get out how rude you were to him. You might lose an ally.”
“Not over that,” says Arthur. He flicks Merlin in the shoulder, pushing him back against the door. “Besides, I seem to recall that one being your fault.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You need to learn some manners,” says Arthur, and Merlin, addled by good food and good wine and the way the candlelight is bouncing off Arthur’s hair, makes the mistake of saying: “Teach me.”
Arthur snorts. He slides his hand around to the back of Merlin’s neck, bad mood forgotten, and that’s another thing Merlin could get misty-eyed over if he let himself, the way Arthur smiles so easily in Merlin’s company.
“You couldn’t be polite if you tried,” he says, and Merlin laughs. There’s a lovely redness to Arthur’s mouth that he tries to chase, and the lovedrunk haze comes back to him as quickly as Lord Beatrice sent it off, turns him into someone who doesn’t care a whit about destiny and only about getting his hands on Arthur’s skin. Arthur smiles.
“Case in point,” he says, sounding fond, “You’re supposed to go slow—”
“Slow is for losers.”
“No, slow is for servants who feel up their king in front of his advisors.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp tug on Merlin’s belt, which honestly does very little to induce Merlin into listening to him. “Would you stop wriggling?” demands Arthur, as his quest to get Merlin’s buckle undone is headed off at the pass. Merlin needs his hands elsewhere. “I’m trying to—"
He stops trying to bite Arthur’s ear off, going for the jugular instead, and Arthur groans. Merlin grins, smug, and winds a hand up in Arthur’s hair, so that Arthur isn’t complaining any more. It interferes with whatever Arthur was trying to do to his neck, but that’s fine. Arthur’s skin is so pink, wine-drunk and golden and oh, god, Merlin’s going poetic again. It’s a horrible habit.
Arthur comes back to himself and detaches from Merlin’s mouth with a sound.
“Would you— hold— still,” snaps Arthur, and manhandles him towards the bed. Merlin fists his hands in his collar, dragging them back together, because beds are great, and all, but all Merlin much cares about right now is closer.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, laughing into his mouth, and rucks Merlin’s shirt up around his ribs. He shoves him backward, and the bed takes Merlin’s knees out from under him in one fell swoop, and he scrambles back and let Arthur clamber on top of him.
“Better,” he says. Merlin grabs his tunic, trying to wrestle it off, and his stupid, terrible prince grabs his hands and pins them above his head.
Well, thinks Merlin, as his back hits the mattress. Well.
There’s a moment, looking at Arthur looking at him, where Merlin forgets absolutely everything. Arthur’s head is cocked to the side, a soft grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Merlin knows he’s looking at him like a lovestruck fool. Knows that the expression on his face will be one Arthur has never seen before: one of total obedience.
Merlin hates himself. He wishes Arthur were a terrible bedmate.
Still with that stupid grin, Arthur rattles Merlin’s wrists lightly from side to side, and Merlin realises he was probably meant to throw Arthur off. Instead his hands stay damningly still in Arthur’s loose fist, his chest rising and falling under Arthur’s.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, slow and delighted, “do you actually like being bossed around?”
Merlin squirms.
“I,” he says, and wriggles his hands against Arthur’s grip. Arthur tightens it, absolute sodding bastard that he is. “It’s not— shut up, no. Of course not.”
Arthur laughs. His stupid pointy canines glint against his lip, and Merlin wants them in his neck. He pushes his hips more insistently against Arthur. “Arthur.”
“Now, now,” says Arthur, shifting a bit. There’s a thread of genuine joy in his voice that makes Merlin ache. “I have to honour this new discovery. Tell me, is this peculiarity extended towards all your bed partners, or am I just special?”
“You’re especially annoying,” says Merlin, and Arthur grins. Merlin thinks wistfully of the time when his insults weren’t found to be endearing, and makes a valiant effort at grinding against him. Unfortunately Arthur holds fast, composure betrayed only by the darling flush in his cheeks, and Merlin hates him.
“You know, it’s never occurred to me—” He has the gall to say it like they’re in conversation, the bastard, “—but perhaps there is a way to teach you manners.”
He puts his free hand on Merlin’s cheek. “What do you say, Merlin?”
Merlin bites hard on his tongue. He will not. He will not. He and Arthur have played a lot of games over the years, and quite a good deal of them have been some variation of chicken, and he will not concede in this. Absolutely won’t. His hands wriggle and Arthur squeezes them and Merlin wishes that did even just a little bit less for him.
“Merlin?” says Arthur, still grinning. Merlin swallows.
“You can try.”
Unfortunately, horribly, the smile on Arthur’s face gets wider, his delight a palpable thing. Merlin holds his breath and waits to see how the die rolls.
He leans down and kisses him, cupping his jaw and tilting Merlin’s head back, soft and lovely and full of promise. Merlin whines a bit, maybe, and Arthur pulls his lip between his teeth. With one hand still clasped round Merlin’s wrists, he uses the other to tug on Merlin’s scarf, pulling the knot around to the base of his neck as he fumbles to get it loose. Arthur’s weight presses down on him as he does so, and Merlin does his best not to go crazy.
The fabric comes up to touch Merlin’s hands. Arthur pulls back to meet his eye, considerate for the first time in his life, and says: “You trust me?”
Merlin nods. Because he’s an idiot, he adds: “With my life.”
Arthur closes his eyes, a smile breaking across his face again. “Right,” he says. His mouth twists with the effort to get it under control. “Good answer.”
