Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Are they here yet?” Arthur asks from his table for the tenth time, gritting his teeth when Merlin just lounges casually against the window in his court sorcerer’s robes, rolling his eyes deliberately where Arthur can see him doing so. “Merlin!”

“You’ve been fretting the entire day, Arthur,” Merlin sighs, massaging his temples as if he’s the one who’ll have to deal with a delegate from an extremely powerful druid clan. “The sun’s high in the sky yet, and the druids mentioned they’ll be here by early evening.”

Arthur’s used to delegations and diplomacy, but it’s his first brush with a situation like this that involves magic. He’s since repealed the ban on the practice of it and has had Merlin installed in his court as advisor for years now, but they’re — the entire kingdom, really — is lost at this metaphorical sea when it comes to navigating what passes for respectable behaviour after years of outright hostility.

With all this at stake, Arthur thinks he’s entitled to feel just a little bit nervous, and tells Merlin so.

Merlin snorts, because he is a terrible advisor who can’t empathise with the woes of his king and gets way too much amusement out of seeing Arthur fret. “It’ll be fine. You’re thinking too much about this.” He pauses and folds his arms, looking at Arthur with a quirked eyebrow. “I thought you said I was the worrywart between the two of us.”

“I don’t recall being the person who sneakily went around asking the castle seamstresses if they could make extra thick blankets this winter for the horses in the stables. Even though they’re perfectly warm because, you know, Merlin, some of us aren’t heartless people.”

“Excuse you,” Merlin says with some faked outrage, “I’ve been in there and it’s frozen my toes off!”

He sticks out a foot, presumably wiggling his toes for emphasis, not like Arthur can see anything under the thick black leather of his boot.

“Yes, such suffering what with the delicate dispositions of warlocks, I don’t know how you manage,” he says, dry, resting his cheek on the palm of one hand as he shakes his head at Merlin. “Couldn’t you have just spelled yourself warm? Useless sorcerer.”

Arthur winces as Merlin takes a deep breath, inflating his thin chest the way he always does when he’s about to launch in a tirade. And he does. “I’ll have you know that magic is a precious and sacred resource,” Merlin says, obviously injecting as much self-righteousness as humanly possible into what sounds like a rehearsed sentence, “to be exercised judiciously for the good of Camelot, and is not to be used for such trivial matters.” It’s Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes, because, really. 

He just continues to look skeptical, so Merlin eventually adds, “And it tires me out, you prat, have a heart,” with considerably less enthusiasm.

“So...” Arthur says slowly, tapping his fingers on his table. “You considered using magic to cheat your way through our first fight in the market a judicious use of your precious and sacred resource?”

“Good grief, it has been eight bloody years, won’t you leave that alone?”

“No,” Arthur says, enjoying himself, because now Merlin’s pouting. It’s hilarious. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Merlin huffs. “Fine. Next time I’ll just spell your fire to keep going out by accident when it’s cold.”

“You wouldn’t.” Arthur looks at Merlin’s smug expression, and narrows his eyes. “...would you? Are you actually twelve?”

Laughing, Merlin walks over to Arthur’s table and sits on the edge of it, loose sleeve spilling over the edge of the table and his fingers narrowly brushing Arthur’s as he smirks at him. Arthur keeps his eyes on Merlin, ignoring the small, peculiar jolt of heat rushing through him that he can’t quite place.

“Or maybe I won’t do that,” Merlin says, oblivious to Arthur’s brief moment of confusion. “I’ll find a crafty little way to mess around with you, Arthur, just you wait.”

“Careful no one overhears you, or they’ll think you’re after my throne,” Arthur teases,  trying for a stern expression befitting a monarch that in some other universe could keep a mouthy useless manservant turned useless sorcerer in check. Merlin continues to beam at him, unfazed. 

“Wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.” Merlin shrugs. “I’d get so bored, just sitting around being a prat ordering people about and looking pretty.”

“But you are very pretty, Merlin,” He sits back in his chair, smiling, only half-joking. Arthur does think Merlin is lovely, but from the way Merlin flushes and sputters in indignation, he knows it’s taken for the playful mockery he’d intended Merlin to see. It’s nothing major, or so he tells himself: Arthur likes it when Merlin smiles at the smallest things, admires his keeping everyone’s spirits up during a particularly brutal campaign even when he’s half-dead on his feet. Above all, he treasures the moments when Merlin laughs, completely free of his burdens in his new role and without the dark shadows framing his eyes, when he’s himself again in Arthur’s chambers like the impudent boy he’d once been when he first came to Camelot. 

His thoughts have been lingering on Merlin more than usual these last few months, when Arthur catches himself wondering where Merlin is during the oddest hours of the day or seeking out sweeping robes of ostentatious red and gold in the corridors (he’d foisted them on Merlin as one of the non-negotiable aspects of his appointment, grinning like a loon the entire time as Merlin’s jaw had dropped). It’s... not unwelcome, if a little distracting.

Even if he’s seeing Merlin in an entirely new light now, they will always be friends. Arthur won’t let himself entertain the notion of anything else. His meanderings are but a passing fancy, nothing more — Merlin will never look at him that way.

“Cat got your tongue?” He says casually, when Merlin just throws his hands up as if giving up on Arthur. 

“No,” Merlin says, glaring. “You are such an ass.”

“You can’t take a compliment,” Arthur counters.

Merlin sticks out his tongue. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m going to go and check on food preparations for the druids, see if everything’s in order. Do you still need me?”

Always, Arthur doesn’t say. Instead, he sighs, linking his fingers in front of him. “No, go do what you need to do. I’ll be fine.” And he is, because even if they’d not discussed anything terribly weighty, there’s something about Merlin that grounds him. Calms him.

Arthur’s really got to stop letting his thoughts wander like that.

Nodding, Merlin makes to leave, but stops with one hand on the edge of the door as he peeks back in, eyebrows furrowed and his expression fond. “Are you sure? You can be so hopeless.”

“Look who’s talking,” Arthur says, incredulous, and Merlin does close the door this time, his laughter as he walks down the corridor audible even with it shut.

The beams of light in his room are lower now, catching at the corners; the druids will be arriving in a matter of hours. At least he won’t be thinking about Merlin tonight.

Arthur’s wrong.

When Merlin stands up and bows to the druids, fumbling through his official greetings in the old language, they bow even more deeply to him and call him Emrys, in a collective voice of whispers and wonder.

The leader, Élan, remains standing while his companions sit. He has a pleasant diplomat’s face, with a build that seems closer to a knight than any of the druids Arthur has seen before; solid shoulders and a broad frame clothed in understated shades of gray and green. “Emrys,” he rumbles, in a rich, dark voice. “If we may – we ask for the honour to behold your magic. That of which is eternal and unending.”

“Um,” Merlin begins, leaning over to Arthur, his face pale.

Arthur just nudges at him, speaking out of the corner of his mouth so as to not attract attention the way he’s perfected with Morgana in his youth. The memory of his half-sister pains him like a dull blade in his chest. “A display, I believe,” he murmurs. 

“Ah.” Nodding, Merlin stands again, lips pursed and hands clasped tightly behind him. Formality is an ill-worn cloak on someone like Merlin, who’s so used to speaking without a thought for ripples and consequences, even if he looks the part with the heavy chains around his neck and the billowing robes. But that’s why he has Arthur to support him. “Very well. It will be my pleasure to, if you’ll have me.”

Merlin hesitates, looking at Arthur as if asking for permission. Surprised, Arthur just blinks at him for a breathless moment before he nods.

Smiling, Merlin turns back to his guests, waving a hand and putting out all the candles in the room save the one in front of Arthur to muffled gasps around the tables.

Sometimes, when they’re back in Camelot and not on the battlefield where he is witness to the unbelievable power that Merlin commands over the elements, Arthur forgets. He forgets the spellbinding draw of Merlin’s magic; the many other things it’s capable of other than the total annihilation of Camelot’s foes and mending bones and bloodied limbs; the playfulness of it, how Merlin weaves his spells together like the most enchanting siren’s song.

The dragons of light and golden fire circle the hall, swooping this way and that over scandalised but secretly awed nobles and gaping servants, dipping and showing off in front of the druids who regard the magical creatures and Merlin with mysterious, approving smiles. 