He ties Merlin’s hands together, and then, after a moment of consideration, loops the fabric around the bedhead as well. There are snakes in Merlin’s stomach, wriggling around and making him restless, and it’s not helped by Arthur sitting back on Merlin’s thighs and stripping the shirt from his back. Arthur tosses it god-knows-where, which Merlin would care about were it not for how much he doesn’t. He wraps his hands around the scarf to make sure they don’t slip out, stock-still under Arthur’s body.
“See?” says Arthur, smiling down at him. “You’re being patient already.”
He leans down and kisses Merlin’s neck, hands planted on either side of Merlin’s shoulders as he switches from straddling him to lying atop him, hips now gloriously aligned. Because he’s awful, Arthur ignores Merlin’s insistent attempts at drawing attention to the issue and instead sucks languid marks into Merlin’s skin.
“You know there’s only so many hours in a day, right?” he says, a bit desperate, and Arthur smirks.
“I can spare tomorrow.”
“Arthur.”
He kisses behind Merlin’s ear. “Say please.”
“What?”
“Please,” repeats Arthur. “It’s a term of politeness, Merlin, and befitting of an address to one’s king.”
“I’ll address…one’s…king,” parrots Merlin, and Arthur laughs again. His hands are doing horrible things to Merlin’s side, squeezing and stroking and petting, and if Merlin had his hands free he would be putting them in Arthur’s hair and shoving him down the bed, but they aren’t and he can’t.
Arthur takes him in hand, thank god. “Here, I’ll help,” he says, like Merlin gives a damn. “It starts with ‘p’.”
“Prat,” says Merlin, and gets a hard squeeze in response. “God, alright. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Arthur.”
“Please Arthur? Well, now that you mention it…”
Merlin twists his neck to find his mouth, shoves his tongue into it. He bites Arthur’s lip, his jaw, swallows the rumbling chuckle that comes forth from Arthur’s throat. He lets Merlin kiss him for a bit and then he pulls away, eyes sparkling.
God. Merlin hates him. Stupid, horrible, arrogant bastard. Thinks he’s god’s gift. Tortures Merlin daily. Terrible.
“Arthur—”
“Sire,” corrects Arthur.
“Arthur.”
The hand goes away; Merlin makes a very manly, not at all pathetic keening sound.
“If you think I’m going to— stroke your ego,” he gasps out, and Arthur snickers.
“You’re not stroking anything. And unless you’re nice, I won’t either.”
“Ugh,” says Merlin, at war with his dignity. Arthur will never let him forget it, he won’t, but also: bed. Hands. Everything else going on. What’s the harm, honestly?
“Need an incentive, Merlin?” asks Arthur, and kisses under his rib. He peppers them all down Merlin’s stomach, and Merlin is getting dangerously close to doing something completely embarrassing, like telling Arthur he loves him.
This cannot happen.
“God,” says Merlin, a bit desperate. “Fine, yes, sire. Get on with it.”
Arthur smiles again. “Beg,” he says.
Awful, horrible man.
“I hate you,” says Merlin.
“No you don’t.”
The scarf digs into his wrists, and Merlin is seriously considering slipping his hands free and shoving Arthur onto his back to have his own way with him. Arthur says, “Come on, now, I’ve given you all the instruction you need. Two words, Merlin. Say them.”
Sodding— bloody— destiny—
“Sire,” says Merlin, in mortification, but the reward is rather good. “Arthur, god, please—"
“Good,” says Arthur, suddenly serious, his voice low and rich and throaty and nothing at all like it was. “Good, Merlin.”
And Arthur is annoying, terribly so, and he’s always doing awful things like shouting or giving speeches and making Merlin want to lay down his life for him, so it’s really only right for him to now put his mouth to better use. It’s so good that Merlin doesn’t even mind the loss of his dignity. There’ll be time for that later.
Arthur does this, and that, and the other, and all of them are wonderful and glorious and Merlin spends quite a lot of time gasping and comparing Arthur to deities, and he thinks there might be one horrible sentence to the tune of sire, sire, Arthur, king, god, that he will definitely never think about ever again in his life, and then Arthur is pulling off him while Merlin spreads boneless against his pillows, grimacing in distaste.
Arthur makes a face as he sets back on his heels. “You know, it’s polite to give a little warning.”
“Sorry,” says Merlin, not sorry at all. Arthur wipes his mouth and jaw with his hand and wrinkles his nose, a few exaggerated gagging sounds entering the mix.
“Heathen,” says Arthur, and crawls up the bed. He tugs lazily on the scarf, freeing Merlin’s hands, and then falls into the space at Merlin’s side. He tucks his face into Merlin’s neck because he’s actually a horrible sap who only pretends at being a brute.
“Don’t you want…” starts Merlin, while Arthur winds his arms around him.
“Hm? Oh, no. Don’t bother.”
“Hardly polite,” says Merlin, and slinks his hand down. Arthur’s trousers are damp, and Merlin blinks. “When did you…?”
He’s gone pink, right down his back. “Not a word, Merlin,” he says. Merlin thinks about it.
“Oh, you didn’t,” he says, as Arthur squirms. “It wasn’t the sire—”
“Don’t call me that,” grumbles Arthur. His cheeks are hot against Merlin’s skin, and Merlin decides it was worth it just for this knowledge. He parrots Arthur’s own words back at him.
“Arthur, do you like—”
Arthur smothers Merlin’s sentence with his mouth.