When the wings unfurl and the biggest of them breathes fire towards the ceiling in the middle of the room, it occurs to Arthur suddenly that he’s looking at a living, breathing version of his standard – a golden dragon hissing and roaring in the midst of the dancing red flames.

It moves Arthur. It’s such a damnably simple gesture of loyalty, of declaring Merlin’s sworn allegiance, of the standard he fights for and serves, but it’s really so much more. His fierce dedication to Arthur – no, that’s wishful thinking, to Camelot – is evident in every wingbeat of the regal creature, in every thunderclap of Merlin’s orders in the language of the Dragonlords. Merlin’s laughing, flushed and grinning, looking more like an excited child than the most powerful sorcerer in Albion, the flames casting a warm light on his features.

Arthur forgets how much seeing Merlin like this takes his breath away.

As he directs the dragons to fly around the hall one last time, Merlin brings his hands together to disperse them in a bright flash of light. When the dazzling white behind his eyes fades, the hall’s candles are lit up again, as quickly as Merlin had put them out. 

Merlin bows as the druids begin to applaud him, with everyone else joining in shortly after. His ears are pink from embarrassment, and Arthur has to fight his old childish urge to tug at them until Merlin swats at him. Merlin nearly trips over the edges of his robes when he makes to hastily sit down, proving that no matter how powerful you become over the years and how many people you impress with magical dragons, some things never change.

“Was I all right?” He asks breathlessly.

Arthur’s answer is to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing tightly before pulling away. “Yes.” And then, because he can, Arthur adds, “Worrywart.”

The scowl that Merlin shoots at him is worth it.

“And now,” Arthur says, two firm words silencing the enthusiastic din of the crowd, “we feast!” He waves a hand, and then the platters of roast and freshly baked bread are served, set before everyone with smaller bowls of grapes and ham and honeycomb. The harvest has been kind to Camelot, and as a host, Arthur’s never been one to shy from sharing the bounties of nature with guests under his roof.

When he’s raising his second goblet of wine to his lips and ignoring Merlin’s raised eyebrow at his drinking so much so soon, a prickling at the back of his neck makes Arthur somehow instinctively glance at where the druids are seated.

A young druid next to Élan is watching him with sharp, thoughtful eyes, tattoos curling from his neck down to the skin under his loose clothing, ending in runes just above his wrists. When he sees that Arthur’s noticed him, he raises his own goblet, all cheek and white teeth.

Arthur can’t help but smile back even under the intense scrutiny, so he just tilts his goblet in a wordless gesture of acknowledgment and sets it down, wondering what that was all about.

Later on in the evening, Merlin gets spectacularly drunk. For all his nagging at Arthur when he shoves Merlin aside to get another servant to get him more wine, Merlin downs twice the amount Arthur’s had in about half the time as the druids come around the table to talk to him, laughing and making merry as they speak to him of cryptic things like destiny and the great coming of Albion’s age. It’s all too much to take in.

Guinevere comes by with a swoosh of lilac skirts, pointedly confiscating Merlin’s glass and glaring at Arthur as if it it’s his fault Merlin’s hiccuping in his seat. She’s worked her way up in the castle after Morgana’s departure, and now all the castle’s maids answer to her. “Don’t give him any more wine, your Majesty, for heaven’s sake.”

“I didn’t ply him with it,” Arthur protests weakly, but Guinevere just tuts at him and strides away, giving gentle orders to the other maids to take away the now-messy silver platters and serve some berries and cream for dessert.

“Arthurrrrr,” Merlin slurs, leaning against him, and Arthur has to suppress a sigh as the druids watch Merlin with interest. He’s not so worried anymore because they’re still respectful of Merlin even while he’s half-asleep and mumbling, but it’s still not becoming of a court sorcerer to use his king as a bolster of sorts while the guests are still very much present. Not that Arthur’s complaining from a non-diplomatic standpoint, mind.

He makes some kind of all-encompassing gesture at Merlin’s entire being. “I apologise. He doesn’t handle his liquor very well, which makes him a bit of a disaster at feasts. Lamentable intolerance for fine wine aside, Merlin is not just my court sorcerer, but also one of Albion’s finest warlocks. I am honoured that he is willing to work with me to defend Camelot and Albion, and that you are here with us in Albion’s best interests.”

Élan nods. “Of course. We are glad to be Camelot’s allies in such trying times, and will gladly pledge our fealty to you.” He glances at Merlin, looking contemplative and sad. “Emrys has been through some difficult times, King Arthur. And he will experience many such difficulties again in the future, although he will now have you at his side.”

“He will,” Arthur says, sharper than he intended, gritting his teeth as he thinks of all the years of secrets and half-truths, of Merlin's struggles to protect Arthur and his kingdom single-handedly, facing enemies and plagues and curses like the reckless, well-meaning fool he was. It had taken a long time for Arthur to forgive Merlin even as Merlin's guilt consumed them both, but he's sure of one thing now: he will never let Merlin face threats like that alone ever again. Not if he can help it.

“It is good to hear that, your majesty.” Élan steps aside, revealing the young man from earlier, who looks even skinnier and cheekier up close. He rather reminds Arthur of a younger, mousy-haired Merlin, except for all the tattoos everywhere. “We are humbled by your gifts to us; your sheafs of golden wheat in silks of red and emerald. Thank you. Please – we ask that you accept a gift from us in return.”

Arthur’s mind races as he keeps his expression politely blank. Oh, dear God. They’re not offering the young man as a pleasure slave, surely? No, no, that would be preposterous, and Merlin would never let him hear the end of it if he agrees to this. “That is very generous of you,” he says automatically, years of good breeding and default diplomatic answers entrenched in him from a young age coming to his aid. “May I inquire as to the nature of this gift?” Anything’s better than a pleasure slave at this point, but Arthur still has to ask out of courtesy and carefulness.

“This is Paden,” Élan says, oblivious to Arthur’s inner turmoil, placing a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder. He can’t be more than eighteen. Twenty, at most. “He’s recently finished his apprenticeship with the rune master of our clan.”

“Yes, sire,” Paden says, bowing slightly before raising his chin high to look Arthur in the eye. Arthur almost laughs; he really does remind Arthur of Merlin.

“Our customs bid us gift you a runic tattoo.” Drawing up one of his long sleeves, Élan reveals intricate dark lines woven together that seem to glow slightly when he murmurs a spell. “As druids, the way we live does not allow us to accumulate gold or riches the likes abundant in your castle. We bestow our allies with a protective rune of their choice, as a sign of our highest esteem and goodwill to defend them in dire times of blood and battle.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, stunned at the enormity of what Élan is offering. Forget gold or riches, powerful magical protection is worth so much more than the weight of his castle in gold if it can prevent a fatal strike through layers of mail or an arrow piercing through a heart. “This is... the rune will be permanent?”

“Yes, although the protection can wear off after it fulfills its intended purposes after a few times the rune’s magic is invoked,” Paden says, smiling, a hand on his belt where Arthur can see now has several brushes strapped to it — that relieves Arthur somehow, as he was expecting some severe-looking needles. As if considering Arthur, Paden tilts his head. “I will present designs of our runes to you on the morrow, if it please you, your majesty.”

There’s absolutely no way to say no to a diplomatic gift as sacred and momentous as this without it being taken as a great insult, and besides, Arthur is intrigued. “Very well. I will also consult Merlin first on the runes —” 

Merlin chooses that very moment to snore next to him, and Paden’s lips twitch. 

“—and,” Arthur ploughs on, making a mental note to smack Merlin about the head for this transgression later, “we will make a decision in the morning. Now, as the night is growing ever shorter, I’m afraid I must take my leave and bid you good night.” He needs to get Merlin to bed as well, though it’s probably too much trouble to haul him back to his new court sorcerer’s chambers on the other side of the castle tonight. It’s probably easier if he just supports him back to his own chambers. “Thank you again for gracing us with your presence this evening, and we will resume negotiations tomorrow.”

“The pleasure is ours, King Arthur Pendragon,” Élan says, turning to the other druids behind him. “Come. Let us head to our rooms.”