2.
The thing Arthur will not admit, not even under pain of death, is that he quite likes having Merlin attend his training sessions.
He says it’s because it gets Merlin used to combat. He says it’s to make sure Merlin stays up to speed on Arthur’s preferences, so that he can hand Arthur whatever weapon he needs without a single word passing between them. He says it’s all number of things, honestly.
Mostly he just likes to know Merlin’s watching.
Arthur’s not smug, exactly, and if he is, then he’s certainly earned it. He’s good at what he does, and he knows Merlin knows he’s good at what he does, and he knows Merlin enjoys seeing him get all dashing and sweaty, really. Plus, at the end of it, he gets a privilege that no one else does: Merlin stripping him off.
Excellent.
“Good session today,” says Arthur jovially, as Merlin’s hands find the buckles on his arms. “Sir Ovain’s getting much better, he’ll be a good fighter yet. Did you see him last a minute with me?”
Merlin nods. “He did well. He’s good with a sword.”
“And?” says Arthur hopefully. Merlin rolls his eyes.
“You as well,” he says, and Arthur beams.
“Enamoured, were you? Swooning from the stands? I’ve been told I have that effect.”
“From who, yourself?”
“No,” says Arthur, and flushes a bit. “From Guinevere.”
Merlin snorts.
“Gwen’s biased,” he says. “I could put on armour and get her attention, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“Well, maybe you’d better show a little more interest in mine, then, if it’s getting me all these girls.”
“I’m not worried. Your personality will turn them off soon enough.”
Arthur splutters. He wants to say something witty and biting, but he’s still jittery from the fight and most of his brainpower is being dedicated to figuring out how to get Merlin in the bath with him later, and he doesn’t want to blow that by being a twat.
“Shut up,” says Arthur, deciding to go the classic route. He clears his throat. “What are you doing to my armour, Merlin, polishing it? Hurry up.”
His ears feel hot; Merlin makes this face that isn’t really a smirk, because he’s trying to affect a look of total innocence, but Arthur knows he’s really thinking something filthy. His hands come to rest on the buckles of Arthur’s breastplate.
“I was trying to get it to come off,” says Merlin. “Did you not want it to?”
“I— no,” says Arthur. “Continue.”
“If it’s bothering you,” says Merlin, because he’s terrible, “I do know some things. This here’s a breastplate, see?”
He taps twice on Arthur’s chest and it reverberates lightly through the metal. Arthur twitches.
“Bit obvious.”
“Pauldron,” continues Merlin, as if he hasn’t heard. “Rerebrace. Vambrace. Gauntlet.”
His fingers play with Arthur’s, and he’s drawing all the words out like some terrible, wanton barmaid, breathy and luscious and undercut by his good humour. Arthur spares a thought for his dignity, which he’s sure used to be present but left sometime around the time Merlin started gracing Arthur with his mouth. Merlin’s fingers tap against his fauld, and Arthur can’t feel it, obviously, but somehow that makes the touch seem tenfold. “Fauld.”
“Nnng,” says Arthur, a bit strangled, and Merlin outright laughs when he tips his sweaty head into Merlin’s neck. “Get me out of it, Merlin,” he orders, and Merlin lays his palm flat on the back of Arthur’s neck, nosing at Arthur’s temple.
“You’re not standing properly.”
“I hate you,” says Arthur. Merlin starts in on the buckles. “Were you watching?”
“Course,” says Merlin. “You looked very handsome.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hm,” says Merlin. Arthur catches half a glance of a wicked grin. “That helmet does wonders for you.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”
“Almost constantly.”
“You could stand to be nicer.”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“I might.”
Merlin tips his head at him. “Really? If I told you that you were amazing, that no one can fight like you? You’d want me to?”
Arthur squirms. His collar feels suddenly hot. “I,” he starts, and then changes his mind and looks very pointedly at the ceiling. “You’re right. I’d think you were enchanted.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything. Arthur chances a dangerous look down at him, where he’s now kneeling to free Arthur’s calves.
“What?” he asks, and Merlin’s mouth twists oddly in the middle, his eyes bright.
“You did well,” he says, and Arthur goes pink. “Seriously. The knights are lucky to have you.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “That’s very kind of you.”
Merlin shrugs. His own face has gone a bit red, and his fingers have stopped trying to untie the laces and are now just pressed against Arthur’s knee. “You’re a good leader,” he explains. “I’ve always thought so.”
It’s very warm in here. It’s surely not usually so warm in here.
He nods. Merlin’s grin unfurls across his face, and he restarts on the greaves. Cuisses, trusses and chainmail come off too, until it’s just Arthur’s undershirt and trousers and stockings still on him. Merlin tugs the shirt over his head.
“I like this red colour,” he says.
“Please shut up,” begs Arthur.
“Why? I’m being nice.”
“You know why.”
“Sire,” says Merlin, and Arthur hates him, Merlin is the worst thing that has ever happened to Arthur ever in his life. His mouth curls around the world something sinful, dripping with amusement and insolence and a smug sort of satisfaction that is unfairly becoming on him. “Get in the bath.”
“Alright,” says Arthur. He pushes off the trousers and the stockings and blames whatever Merlin has put into the air for the fact that he doesn’t quite keep his balance and trips over twice. Merlin grins widely but doesn’t say a thing.
“Not a word,” threatens Arthur. “Not a word, Merlin.”