“I can’t believe you said I was useless,” Arthur hisses at Merlin when he lifts one dead arm over his shoulder, stepping away from the table with Merlin’s weight on him with some effort. 

“M’sorry,” Merlin mumbles, chuckling. “But you take such good care of me.”

Arthur looks around and sees how his knights have, quite literally, drunk each other under the table. Gwaine’s holding up, but only just, already swaying on his feet. “Everyone else is just completely soused. It’s not like I have a choice, since no one’s going to be able to help me get you to bed.”

Paden stops mid-walk behind Élan, turning around to look at Arthur incredulously. Arthur feels his face flushing as he snaps his mouth shut, registering how that might’ve sounded to someone else. It’s the damned wine, he’s sure of it.

Merlin doesn’t help when he says, “You don’t have to try so hard with me,” while closing his eyes and laughing softly. “You just have to ask.”

“You are so drunk.” Arthur flashes what must be the most awkward smile in existence Paden’s way, making his speedy escape before Merlin can make any more accidentally damning statements. The worst part, of course, is how nothingis actually happening between them, no matter how much Arthur wishes that weren’t the case.

He staggers a little through the doors and down the corridor, trying to keep his balance with Merlin hanging off him like that. “Also heavier than you look.”

“I’ll have you know I’m manlier than I look.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The steps are agonising when he has to lug a boneless sorcerer up two damned flights and then some; by the time he reaches the familiar turning to his chambers, Arthur has to stop a few steps away from the door and catch his breath, Merlin slumping against him and laughing for no apparent reason.

“Oh, get off me,” Arthur grumbles, exhausted, digging his fingers into the scruff of Merlin’s neck as if to pull him away. The wall’s painful against his back, rough edges scraping against his skin through his shirt. “I want to sleep.”

“Nah.” Turning his face into Arthur’s neck, Merlin lets his hands fall to his sides before he links them around Arthur’s waist loosely, pressing closer to him. 

For one long, wild moment, Arthur forgets how to breathe. 

“You’re warm,” Merlin says with a sigh. “It’s nice.”

Arthur comes to his senses, shoving Merlin off him with what he hopes passes as joviality even while his heart’s beating wildly in his chest. It drives him mad how infuriating and endearing Merlin is at turns, with his teasing sarcasm and the moments he lets slip how much he actually does care about Arthur. Or thinks that Arthur is warm and nice. Things like that, anyway, and it’s saying something how it just makes him want to kiss Merlin for all that and then tussle him into a headlock for being such a contrary little shit. “Right. Let’s get you all tucked in then so you can be remotely functional in the morning.”

“Yes, mother,” Merlin says, hanging his head and letting Arthur manhandle him to the antechamber. Arthur’s actual and very much more competent manservant has left Camelot to visit his family for a spell, so there’s a small but comfortable palette with a thick blanket for Merlin to fall face-first on when Arthur lets go of him.

Merlin rolls to his side, face still partially hidden in the sheets when he mumbles, “Petyr?”

“Away, so you can have his bed for tonight. Now sleep, Merlin, you look terrible.”

“I didn’t drink that much,” Merlin says, the way he buries his head further under a pillow to slink away from the candle Arthur’s lit saying otherwise.

Shaking his head fondly, Arthur tugs the blanket over him, smoothing Merlin’s fringe back from his sweaty brow and pulling away. “Keep telling yourself that. Good night.”

Merlin smiles, his already half-lidded eyes closing a little more by the second. “Thank you.”

Seconds pass, and then the small room’s filled with the sound of Merlin’s gentle snoring. “You’re welcome,” Arthur says, blowing at the candle flame until it flickers out, setting it aside so that he, too, can get some rest to prepare for the new day that awaits them.

“I drank too much last night,” Merlin announces, slamming the door open to Arthur’s room and making way too much of a ruckus before the sun’s fully up.

“Congratulations, I’m happy for you. Now get out.” Who even says something like that instead of good morning, anyway?It’s Arthur’s turn to hide under the covers, groaning when Merlin cruelly yanks the drapes open to let sunlight stream in. “Merlin, must you? You’ve not tortured me in this capacity for two years. I miss Petyr already.”

“No, you don’t!” comes the cheerful reply. Arthur’s never understood why, but Merlin harbours an insistent dislike towards his hapless, wide-eyed manservant. Far be it from him to probe and investigate the inner workings of Merlin’s strange and colourful mind. “I bumped into Paden earlier on my way back from the kitchens, and he said he’s prepared a list of runes for you to choose from for your gift. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were there,” Arthur mutters, shielding his eyes and cursing Merlin when the covers are yanked off him and he’s pulled out of the bed anyway despite his protestations. “Drunk and completely out of it. And why are you doing my manservant’s job?”

“Indulge me, I don’t get many opportunities to have my own back whenever you make fun of me at council meetings.” He sits Arthur down in front of the table before walking over to the wardrobe, arms on his hips as he ponders the royal finery. “What would you like to wear today?”

“You’re my manservant for today, you’re supposed to decide for me,” Arthur says, tucking in and biting into a hard-boiled egg. “Whatever, something red.”

“You always wear red,” Merlin admonishes him, swinging around to hand him a blue tunic instead because, again, he’s a contrary little shit. Arthur loves him a little for it; his complete lack of self-preservation when it comes to the women and men he’s ever been infatuated with will be his undoing, because Merlin’s the trickiest one yet. “So tell me about the runes.”

Arthur sighs, and gestures for Merlin to sit down while he slips his hands and arms inside his shirt, letting it fall over his shoulders, feeling oddly self-conscious all of a sudden. It’s the first time Merlin’s seen him without a tunic on since he’d began having this strange fascination with Merlin, and he wonders absently if Merlin finds him as compelling as he does Merlin. “Well, he’s told you about it. I was thinking of something for poisons, or battle... I’d prefer the latter, a more active protection when I’m fighting. I’ve never had a rune on me before, so I look to your counsel on this matter.”

Merlin blushes. He always does when Arthur says something all formal-like with the best kingly expression he can muster. While he does mean it because his respect for Merlin has only grown by leaps and bounds after all they’ve been through together for the kingdom, there’s a part of him that enjoys flustering Merlin. “Ah. Right, um. It’s nothing much, really, Arthur. They’ll ink you with some needles—”

“I thought he was going to use brushes!” Arthur exclaims.

“Oh, I asked him about that. Paden’s also a painter of the clan, so he carries brushes with him wherever he goes to document events with scrolls and paint,” Merlin says, grinning at Arthur’s discomfort. “Don’t worry, sire, it’ll be over before you know it. We’ll see if we can’t get you a smaller one so you don’t have to go through a very long process...”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“You tease me all the time!”

“That’s because I’m the king, Merlin, and you are not. So do you agree with a defensive rune?”

“Absolutely.” Merlin bites into a soft roll of bread, crumbs falling on the table as he mulls and munches messily. Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes and wipe the crumbs off Merlin’s mouth with a thumb at the same time. “It’s a gift of high regard. They hold you in equally high esteem.”

Warmth blooms in his chest. “I rather think it’s you they hold in high esteem, Merlin. The great Emrys.”

“Me? Ha, I’m just a warlock. To the ruler who will one day unite these vast lands of Albion. Or did you not hear them prophesying your great age of glory and peace?” 

Merlin gets his face squashed into his bun as Arthur ruffles his hair and pushes his head down a little. “Give yourself more credit.”

“Hard to do that when you’re manhandling me. Brute,” Merlin mock-grumbles, turning away and licking some honeycomb off his fingers. Arthur just smiles, because Merlin’s ears have gone red.

“Would you like to join me?” He asks, because it would be nice to have some company while they’re doing unspeakable things to his skin with pointy bits, and Merlin’s inane chatter will probably distract him.

As expected, Merlin snorts. “Need me to hold your hand throughout, sire?”

Well, he’s going to take that as an invitation. “Why not?” Arthur says, sitting back, enjoying the way Merlin’s mouth opens and closes like a fish’s. “It could be nice.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Arthur?” Merlin says, staring, then narrowing his eyes. “You’re really enjoying messing with me, aren’t you?”