Merlin presses his lips together, the picture of innocence. It lasts all of five seconds, which is about par for the course. “Of course, my lord.”
“Shut up,” snaps Arthur. “Don’t call me that.”
“You know, you’re giving out a lot of mixed messages. I thought my lord was how I was supposed to address you.”
Arthur climbs into the bath and Merlin comes over to perch on the edge of it, at just the right height that Arthur could drag him in if he put his mind to it, or otherwise lean his head on Merlin’s leg. “Not when I’m naked.”
“No?” Merlin winds his hand into Arthur’s hair and Arthur, because he is so very, very tired from the match, is persuaded to close his eyes and sink into the water. It’s hotter than it should be. “Just when I am, then.”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“Noted.”
He peeks open an eye to look up at him, and sees a horrendously fond face looking back. Merlin’s cheeks are all pink and shining, and his thumb strokes hard against the back of Arthur’s skull. Arthur sighs.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Merlin smiles. His hand stays in Arthur’s hair and it’s quiet for a few moments, steam billowing up around them, and Arthur really cannot be bothered to reach for the soap, not at all. Not when it’s all so nice. He tilts his head more solidly against Merlin’s leg.
“I’ll have to think of something else, then,” says Merlin softly. “To call you. If my lord is out of the question.”
“Alright. Which vegetable names have yet to enter your repertoire?”
“Hm. I could probably work parsnip up into something. But I was thinking something more traditional. To keep with the theme of being nice.”
“If you call me sweetheart, I’ll fire you,” says Arthur.
“Eurgh,” says Merlin, with feeling. “No, that’s horrible. And blatantly untrue besides.”
“Exactly.”
They fall silent.
“Arthur,” says Merlin, hand gentling. “Do you want me to call you sweetheart?”
“No,” snaps Arthur.
“Arthur.”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
“You’ve gone all red!”
Arthur folds his arms and splashes Merlin a bit by accident. “The bath is too hot,” he complains.
“Sweetheart,” says Merlin, which is worse.
“Merlin—”
“Annwyl.”
“I’ll kill you,” he threatens, hot in the face. He ducks out from under Merlin’s hand and tries to bat him away, but Merlin’s horrible hand holds fast to his shoulder. “I mean it, Merlin.”
“Come here,” says Merlin, and kisses him. His elbows slosh bathwater over the sides, but least Merlin is kissing him. Small mercies, and all.
“I want my lord again,” mutters Arthur when they part, and Merlin drags him closer to the edge.
“My lord,” he obliges, and kisses Arthur’s mouth. He says it again as he kisses Arthur’s cheek, his chin. “My sweetheart.”
Arthur makes a valiant attempt at drowning himself.
“Oh, bugger—” says Merlin, flailing about on the side of the bath. Arthur can’t properly hear him, because Arthur’s ears are underwater and he doesn’t plan on coming back up anytime soon, but Merlin unfortunately makes grabby hands at him. “God, you pillock,” he says, dragging Arthur up by the hair and swearing. “If you didn’t like it—”
He’s gone a bit red. Arthur feels bad, but not badly enough to admit to anything. He juts out his chin. Merlin squints at him. Arthur folds his arms and wishes he had clothes on.
“Arthur,” he says, and then he puts his hand on Arthur’s face and kisses the hot skin of his red cheeks, his jaw again. It’s positively awful. He has, blessedly, stopped talking, but still. Merlin slips one of his hands into the bath, twists Arthur around.
“What—” protests Arthur, and then it all becomes very clear. “Oh, alright.”
Merlin smirks. Arthur feels it against the side of his neck, and tips his head back to the ceiling, his back resting solidly against Merlin’s chest. “You know, you’re really not so bad,” he says, feeling charitable. “This is excellent service, truly.”
Merlin tugs very hard on something that ought not be tugged that hard on. “Be nice,” instructs Merlin, and then it’s all hands and slippery skin and Merlin’s mouth at his neck, the bath digging into Arthur’s shoulders and his own hands trying very hard to find purchase on something, anything, and everything is awful like it always is with Merlin, more so because Arthur always seems induced to say such terrible things.
“Good god,” gasps Arthur, fumbling around. “Merlin, Merlin—"
Merlin grins, kisses him. Arthur’s grand, he’s brilliant, he’s king of the sodding world, and then—
Someone— someone— knocks at the door. His door. To his chambers. When he is so clearly—
“I’m busy,” yells Arthur, but the knocking continues. He can’t distinguish a single ruddy thing they’re yelling at him, and he doesn’t much care, either. Merlin’s laughing at him because he’s horrible, and his hands are still doing things because he’s evil.
“Tell them to fuck off,” begs Arthur, and Merlin hooks his head over his shoulder.
“The king says—”
Arthur grabs at him, smothering his laughs with his hands and near pulling Merlin full into the bath again. Merlin takes advantage of the movement to disentangle himself, and Arthur has the extremely hilarious view of watching him scurry over to the door, the whole back of his shirt dripping in his wake. He opens the door about a foot, and a handful of words are exchanged.
“What did they want?” asks Arthur, upon Merlin’s return.
“No idea,” says Merlin. He pushes his wet fringe out of his face, grinning widely, and kneels behind Arthur again. His hand goes back under the water without fuss, his mouth kissing at Arthur’s ear, and it’s embarrassing, honestly, how quickly Arthur forgets about whatever it is that was so important.
“Merlin,” he says. “Merlin, god—”
“Sire,” says Merlin, wicked into his neck. “Idiot, foolish turniphead—”
These names are clearly worse than the niceties.
“Anything,” gasps Arthur, and threads his fingers in Merlin’s hair, twisting so he can kiss him. “Anything, anything—"
3.
“For God’s sake,” says Morgana, very loudly, on Monday. “Arthur, you don’t even know where he’s been.”
Arthur splutters. “Where— what? Who? I wasn’t— No, I was just— practicing. Kissing. With this tapestry, here.” He pats it firmly. “That’s all.”
Morgana blinks very, very slowly. “With Sir Ian the Third,” she says, and Arthur does a double-take at the tapestry adorning the alcove.
“Er— yeah.”
She turns and spins on her heel. Arthur, delighted at her having bought such a ridiculous lie, gives Sir Ian the Third a hefty shove. Merlin yelps.
“Ow!” he says, hopping around a bit behind it. His pale, gangly legs poke out at odd angles, and Arthur catches a glimpse of his unfairly becoming knee. There’s a red thumb-print pressed into it that Arthur will firmly deny knowing how it got there.
“Pull your trousers up,” he snaps. “Honestly, Merlin.”
Merlin emerges, flushed and pink, and Arthur pats his own hair down as best he can, thinking it’s probably best to be off before anyone else stumbles along. Why Merlin thought a tapestry was a decent enough hiding place is beyond him. He starts walking and waits for Merlin to catch up, which he does, though he looks so horrendously dishevelled that Arthur wishes he hadn’t.
“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge,” says Arthur, distastefully. Merlin tugs his scarf back into place and runs a hand through his hair.
“Sorry. I got in a fight with an octopus.”
“A who?”
“An octopus. You know, big squishy things. Likes to suck people’s brains out.”
Arthur chokes on his spit. “What the— Merlin.”
Merlin’s laughing. “Literally!” he says. “That’s what they do, honest.”
“I’ve never heard of an octopus.”
“You’ve never heard of a selkie. Ask Gaius.”
“Ask Gaius if he knows of a creature who likes to suck people’s brains out.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“That’s me.”
He bumps into Arthur’s side, and it should be illegal, really, the way warmth blossoms all throughout Arthur’s body. If only Arthur could prove Merlin was doing it with magic, then he might be alright, but as it is he’s fairly convinced it’s just a side effect of being in love. Which is terrible and awful and Arthur’s putting in a petition to make that illegal, too.
“Arthur,” says Merlin, and Arthur stops lamenting his inevitable descent into madness to realise that he’s walked right past the entrance to his chambers. “Are you alright?”
Arthur goes a bit pink. Merlin’s on a bit of a thing, with the whole naming business. No more sires and my lords for Arthur, oh no. Now it’s just Arthur constantly, and Arthur would think it was Merlin’s own little way of being the most annoying person on the planet (he knows Arthur likes it, they had a very embarrassing conversation about it), were it not for the subtle expression of delight that creeps into Merlin’s voice every time.
“Yes,” says Arthur, the fire that Morgana so thoroughly doused flickering back to light, having evidently caught something interesting in the air. Merlin must catch it too.
“Your room’s this way, sire,” he says, jerking his head, and Arthur forgets about training and knights and whatever insignificant thing he was meant to be doing before Merlin distracted him with Sir Ian the Third. There must be something in the word, thinks Arthur desperately. They must’ve configured the vowels like that on purpose, he’s sure of it. Merlin presses his lips together in an expression of great embarrassment. “God, Arthur, that’s horrible.”
“Shut up,” says Arthur. He takes a glance around the deserted corridor. “It’s not— it isn’t what it looks like.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows. Arthur grits his teeth.
“Look,” he says, in a tone of great restraint, “It’s you, alright? Anybody else, it wouldn’t—but it’s you, so.”
He folds his arms and inspects one of the stones to his left.
“I genuinely can’t tell if that’s a compliment,” says Merlin.
“Are you being wilfully obtuse?” demands Arthur, provoked enough into looking at him. His face feels very hot. “Of course it’s a compliment. What I mean is that it’s you, that it’s always been you, and even if we hadn’t— even if I hadn’t— it would still— always— be you, and it doesn’t matter what you call me, whether it’s Arthur or sire or dollophead, because I—”
“Well,” he says, faltering, and gestures pathetically with his hand. “You know.”
Merlin looks back at him. He swallows. Arthur twitches.
“Well?” he demands. “Am I going to have to stand here all day, or are you going to kiss me?”
Merlin steps aside, nodding at the door to Arthur’s room.
“After you, then,” he says. “Sire.”
“Good,” says Arthur, and then, much later, Merlin says:
“Would you really have stood around all day waiting for me to kiss you?”
“Definitely not,” grumbles Arthur, and proves the point by doing it himself.
4.
Merlin, let it be said, likes the forest. He and Arthur always manage to get up to some decent shenanigans, in the forest. He likes the trees and the freedom and the way the castle feels really far away, and he’s also in the mood right now to really appreciate this tree he’s been shoved against. He thinks it might be an oak.
“Absolute menace,” Arthur is saying, as he tugs on Merlin’s clothes. “Absolute— tart—”
“I’m not a tart,” says Merlin, though it comes out a little slurred. He’s coming to the unfortunate realisation that he really sort of might be, when it comes to Arthur. “You’re a tart. You want to get off in a forest.”