Arthur hums. It’s miraculous how Merlin’s skepticism just works so flawlessly in Arthur’s favour — at this rate, his fixation on Merlin will fade off soon enough and Merlin will have been none the wiser as to the fact it ever existed. “But you overreact in all the best ways.”

“Ass,” Merlin says with no bite to it, before taking a swig of water. “I should like to see how they create their runic tattoos, though. Paden has requested a large room in the castle where he can lay out his things, so I told Gwen to get some servants to help prepare a space for him. The North Tower.” 

The chair creaks when Arthur stands up, putting his jacket on and smoothing down his hair. “Well, shall we go?”

There are at least fifteen different patterns in front of him, motifs of swirls and leaves and intricate triangles, and Arthur has no idea what any of them mean.

“So...” he begins, awkwardly, turning to Merlin, who mouths I don’t know either! frantically. These must be really old runes, Arthur thinks, or at least different enough from the languages and runes of the druids Merlin has studied feverishly these last few years that Merlin shares his cluelessness.

Paden coughs delicately, in the if I may fashion of a born diplomat. Arthur is grudgingly impressed; it’s taken him many years to convey anything with a cough beyond the very strong implication that he would like some honey to soothe his throat. True enough, Paden starts with a casual, “If I may—” He smooths out the scroll with the scrawls of runes, placing exquisite carved wooden handles with sharp edges, brushes and inkwells at the edge of the long table. “It is all right, Emrys. Our runes from the Southern clans are very different from what you’re used to; they’re not easy to learn.”

Merlin rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, turning to Arthur and mumbling, “Sorry,” sheepishly.

Arthur laughs, walking over to the table. “Don’t be. It’s thanks to you we have as many allies from the Druidic clans as we do, Merlin.”

“Still, I should know more.” Merlin tuts, folding his arms, looking terribly annoyed with himself. “So I can safeguard you against harmful spells, make sure I’ve covered everything—”

“He’s always like this,” Arthur whispers loudly to Paden, so that Merlin can definitely hear him.

“I’m sure he is just concerned for your well-being,” Paden says, looking ahead with a straight face, the side of his mouth twitching.

“No, I know he is,” Arthur begins, before Merlin can object with a truly impressive list of insults as to Arthur’s purportedly abominable character. “But he has done a lot, all that he can, and should learn to take a hint about how sometimes we can’t do everything.”

Merlin just huffs, fingers picking restlessly at the edges of his robe as he glares at Arthur. “Fine, be that way. Where will you have Arthur when you tattoo him? The bed?”

“Ah.” Paden looks around the large room, turning around until he catches sight of the bed at the far end, a large and grand four-poster that could easily fit four people. “Yes. I’ll have to move it more towards the centre, though, so the light doesn’t directly hit us. It’s really bright out today. If you could come with me to help move it—”

“There’s no need,” Merlin cuts in, gently nudging Paden away as he strides towards the bed. “Please stand nearer to the door, the both of you.”

They obey, with Arthur leaning against the wall and Paden the door as Merlin raises a hand out in front of him, his eyes flashing gold and murmuring softly under his breath. The furniture in the room begins to levitate a little shakily before Merlin steadies them and rearranges them. He pulls the bed over in a swift, smooth movement, the weight of it causing it to fall with a thud, and then he’s aligning it with the table and shifting the wardrobes and other unneeded chairs to rest against the walls with but a flick of his finger.

God. Arthur just can’t help but look at him. All his life, he’s seen Merlin as just a bo— man; even if it’s been years since the revelation, he can’t reconcile the idea of his best friend wielding such power. He’s seen what Merlin can do in battle, of course. Has seen him healing the ill with poultices and spells as he took over more of Gaius’ responsibilities. Hell, Arthur’s seen Merlin command dragonfire and tame great beasts with just his words in a language he’ll never understand but which sends shivers up his spine nonetheless that aren’t all awe and fear — shivers that make something dark curl with want in his belly.

But he’ll never get used to Merlin having magic, being magic, with the way he can just toss his terrifying power about for even the smallest of things and act like it’s just another way he does his chores. Except he can also bend time to his will, and what other living sorcerer can do that?

Arthur knows the measure of a sword, has suffered enough losses and his subsequently increasing, unbroken trail of victories to claim without exaggeration that he is one of the finest warriors to defend his kingdom, maybe even beyond. Even so, faced with magic such as the likes of Merlin’s, Arthur recognises that he would be utterly at such a sorcerer’s mercy.

Biting down on his bottom lip, Arthur forcibly tears his eyes away from Merlin, trying not to think about being at Merlin’s mercy and of all the things he could take from Arthur if he’d had him there, helpless, unable to protest, unable to move — especially Arthur himself.

Because down that road lies madness.

“That’s sorted then,” Merlin says, exhaling, the only sign he’s done quite a bit of magic the notable dusty patches around the room where furniture’s once been and the way some of the vases and cabinets are still jittery with magic left over. “I guess we’re ready to start.”

Arthur swallows, taking in Merlin running his fingers through his hair, robe hanging loose from his shoulders. They’re a little broader these days, with all the physical training he’s putting Merlin through to make him better-equipped for fighting, even with Merlin’s constant complaining about it. When he makes to walk towards the bed, he sees Paden watching him intently from the corner of his eye. Contemplative. “Yeah. I’ll... I’ll just get over here.”

“You don’t say,” Merlin says dryly, pulling a chair to the side of the bed for Paden, who sits down wordlessly and wipes down his handles and sharpened needles before gesturing for Arthur to sit down. 

“I could select a rune for you,” Paden says, smiling and attentive, a twinkle in his eye. Arthur wonders what he’s so amused by. “You mentioned you would favour one that granted you protection in battle?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Thank you. I trust to your discretion.”

Paden muffles a cough that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle, but Arthur’s too distracted by the shape of his instruments on the table. They’re beautiful, no doubt, with delicately carved wooden hilts in the shapes and patterns that he’s seen featured in the runic tattoos of this clan, but he’ll probably be able to properly appreciate the breathtaking detail of dark wood and stone on the pommels later when this is all over and done with.

When Arthur turns to look at him, Paden’s still looking at Arthur with that thoughtful look, almost considering, before smiling to himself and dipping his head. “If you’ll just remove your shirt and lie down on your stomach, sire.”

“Right,” Arthur says, doing so, feeling that horrible sense of self-consciousness again when it’s Merlin this time who looks at him, smile wavering when he sees the needle of bone in Paden’s hand.

More astute than he lets on, Paden looks up. “Would you feel more comfortable if you cast a... bit of a spell, on his Majesty? To ease the pain, maybe.”

Merlin nods tightly, walking around so Arthur can’t see him, but there’s a small dip to his side as Merlin sits down on the bed. He spreads a palm over the back of Arthur’s neck, not quite touching but close enough to make his hairs stand on end, especially when Merlin begins to recite a spell in a hissed whisper. Warmth spreads from the tips of Merlin’s fingers, creeping over Arthur’s skin when he moves his palm down slowly down Arthur’s back, letting it envelop him everywhere in a soft, cocoon-like sensation. 

“Oh,” Arthur murmurs, surprised and gentled by the touch, sighing and resting his forehead against the sheets. Sleep doesn’t quite claim him, even though the room’s gone hazy; he can still make out the wooden grain of the headboard in front of him in detail and Merlin’s presence next to him. Everything feels muted, like he’s on the verge of dreaming or about to emerge from it.

“All right?” Merlin asks, his voice sounding near yet so far away.

“Mm,” Arthur agrees, closing his eyes. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” Merlin sounds a little shaky, a little relieved, but maybe that’s just Arthur. “Okay.”

As Paden starts his work, he barely feels the bite of the bone needle through the haze of muffled sensation, but Arthur remembers the exact moment Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s in the middle of it all — through the echoes of pain and light, warm and welcome and dear.

“Arthur?”

When he slowly drifts back to awareness, he vaguely knows he’s been awake through it all, when Paden had inked him quickly and delicately from the nape of his neck to just below the curve of his shoulders. Arthur feels numb, still, like all his limbs are dead and his eyelids are heavy after taking a strong draught for dreamless sleep. “Muh,” he manages intelligently. There’s a quiet, repetitive thumping sound in the room, but he has no idea what it is.

Merlin laughs, squeezing his hand tightly, his fingers trapped between Merlin’s palms. Oh. He hadn’t dreamed that, then. “It’s over. How are you feeling?”

“Out of it.” He places his other hand on the bed, pushing himself up, senses trickling back like a narrow stream through a stretch of rock. When he does manage to sit up, he takes a shaky breath, feeling rather than seeing where the rune is with the fresh wave of pain that hits him when he moves an arm the wrong way. And something else, strange and unfamiliar; Arthur can’t place it. “Oh, ow.”

Shifting closer to Arthur, Merlin releases his hand – to Arthur’s regret – and cups his cheek, looking intently at him and turning his face this way and that. 

“What are,” Arthur starts, before Merlin shushes him, narrowing his eyes which glow for the briefest of moments. “I’m just trying to see how the magic affects you,” he says softly. “Well, it certainly is protective in nature, so we won’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Paden says from the other side of the room, turning around to look at them with a pestle and mortar in his hands, all smiles. So that was where the sound had been coming from. “Surely you weren’t thinking I would endanger my clan by doing something so foolish as cursing the king of Camelot, Emrys?”

Merlin flushes, holding his hands up. “No, I just— sometimes mistakes happen, despite our best efforts. I meant no offense.” And he means it, through his fidgeting and worrying, Arthur knows.

“I was pulling your leg.” Placing the pounded herbs wrapped in leaves on a thin piece of cloth, Paden ties it up expertly with a few well-placed strings and hands it over to Merlin. “I’ve already put a layer of this poultice on his Majesty, but you will have to tend to the inked skin with care over the next week or so while it heals.”

Nodding, Merlin accepts it and holds it gingerly as if one would a howling infant. “I understand. I used to be an apprentice to the castle physician, so I’ll do this for Arthur. Twice a day, once in the morning and another at night, I assume, especially after baths?”

“That is correct.” With a soft rustle of leather, Paden gathers up his materials and bows to them both, looking very pleased with himself. “I am glad to have served you and to have drawn you the runes of protection: against blows, malignant sorcery, and—” Paden pauses, furrowing his brows before coughing delicately, “—against, ah, penetration. Weapons, that is. Of course. Will that be all?”

“Thank you, Paden,” Arthur says, bracing one hand on the headboard and getting to his feet. Now that he’s standing, the peculiar, alien sensation he’s feeling intensifies; Arthur chalks it down to Merlin’s spell and his body adjusting to the runes. “You’ve done Camelot a great service.”

“That I have,” Paden says, grinning as he exits the room. “That I have.”

“Can you make it?” Merlin asks, placing a concerned hand on Arthur’s arm. It tingles in the nice yet annoying way it does whenever Merlin touches him these days, the way it never has in all the years before this one. All kinds of wonderful, but terribly distracting. “Sire.”

“You only call me that properly when you’re worried,” Arthur says, grunting, but he doesn’t really make it very far before Merlin’s got him, arm supporting him but careful to not touch the herb-rubbed tattoo. “I’ll be fine.”

When they reach Arthur’s chambers, he shakes his head again to try to clear it of the muffled feeling, sitting on the side of a chair so his body doesn’t come in contact with the wooden back. Shifting his legs, Arthur tries to find a comfortable position and fails. “At least I told Leon and Gwaine I won’t be supervising the drills today. Not like I can do anything productive still feeling like this.”

“Well...” Merlin walks over to him, lips pursed in a thin line. “I’ve tried to speed up your recovery, but there’s only so much I can do when the lines in your skin itself are magic. Perhaps an afternoon off will do you good, Arthur, and we’ll just see you for dinner to bid farewell to the druids. They want to leave by nightfall.”

“With the heat they traveled in over the last few days, I can’t say I blame them,” Arthur says, tossing his shirt so that it lands over the back of another chair with remarkable accuracy, a skill he’s perfected since boyhood. “Help me with the bandages, Merlin.”

Merlin does, those once clumsy fingers now deft and quick with covering the runes on his back, leaving a few protruding strokes exposed on his neck. 

Smoothing his hand over the edges of the bandages that cross over to the front of his chest, Arthur hums his approval. “Clean and tight.”

“Of course,” Merlin says from behind him, only mildly offended. There’s the whisper of cloth as he rolls up whatever he has left. Arthur can’t see him, so Merlin tentatively touching his nape makes him start in his seat. “Can I...?” Merlin asks, quietly.

Arthur shivers as Merlin drags his fingers over the fine hairs there, moving slowly downward to where he can feel the runes are. “You’re already halfway there,” Arthur says, trying for annoyance and having his words come out as a bit of a sigh instead. “And you’ve already bandaged it, Merlin, what’s the point?”

“I was just wondering if...” Merlin’s voice trails off. He knows when Merlin touches the rune, because while the small, sharp pain from the inking cuts through everything else, he’s enveloped too by a kind of warmth there, responding to Merlin. “Yes, I think it can sense my magic. Are you in pain? I’ll stop.”

“No, it’s not too bad. What’s it doing?” Arthur asks, turning his head to look at Merlin. He’s beginning to feel a flush creep up his neck just by Merlin touching him there, finding it difficult to breathe. 

“You can’t see,” Merlin says, leaning over to let Arthur see his face, smiling and awestruck. “It’s glowing, just lightly, when I touch the lines.”

He moves his hand further down, sweeping out and over the covered long wave of ink that spans Arthur’s shoulders. The heat from the back of his neck drifts slyly downwards with every inch that Merlin touches, so much so that when Merlin spreads his palm over the heart of the rune, Arthur has to dig his fingers into his thighs to ignore the sudden, slow build of arousal in his belly. 

“Merlin, stop,” Arthur tries not to choke that out, squirming a little despite himself and accidentally pushing back against Merlin’s hand. The heat flares stronger, pooling between his legs, pulsing desire that Arthur can’t put a name to. 

Merlin yanks his hand away as if he’s been burned. “Sorry, I just,” he blathers, moving around to look at Arthur. “It was curiosity, nothing more. I shouldn’t have. Not until you got better, but—”

“No, Merlin, it’s fine, Christ.” Breathing shakily, Arthur shakes his head, turning so Merlin can’t see his expression. “If I had a gold coin for every time I’ve had to say that – it was fine, really, up until... maybe prolonged contact is a bit overwhelming. That’s all.”

“Arthur,” Merlin begins.

“Just let me rest,” Arthur says, biting down on his lip and walking pointedly over to the bed.

“All right,” Merlin says in a small voice, turning to leave. “If you need anything—”

Arthur waves a hand, plastering on a tired smile for Merlin’s sake as he sits down on the bed. It must look pained, forced; Merlin’s touching him has stirred something he can’t quell, at least not with Merlin in the room. Not like this. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later.”

When Arthur hears the click of the door, he walks over and presses an ear to it, waiting for Merlin’s footsteps to subside before pulling the latch tightly across. Not like Merlin would let something as insignificant as a latch stop him from barging into Arthur’s chambers the way he’s always done and always will, but it would stop anyone else from entering.

The journey from the door to the bed feels too long as Arthur frantically tugs at the laces of his breeches, falling onto the bed with them still catching at his knees and ankles before he kicks them and his boots off. They fall somewhere off his bed with nary a sound.

He’s never been so glad to get some salve on his hands, leaving the drawer next to him open in his urgency to get them good and slick, sliding hot and welcome over his cock and down to his arse where he needs, needs—

—only to find his clench already wet and willing, taking in two fingers with ease.

The dizzying fog of lust has him burying his head in the sheets, moaning with one hand clutching at the headboard and the other stuffing himself with three fingers before fucking himself with frenzied, steady thrusts.

“Merlin,” he finds himself saying, shutting his eyes tight and imagining Merlin’s hand on his neck, holding him down. “Merlin.” Merlin’s fingers in his arse, Merlin’s hips snapping as he fills Arthur up with his cock. Spreading his legs further apart to get his fingers deeper, Arthur’s cry is muffled in the sheets when he comes, his hand slipping from the dashboard at the force of it.

It’s not until he’s been lying there for a while, exhausted and bewildered and still hot with want that Arthur realises he’s not slicked himself today. Not since he’d fingered himself when he’d indulged in a brief, guilty fantasy one time about Merlin’s long fingers, unravelling him from the inside out. That had been at least two weeks ago.