“You were born in a forest,” retorts Arthur, and shoves Merlin’s scarf up and over his head, the fabric getting caught in his mouth. Merlin splutters and accidentally flings it onto a nearby branch.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he complains, and starts pulling on Arthur’s jacket. “I— yeah, there— I’m not the one who invented a hunting trip—”
Arthur puts his stupid, horrible hands on Merlin’s hips, holding firm, and burrows into the crook of his neck. Merlin goes a little boneless. Arthur bites at him and Merlin drags the shirt up and over Arthur’s head, clawing at his pale back, and laments ever coming to Camelot. His mother would be so embarrassed.
“Are you complaining?” asks Arthur, git that he is. He’s gone all pink around the collar, and Merlin has a great view of it every time he can actually be bothered to look down rather than just loll about like a helpless maiden. The sky’s the exact same blue as Arthur’s eyes and it’s making him a bit misty.
“No,” says Merlin. “I just thought you’d be too good for such a thing. No featherbed.”
Arthur grins. “Honestly, Merlin, if it means I get to have at you without anyone bothering me about it, I’ll invent a hell of a lot.”
Merlin closes his eyes. “That’s romantic,” he says lightly, running a hand down Arthur’s sweaty back. “Did you come up with that yourself?”
Arthur twitches, and the press of his thigh between Merlin’s legs feels, somehow, like a scowl.
“No, really,” says Merlin. “You didn’t have somebody write it?”
“Merlin,” says Arthur, and pulls away. Merlin makes a noise he will later deny, and touches his fingertip to the red mark at the base of Arthur’s neck. “Do you want to be annoying, or do you want to have sex?”
Merlin scrunches up his face, thinking. On the one hand, he does really want to have sex. On the other, annoying Arthur is the gift that keeps on giving. Arthur watches his deliberation with something like disbelief on his face, and then he grabs Merlin’s face with his hands and kisses him filthy.
“I loathe you,” says Arthur, as they fall back onto the forest floor in a windmill of limbs. “You are the worst— most terrible— harpy—”
Merlin kisses him to shut him up, and it’s great, really, until the boar.
5.
Anyway, the point (thinks Merlin rather despondently) is that Arthur really is all that he was promised to be. He’s kind, he’s just, and he trusts in other people almost to a fault, except Merlin can’t even blame him for that one because Arthur only ever does it from a desire to do right by everyone. It’s too much for one man to bear, but Arthur does, and he’ll never save the whole world, but he’s having a damn good go of it.
“So?” says Arthur, as the council files out of their latest meeting. “High Priestess of Camelot, what do you say?”
Morgana presses her lips together, her hands shaking, and says: “I am so glad Merlin is bedding you.”
Arthur chokes.
“Morgana!” he says, scandalised, but the bright pink flush dancing over the bridge of his nose looks unfortunately pleased under the embarrassment. “Have some decorum!”
Morgana leans over and kisses his cheek, sincerity bursting through in every movement, and Arthur quietens under the touch of her hand. “Thank you,” she says, and then she meets Merlin’s eyes, too. “Merlin, thank you.”
Merlin shrugs. She sweeps out in a wash of purple, and Merlin scratches behind his ear and tries to pretend he didn’t seduce Arthur into changing the world. He’s almost ninety-eight percent sure that he didn’t.
Maybe eighty-two.
“Well,” says Arthur, shifting on his feet. He cuts a glance at Merlin, and Merlin has, by now, learnt Arthur in just about every way imaginable, so he knows what it means. He was already rather good at it even before the sleeping together thing happened, and with the addition of it he simply has even more ways to get that red flush across the bridge of Arthur’s nose. He holds his face blank.
“Don’t worry,” he says, looking over. “I’m glad I’m bedding you, too.”
Arthur laughs, bright and delighted, this ridiculous honk that throws his entire head back. He looks suddenly young, more like the boy he was when they first met, and he throws his arm around Merlin’s shoulders in an obvious fit of sentimentality, swinging them back and forth like they’re dancing. It’s so ridiculous that Merlin falls in love all over again, not that he’d ever admit it.
Arthur leans his head onto Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin laughs, bringing his arms up to hug him.
“God, you’re smug,” he says, and Arthur kisses his shoulder in response, peppers them all up Merlin’s neck between his words, his hands rubbing circles into Merlin’s back.
“I have every right to be,” he says. “I united Albion, Merlin, I’m the— what was it? The big poncy title with all the capitals.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Arthur grins, and maybe Merlin feels a little smug, too, because it seems like the easiest thing in the world to kiss him, even if his smile is too wide to do it properly. Arthur’s hands are carving out delicious new pathways down Merlin’s body and it’s ridiculous and stupid and Merlin doesn’t even like him that much besides.
“Help me celebrate,” murmurs Arthur, and Merlin leans weakly against his chest, feeling somewhat drunk. He settles his shaky hands on Arthur’s shoulders.
“This is it, right?” he says, as Arthur kisses his jaw. “They can’t, I don’t know, change their minds?”
Arthur pulls away just enough to look him in the face, thumbing at Merlin’s cheeks.
“It’s my word, Merlin,” he says, full of promise. Merlin has an almost unbearable amount of faith in him. “There’s no take-backs.”
“Okay,” says Merlin, and closes his eyes when Arthur kisses him. It’s soft, it’s lovely, and Merlin knows he’s the most powerful sorcerer in the world, and all, but that doesn’t mean Arthur can’t still bring him to his knees.
“Sit,” says Arthur, nudging him back, and Merlin really does feel a little lightheaded, so he does as he’s told, collapsing into the wooden chair. Arthur kneels before him and kisses his way down Merlin’s throat, and Merlin does his best to reciprocate, winding his hand in Arthur’s hair but mostly thinking that he did it, and it’s over, and now he just gets to live.
“Up,” says Arthur, tapping his hips, and Merlin obeys. His trousers are pulled down to pool around his ankles, cold hair making the hairs on his legs prickle. Arthur puts his hot hands on Merlin’s thighs and Merlin shudders.
“I should—”
“Shut up, Merlin,” interrupts Arthur, and Merlin tips his head back. “This is your achievement, too.”
And it’s not fair, really, that Arthur can just say things like that, even if they’re true. It’s not fair that he can be kind and fair and just and trust in Merlin to this degree, it’s not fair that he can be a total bastard and the best man Merlin knows. Merlin loves him so much it’s stupid.
He strokes the soft hairs on Arthur’s head, something horrible and wet collecting in the corners of his eyes, the product of half a decade’s tension suddenly released. Terrible, horrible man, Arthur is. God’s gift to the world.
“Arthur,” he says, and Arthur hums, his grip firm around Merlin’s leg, his fingers pressing into the back of Merlin’s knee. Merlin’s going to open his eyes, he decides. He’s going to open his eyes, and he’s going to look at Arthur, and even though it will all be dreadful and embarrassing, at least Arthur will know. He deserves to know.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, and he’s going to say it, he is, he’s almost definitely going to, look, he’s even opening his mouth—
The door clicks.
Of course, thinks Merlin, slightly delirious. Of bloody course.
“Oh,” says a voice he doesn’t recognise, and Merlin experiences the horrendous sensation of going flush hot with embarrassment and also suddenly cold at Arthur’s withdrawal. He decides not to open his eyes; he’s not the king, they can’t make him. “I, er. Sorry, my lord.”
“Quite alright,” says Arthur, with quite a bit of decorum considering the circumstances. “Um. Get out?”
“Right. Of course, sire.”
The door clicks again. It’s amazing, what the sound of a latch will do.
Arthur bursts into laughter.
“Good god,” he says, pressing his head against Merlin’s thigh and shaking so hard that the chair rattles underneath him. Merlin blinks his eyes open and understands immediately, of course: Arthur’s sat him down in the throne.
“Oh dear,” says Merlin, and Arthur laughs even harder. He tilts his head up, his eyes shining, and Merlin strokes his thumb back and forth along the golden hairs of his head and bites his lip, not quite able to pretend to be displeased. “Cat’s out, then?”
“As if it already wasn’t.”
Which, alright, fair. They’re not very good at secrets.
“Still,” says Merlin, and Arthur sighs, a fond little sound that tickles Merlin’s bare knee.
“Merlin,” he says. “The entire kingdom knows you have my ear. They won’t be surprised at you having the rest of me.”
Merlin slips his hand down to Arthur’s cheek, thumbing at his eye. Arthur turns his head into Merlin’s palm to kiss it, which is obviously awful. Merlin’s blushing from the awfulness, definitely.
“I think you were having me,” he says, to be contrary.
“And I’m attempting to get back to it. You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry, sire.”
“That’s better.” Arthur grins at him, stupid pointy teeth sparkling, and Merlin tips his head back against the throne. “It suits you.”
“Hm?”
“Sitting there,” says Arthur, and Merlin looks at him again. Something sings low and ancient in his chest, and the thought that springs into his head is so arrogant that it must have once belonged to Arthur, but he’s sure no one could ever possibly have loved someone quite so much as Merlin does him.
“Flatterer,” he says, low.
“On occasion.”
Arthur smiles, and traces a circle round Merlin’s bare ankle.
“What if someone else comes in?”
“Who is possibly going to come in after that? I wouldn’t be surprised if Cedric’s standing guard.”
“Eurgh,” says Merlin, scrunching up his face. “Can they hear—”
“That door is very solid,” says Arthur. Merlin narrows his eyes. “It is! Do some,” he wiggles his fingers, “if you’re so worried.”
“Magic,” says Merlin, and has that sudden lump back in his throat. “It’s legal, now. You can say it.”
Arthur goes all hazy, and threads his fingers through Merlin’s. “Do some magic, then.”
He bites his lip, shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, a bit too wet. “I trust you.”
Arthur beams. Merlin gestures at his lap. “Go on, then.”
“Oh, yes sire,” teases Arthur, which is absolutely horrid, but then Merlin forgets to mind very much, courtesy of Arthur’s mouth again.
“You can’t win every argument like this,” says Merlin later, with the very few wits he has left.
Grimly, Arthur says: “I can try.”
Merlin tugs on his hair. “Pillock.”
Arthur grins again. He does that all the time now, and it’s bright as the summer sun, the twat. He pats Merlin’s ankle, one elbow now propped up on the throne as he gazes up at Merlin, and Merlin squirms under the attention. “Me too,” he says, very seriously. Merlin swallows. Arthur’s hair is so fine between his fingers.
“Yeah,” breathes Merlin, and Arthur kisses his knee. Merlin decides that Arthur probably deserves a little more than this, for once, and tacks on: “Love you.”
Arthur goes rather still. Merlin watches the tips of his ears turn red.
“Well,” he says, skin hot under Merlin’s hand. He clears his throat. “Good.”
“Yep.”