It doesn’t make sense; if it’s a side effect from the runes, well, Arthur can only hope it goes away, and quickly at that. 

Because there’s just absolutely no way Merlin can know about this.

Merlin’s his cheerful self at dinner, a little more attentive to Arthur than usual the way he always is in apology, though you’d never get him to admit it. Arthur and Guinevere have joked about it, calling him a mother hen. “Have more of my pheasant,” Merlin says, fobbing choice morsels onto Arthur’s plate, cementing the image.

“Well, if you’re offering.” The pheasant is particularly good tonight, dressed with a spicy rosemary-infused orange sauce. And because everyone’s occupied with their food, he leans over towards Merlin. “Thank you for earlier.”

“It’s nothing.” Merlin looks a little guilty still, but Arthur just places a hand on his shoulder to assure him. “Um. No averse effects, I trust?”

Apart from the sudden and unexpected flood of desire that’d made him a panting wanton for all of a quarter of an hour, desperately needing to be fucked? “No,” Arthur lies, smiling, mouth twitching from the strain of it. He can still feel the memory-touch of being filled, the tangled mess of the sheets beneath him as he’d writhed for more. Even the thought of it stirs something in him all over again. Arthur firmly grounds himself in the present, gripping his knife tightly in hand. “Just getting used to the... changes.”

“That’s good.” Sighing in relief, Merlin turns back to his food. “I’ll come by after to help you with the poultice, check on your back.”

God help him, Arthur thinks, dying a little at the prospect of having Merlin’s hands on him again like that, careful and intimate. Under other circumstances, he would secretly enjoy Merlin taking care of him so — quiet, contented moments between them are few and far in between; the silence they share then is the most raw, honest reflection of how comfortable they are in each other’s company. 

If Merlin touches him like he did before, the rune might act up again. Arthur’s cheeks heat just thinking about it, throat going dry. He clutches a hand over his heart as it begins to race. “Yes. You do that.”

“I wonder how long it’ll take to properly heal,” Merlin continues conversationally, popping some grapes in his mouth, looking around the table at the chattering nobles and busy servants. “As long as you don’t overdo it and...”

He has to tune Merlin out after that, taking deep breaths he hopes Merlin won’t notice, trying to keep himself from succumbing to the heat and magic he can feel emanating from the runes. The magic settles on him like a sigh, wrapping him up in warmth and whispers and shivers, so that even Merlin’s murmurs in his ear and accidentally brushing against his arm makes Arthur sway towards him, lightheaded with the temptation of it.

“We thank you for your hospitality, sire,” Élan says from the druids’ table, standing and bowing. The treaty has been signed and sworn, with no pressing matters left for both their sides to attend to.  “But we must make to leave now to make the most of the moonlight.”

That pulls Arthur back to the reality in front of him, right enough, more effectively than a bucket of cold water might’ve done, though the rune’s magic lingers. “The pleasure is ours.” Arthur has to focus to find the right words in a maze of them. “It has been an honour having you in Camelot, and I have high hopes for our alliance. A safe journey to you and your kin.”

The druids leave the hall in an orderly procession, somber men and women in their greens and grays nodding at him before they turn away. Except for Paden, of course, who hangs behind the others the way he’s wont to do, catching Arthur’s eye and winking.

Well, that’s strange. He must be aware of the side effects, the rascal, no doubt having a bit of a laugh over Arthur’s reactions the way he must with the other druids he tattoos runes for. Young’ins these days.

“I’m,” Arthur starts, the words feeling thick in his mouth, and he punches them out with some effort. “I think I’ll retire early to my chambers.”

Merlin looks astonished, but at least he’s not picking up on Arthur’s unease. “That’s early. Should I follow you? I’ll just get it over with so you can have a good night’s rest.”

“No!” Arthur says, too quickly, cursing himself when Merlin raises an eyebrow. “No. I’ll be up. The food and the din’s just getting to me, so... later. Just take your time.”

He stands abruptly, pushing his seat back, but Merlin catches his wrist before he can move too far, a searing heat on his skin that the rune eagerly answers. “You’re acting really strangely, Arthur,” Merlin says slowly, no give in his grip, before he turns around to look at the doors to the hall that’ve just swung shut. Arthur can tell the exact moment he imagines the worst situation possible when he snarls and his eyes flash angrily, a storm of flickering blue and gold. “If they’ve done something to you—”

“Merlin, you’ve determined the spells on me are legitimate,” Arthur cuts in hastily, annoyed and flustered at himself for finding Merlin’s anger attractive at an inappropriate time like this. It’s like he’s eighteen all over again, getting hot and bothered when a particularly handsome squire would take his time polishing a knight’s (actual) sword. “If there were hostile intentions, you would know.”

Still gritting his teeth, Merlin leans back in his seat. If he were an irate, gangly bird, his ruffled feathers would have slowly settled back. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just... sometimes there’s no way to know. Now that word of Camelot is traveling further than it ever has before, the number of allies seeking our favour is increasing, too. But we can’t tell if they’re allied with Morgana, or if they intend to cause you harm.”

“Merlin.” All stirrings and sly whispers from the rune are forgotten as he sees Merlin before him, really sees – expression wild with vulnerability written all over his face. He’s missed the tired shadows beneath Merlin’s eyes, and Arthur wonders if he’s been hiding his anxiety and exhaustion with glamours. Again. “Does she still plague you with nightmares? The threats?”

Merlin rubs a hand across his face, letting out a frustrated sound. “Sometimes. I didn’t want you to know.”

That’s two of us with secrets then. “You idiot. You shouldn’t have had to bear this burden alone.”

“What could you have done?” Merlin laughs mirthlessly. “She does that because she knows it’ll get to me. Make me paranoid. Overthink all the different ways someone could sneak into the castle and kill you. I fucking dream about it, all right. I dream about the poisons and the sorcery and a well-placed assassin when you’re at the wrong place at the wrong time." Leaning forward with his forehead resting against his knuckles, Merlin whispers, "I dream about being too late."

“You can’t get rid of me so easily.” Arthur makes to stroke Merlin’s back, but the fear of losing himself to the rune's magic stays his hand. “What do you take me for?”

“Besides being an arrogant ass?”

“Such confidence from a subject!” Opening his arms wide, Arthur puts on the most exaggerated, gratified expression he can manage. “What more could a king ask for?”

 “Oh, go rest, you fool of a king.” Merlin scratches the stubble at his chin, shaking his head at Arthur. The smile’s back on his face, though, so Arthur counts it a win. “I’ll make sure no one gets too rowdy and then come join you.”

If only you’d join me in my bed. Arthur starts at the thought that’d stolen past his mind, speaking almost from within himself. The rune pulses warmth again, a subtle reminder, rousing him in the empty, hungry echoes of his lust. He’s slick again between his legs, in his arse; he can feel it, Christ, wonders if it shows on his reddening face.

Arthur does get away from the table this time before Merlin can notice, and he doesn’t make it to his chambers in time. He finds a dusty, rarely-used stairwell up to an alcove and in the hidden arch of the shadows there, spreads his palm wide over the coarse wall and has his breeches pool around his feet as he moans at the relief of fingers inside him and toys with the strange slick that makes him frantic, makes him burn.

It doesn’t stop after he’s spilled, or even when he finally collapses face-first on his bed, tired from feeding an appetite hitherto unknown to him. The need courses through him like a flame licking at him from head to toe, burning the brightest behind his neck. Clenching his hands in the sheets does nothing to distract him, and he can’t help himself; he humps the pile of linen, desperate for friction and long fingers that aren’t his own.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice rings thinly through the doorway.

An embarrassed panic seizes him, the likes of which he’s not felt since his father had nearly walked in on him touching himself once. Terrible, to be sure, but the stakes are higher this time around. “A moment,” he calls out, sounding like anyone but himself with the roughness of his voice, but he has time to yank his blanket over himself, obscuring the more damning half of his body while he rolls over on his stomach.

Merlin being Merlin – and Arthur’s been expecting this – barges in anyway without ceremony, a basket with all kinds of herbs and medical supplies in his arms. He must’ve opened the door with magic. “You’ve not dozed off yet, I hope?”

“Even if I had, I’d be awake now with the din you’re making anyway,” Arthur says, trying to get his eyes to focus on Merlin. It’s hard, still being gripped by the lust-haze, being made aware of his slicked hole every time he squirms even minutely, knowing Merlin could just fuck into him easy if he wanted to like this. He’d just have to prop Arthur up on all fours, spread his legs, push him back against his cock. Probably long like the rest of him, but Arthur doesn’t care.

Fingers, cock, that insolent, kissable mouth – he wants it all.

“Don’t get up or anything, just act like I’m not here,” Merlin says breezily, sitting down with the basket making a soft thump next to him and rustling through his supplies for the poultices and goodness knows what else in that bottomless basket of his. “Let’s see...”

“Going to tell me you left it back in your chambers?” He turns to prop himself on an elbow, blinking tiredly and watching Merlin rummage through his basket in an increasing panic. 

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. You are talking to the man who found a spell to organise his library by author, content and language, and who customised it so the books would shuffle themselves before him when he included something he was searching for in the spell—”

“A man who can’t find a simple bundle of herbs he was entrusted this morning, you mean?” Merlin just makes it too easy.

“Shut up, Arthur.”

“What have I told you about addressing your king?” Arthur knows it’s a lost cause; it’s an open secret that he does prefer it when Merlin speaks plainly and would most likely suspect fiendish machinations at work if Merlin were to behave like another one of his simpering subjects. This is familiar ground, always has been since the first time Merlin had called him an ass in front of all his knights when they’d met.

Maybe a little part of himself had already been taken with Merlin even then. 

“Shut up, sire.” Merlin finally holds up the wrapped poultice triumphantly. “I’m brilliant!”

Arthur makes a face, going back to burying his face in his pillow where he utters a muffled, “I can’t believe I’m mad for a half-wit of a sorcerer.”

“What did you say?” Merlin asks suspiciously, lathering the moss-green mixture between his fingers. “I don’t know why I bother asking, you were probably insulting me again.”

Well, he’s not wrong. “With all these people calling you names and bowing to you over your impressive displays of magic, someone’s got to keep you humble, hmm?” The bed dips with Merlin’s movement, and then to Arthur’s horror, he’s shifting a leg over Arthur’s lower back and straddling him there, just above the curve of his arse hidden underneath the blanket. “What are you— Merlin! That’s,” he struggles for a word, “that’s inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate?” Merlin says incredulously, letting a generous amount of the paste fall in sticky blobs on his upper back. “We’ve done far more questionable things than this. Are you forgetting the time you pulled my pants down in front of the knights at camp once when Gwaine dared you to do it?”

“Yes, but.” But it was a dare, and I wasn’t constantly thinking about you having your wicked way with me like I am now.

“It’s easier for me to spread the poultice more evenly this way. Your fault for having such a colossal bed. You royals are spoilt, you are.”

“Still! This is just...” Now he’s just grasping wildly for an excuse. “If someone should see us... oh.” For all his protests, Merlin’s fingers working the herbs gently into his skin is really rather nice, and Arthur sighs, flicking a glance back to Merlin’s knowing smirk from over his shoulder. It eases the hypnotic call of the rune for a blessed, quiet moment. “Mmm. Fine.”

“If someone should see us,” Merlin repeats softly, chuckling, massaging him and lathering up to his neck. “Maybe that’d put some rest to the talk that goes around the castle once and for all. End the curiosity and the betting pools.”

When Merlin brushes his thumb against the pattern on his nape, Arthur shudders, lost. It’s only a few seconds later that Merlin’s words register in his brain. “Wait, what?” 

The slow rhythm of Merlin’s fingers comes to a stop. “You didn’t know?”

“A betting pool?” Arthur says, aghast, trying to catch Merlin’s expression and failing. “What for?”

There’s a terribly long and awkward silence before Merlin resumes working the poultice into his healing back again with a hesitant touch. “Never mind, Arthur.”

“Tell me.” The implications of an entire castle wondering about Merlin and him— if they had—

“Look, just... leave it, all right?” Merlin says sharply, pulling back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The hostile edge to his voice is oddly hurtful, but Arthur has had to field away little knives people have thrown his way with words ever since he was but a child.

“I understand.” He leaves those two words hanging in the air, allowing Merlin to make of them what he will. “If you need me to do something about it—”

“I’m not a damsel who needs saving, you goose.”

“A pity,” Arthur says, “you’d look lovely in a dress.”

“I’ll put you in a dress.” 

“Yes,” Arthur sighs, relaxing into the sheets and melting into the steady kneads and strokes. “Look at us. Greatest sorcerer who ever lived, talking to his liege about putting him in a dress. One of the many astounding deeds he’ll be doing in Camelot’s name.”

“You’re terrible, Arthur,” Merlin says, fighting his laughter, before lowering his voice. “Are you comfortable? I’m not... causing you pain, or anything?”

Quite the contrary, Arthur thinks. He’s just going to give up trying to think now, it’s too difficult to do that with Merlin near him like this, skirting this precipice of possibility and fantasy. “No, just keep going.”

“It looks better already, you know. The patterns are beautiful.” A gentle trail along the raised lines, light, a butterfly-touch. 

“Mmm. If you say.” Arthur could get used to this.

“Especially this one here,” Merlin continues, with the press of his fingers and the soothing herbs, tracing up from the hollow of his back. “It’s a good look on you.”

Good God, but Merlin’s voice is mesmerising in its softness when he won’t stop touching Arthur like that. The rune whispers ever louder the longer his warm weight on Arthur lingers there. “That feels nice,” he says, leaning into Merlin’s touch, and Merlin’s laugh comes out like a sigh.

The sweet-sleepy quiet around them feels almost like a spell for the longest time, before it’s broken when Merlin’s hands wander down his back to brush against the heart of the rune. The contact brings Arthur’s entire body alive with a slow, shuddering burn, yanking him sharply out of the lull of the moment. 

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, resting a hand on the rune and leaning forward so he can draw Arthur’s hair back from his forehead. 

“You should leave,” he says, voice rough, a plea in the back of his throat, Merlin's heat slowly driving him mad through the layers of clothing and the sheets.

“I won’t.” A long shadow falls over Arthur’s face as Merlin moves up the bed and turns him gently over to his side. “I left earlier when you told me, and then something happened to you at dinner. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“No,” Arthur groans at the hopelessness of the entire thing. Sweat is already beading on his skin in a building lust-fever, and with Merlin this close, there’s no way he won’t notice. “It can’t — not you. Not like this. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what, Arthur?” Merlin says fiercely, cupping his face. “Look at me. Please. What’s wrong?”

He grimaces, remembering how reluctant Merlin had been to talk about the castle’s assumptions earlier. While Arthur had not expected Merlin to be confronted with the idea of it, he’s not sure he can handle such rejection if Merlin knew the truth behind his current state. And how he really feels, of course. “You were right. The tattooing of the rune had side effects.”

“When will you learn I’m always right?” The quiver of worry in Merlin’s voice belies the sarcasm of his words, as does the way he presses the back of his hand to Arthur’s forehead. “Side effects. You’re flushed, but I’m sure that.” Merlin pauses, placing a hand on Arthur’s arm. “I’m sure you were fine before. Just minutes before.”

“Will I need to spell it out for you?” Arthur says, closing his eyes and hoping Merlin will just leave him alone so he can have another round at getting rid of this recurring problem. It’s too much, now, having Merlin look at him with those eyes widening in comprehension while Arthur snakes a hand down his stomach, completely unable to help himself. “About what side effects it’s giving me?”

From the sharp intake of breath he hears, Arthur supposes not.

“Go, Merlin. I won’t make you do anything. Just leave, I need to — I just need.” Arthur can’t say the words, the shame flooding him under Merlin’s gaze. “You shouldn’t have to see this. Let me keep what’s left of my dignity.”

“Arthur, you idiot,” Merlin grits out, face reddening but not moving his hand from where it’s shaking on Arthur’s person. “You can’t expect me to leave you like this. Let me examine you, at least, see if there’s anything I can do.”