“I,” says Arthur. “Merlin, I—"
“It’s alright,” says Merlin instantly. “Honestly, don’t—”
“I do,” says Arthur. “God, Merlin. How could I not?”
Merlin flushes. “Well— I mean, I have it on authority that I’m very irritating.”
“Undoubtedly,” agrees Arthur, “and yet—”
“Yeah,” finishes Merlin, unsteadily. Arthur clears his throat. A little line appears inbetween his brow, thoughtful.
“Is it hard for you?” he asks, in a very particular kind of voice. “This, I mean.”
“No,” says Merlin, and the frown deepens. Worry takes up in Merlin’s throat, and he tucks a bit of hair behind Arthur’s ear, hoping he won’t notice. Then he realises that that might be the problem, and forces himself to say: “Of course not. Loving you’s not difficult, Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t look at him.
“And?”
“Hm?”
“You’re meant to say loving me’s not difficult, either.”
“Oh,” says Arthur, deliberately casual. “Well, you know. You are very irritating.”
Merlin huffs. “Right.”
“Don’t feel bad. I’d say it’s about as difficult as hitting a bullseye at, hm, eighteen feet? Maybe twenty. Depending on the weather.”
The grin unfurls on Merlin’s face before it really goes in, his stupid idiot of a prince. “Ah,” he says. “So quite easy, then.”
Arthur shrugs. Merlin strokes the hair at his neck again.
“Didn’t we meet while you were throwing knives?” he asks idly, and that darling flush overtakes Arthur’s face again, pink as roses.
“Fuck off, Merlin,” he says.
Merlin snickers.
1
“Alright, what?” demands Arthur, when Merlin’s squirming starts to turn into the restless sort rather than the oh god Arthur you’re so incredible and your head’s actually a totally normal size sort of squirming. Merlin peeks open one eye, and crosses his fingers that Arthur can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just, there’s normally, you know, interruptions, at this point.”
“Interruptions,” repeats Arthur.
“Yeah.”
Arthur purses his lips. Merlin shrugs.
“I’m just waiting!” he says. “I don’t want to scar anyone!”
“If you want to stop—”
“I don’t want to stop! Obviously I don’t want to stop!” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, Arthur’s posh mattress sinking under his weight. “I just, y’know. I’m not used to, er. Having you. To myself.”
Something not unlike understanding slinks onto Arthur’s face.
“I see,” he says, and sits back on his heels atop Merlin. “And— if you did have me to yourself. What might that entail?”
“Well, you know,” says Merlin, flushing a bit and waving his hands about. “Hands and… mouths… and… such.”
“Right,” says Arthur. “Lock the door, Merlin.”
“Arthur?”
“The door. Go on.”
He starts to get up, is stopped by a hand to his chest. “Not from there. From here.”
“Um,” says Merlin. “It’s just that I thought we weren’t talking about it?”
“Good god,” says Arthur. “You unite a kingdom for somebody and he thinks you’re just friends. Yes, Merlin, it’s fine, use the damn magic, already.”
Merlin stares up at him. Arthur frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” he squeaks. “Nothing, just— I mean, I know we talked about it, I know it’s fine, it’s just, you know, first time for everything, and I don’t— I mean— maybe if you close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Well.” Merlin flushes. “There’s a… thing. Apparently.”
“A thing,” repeats Arthur. “What, do you gain an extra head? Turn green? Sprout horns?”
“No. But the— you know. The eye thing.”
“Oh,” says Arthur. “You mean the glowing.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur says, very casually, “I don’t mind.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Go on.”
“Well, alright,” says Merlin, and balls his shaking hands. He doesn’t have to say anything at all for this one, but it takes some effort to keep his eyes open, so he focuses on the jut of Arthur’s chin instead. “Well?”
Arthur’s brow twitches, and Merlin’s heart is pounding, and then Arthur does something unprecedented, and puts his hand on Merlin’s face.
“Okay,” Merlin says, and Arthur smiles. He kisses him very softly, which is terrible, and Merlin is pretty sure that everybody who ever said anything nice about love has been lying, because this feels horrific.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin squeaks again. “I love you.”
“Oh,” says Merlin. “Um, alright.”
Arthur’s stroking his thumb along Merlin’s cheekbone. Why is he doing that?
“And I don’t mean somewhat, and I don’t mean love might be a strong word. I just— love you. Sort of awfully, in fact.”
He clears his throat.
“Oh,” Merlin says.
“Yes, well. That’s that. Anyone for a hunt?”
“Arthur,” says Merlin, with fluttery hands. “I, er. You know. The same.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s good.”
“Excellent. Should we—?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Merlin, and pulls him back down, winding his hands in the fabric of his tunic. Arthur kisses him, and for a long moment nothing moves but for their mouths, with the exception of various trembling fingers. Arthur tips their foreheads together.
“What did you do to me?” he asks at length, and Merlin huffs.
“Same as you to me, probably," he says, sliding his hands around Arthur’s waist. "It's horrible, isn’t it?”
“The worst,” agrees Arthur. “Want to do it some more?”
Merlin grins, and sticks his hands under Arthur’s shirt. He’s alright, really, when you get to know him.
“Whatever you say, sire,” Merlin says, and Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes and pressing a kiss to Merlin’s jaw. His weight against Merlin’s chest is heavy, but Merlin doesn’t mind.
“Tart,” he accuses.
“Clotpole.”
“Fuck,” gasps Arthur, and Merlin laughs until the sun sets.