“Don’t —”

“I’m speaking as your court sorcerer.” Merlin splays a palm over his chest, fingers catching at a nipple and the dusky gold fuzz of Arthur’s chest hair.  Arthur moans at the contact, and Merlin’s expression turns unreadable. “Let me help you.”

“You stubborn, impertinent...” 

“Insult me all you want, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” It would sound like another one of Merlin’s comical attempts at solving a mystery like the time he was convinced there was a prankster spirit in his room, only to find out that it was an errant book who’d been jealous of Merlin’s attentions to his other books, and Arthur really doesn’t get why these peculiar things keep happening only to Merlin. Yes, the way he says it could be funny, except there’s magic thick in the air, Merlin’s and the rune’s, making it hard for Arthur to breathe from the pressure and pleasure of it. “Where does it hurt, Arthur?”

“Doesn’t hurt, Merlin.” Arthur has to turn his head into the pillow when Merlin’s hand skates up the curve of his arm to his throat, biting down on his lip. “It’s the blasted rune. When you touch it, I...”

“Get aroused?” Merlin says quietly, tracing maddening paths just at the edge of the damned tattoo, his breath coming quicker from where Arthur can hear him.

“God.” Arthur clenches a fist in the sheets and another in his pillow at the rich sound of Merlin's voice when he pitches it low like that “Yes.”

Pushing Arthur gently onto his stomach, Merlin sweeps a slow path down Arthur’s spine, and Arthur would think his touch detached if not for how he lingers at the end, just over his tailbone. “And you get hard?”

“Not really,” Arthur manages, gasping, thrashing a little when Merlin pulls the sheet away and strokes the inside of his thighs just under his arse. He spreads his legs, both appalled at himself for his truly spectacular channeling of his inner harlot and beyond shame, really, hoping that Merlin’s hands will wander there. Arthur’s cock is filling, but that’s not where he wants to be touched.

Merlin hesitates for the most fleeting of moments before he nudges Arthur’s legs further apart, parting his arsecheeks and coming away with the hint of slick.

“Were you,” he begins awkwardly, blushing to the tips of his ears.

Arthur shakes his head furiously, resisting the urge to rut against the mattress because he is not getting any relief. “No, I didn’t. I mean. When the rune acts up, it does that. It makes me wet.” He takes a shuddering breath when Merlin pulls at his knees, pushing them so his arse is up in the air, exposed. Arthur’s never felt so vulnerable. “It makes me... loose. Somehow.”

Moving up behind Arthur, Merlin’s robes rustle as they spill over their tangled legs. He grips at Arthur’s bare hip for support, his other hand hesitating at the dusky skin just above Arthur’s stones. “May I?”

A lightheaded “yes,” and then Merlin’s opening him up easily, sliding a finger inside him and crooking it almost curiously. It steals the breath from Arthur, it does, makes him dig his knees into the bed at the sensation, so different when it’s someone else touching him, unpredictable and intimate, calming the rune at last.

“You didn’t oil yourself at all?” Merlin asks at last, the way he says it almost like he can’t believe he’s asking the question in the first place. Arthur can’t believe he’s asking that question in the first place, let alone the fact that Merlin’s got him with his face in the sheets and a finger inside Arthur, sweaty with exertion and need. “This is unbelievable.”

“For the love of—” the words die in his throat when Merlin slides another finger inside him, pressing up against places that make him bite at his knuckles, groaning dark and lusty. “I’m not,” he pants, “some kind of exotic creature.”

“No, you’re definitely not,” Merlin murmurs distractedly. Probing, twisting, Merlin begins thrusting his fingers shallowly and somewhere through the chaos of rune-magic and Merlin taking him apart, Arthur swallows a whimper, feeling his muscles bunching all the way down his back. “You’re Arthur, and you should see yourself like this, just —”

Fuck me, suck me there, God, anything, Arthur wants to say, but he moans Merlin’s name instead, hoping he’ll somehow understand without words every single filthy thing he’d never have imagined wanting Merlin to do in a hundred years and now Arthur needs them now, now, like he’s dying.

Unfortunately, Merlin suffers from an impediment that grants him both an abysmal sense of timing and the terrible inability to take a hint. He slips his fingers out and reaches for a dry cloth to place over the tattoo before turning Arthur over so he’s on his back, giving no indication he’s noticed the state of Arthur’s hard, unmistakable interest. “I got carried away.” He’s never remembered Merlin’s voice this husky. “I’m sorry. But I... it’s obvious there are otherwise no ill effects, and this should blow over in a few days once the tattoo is healed.”

He feels hollow, empty, wanting nothing more than to shove those still-slick fingers inside him, to fuck him to completion. “I can’t carry on with royal duties like this,” Arthur says, resting back against his pillow, breath still coming in short, stuttering bursts. Merlin still has one hand on one of his legs, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed on Arthur’s face even when Arthur parts his knees, nudging Merlin’s hand upward. “At dinner. At court. When the rune reacts like this, it reduces me to this mess. I can’t think. Can’t think of anything but needing something inside me, feel myself getting wet and ready, filthy with it. Merlin, it will not blow over. Not fast enough.”

They both don’t mention how Merlin’s fingers are caressing up Arthur’s calf now, how he’s moving closer with his knees astride Arthur’s right thigh, his robes askew. 

“Should I send for someone? A... A maid you're sweet on, maybe, or—”

"No," he says desperately. "Merlin, no one can see me like this. No one can know. I can't subject anyone to this.”

"Could you," Merlin begins, unsure. "Could you tell them you've taken ill for a spell? A few days." 

"I can't be away from court at this moment." He exhales, frustrated and still painfully aroused. "Strategy meetings, treaties, the discussions we need to have on the treasury. It's not a good time." 

"Arthur, you're suffering." Merlin's tone is coaxing, soft. "Have you had any relief since this first happened?" 

He can't look Merlin in the eye when he says this, cheeks going so hot they start to sting. "Only briefly, when I... Did it to myself. But if I had time alone, if I could attend to my needs, then—" 

"I could help you," Merlin says unexpectedly. 

Arthur stares at him. 

"It's... always better when it's someone else," Merlin stutters by way of explanation. "It may ease things, and I have to help you apply the poultice anyway. So." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur says, even though his heart is thudding against his rib cage at the thought, of Merlin doing — Merlin fingering him twice a day, or whatever inconvenient time the rune chooses for him; when he's spreading out a map on the round table in front of the knights, when he's in his throne, or maybe when he's bringing Hengroen back into the stables after a long day's ride, a convenient stack of hay nearby for Merlin to bend him over. "You shouldn't. I can't do that to you. Won't." 

"I know." Merlin strokes firmly up Arthur's thigh, his eyes hard and his mouth set in that determined way of his that says he won't be moved. "Which is why I'm offering. It's... Consider it a favour. Between friends." 

"You don't have to," Arthur insists, but his body betrays him, his cock jumping and leaking, his arse clenching at the hungry anticipation of Merlin inside him. 

"You can't make me do anything I don't want to do." This is true. Merlin has always channeled a legendary stubbornness unknown even to the most ill-behaved mules when it comes to chores he despises, so Arthur has to acknowledge that Merlin has a point. "Turn over." 

He does, hardly believing this is happening, so dizzy with his desire for Merlin and to be filled that he's shaking with it when he props himself up on his arms. "Are you sure about this?" 

Merlin hooks a hand around one of Arthur's knees. "So noble," he says, sounding irritated and fond at the same time, which is classic Merlin, really. "Stop thinking. Just let me..."

A finger slips inside him, slow and deliciously good. “Oh,” Arthur moans, pulling at a pillow, embarrassed at the sounds he’s making. He’s not the vocal sort. If anything, Arthur’s lovers have always commented on how stoic he is during sex, all discipline and genteel courtesy until he takes them over the edge. But they’ve all been women; even when he was on the receiving end of their mouths, he’s never felt compelled to talk them through it, never felt like he wanted to be loud or expressive beyond the occasional sigh and whispered words of encouragement, his fingers tightening in loose locks as a head bobbed up and down his cock. 

Arthur has always wondered if it would be different with men, if he’d be more inclined to talk rough, fuck rough, be more open about his pleasure. Different with Merlin. Arthur’s had his passing thoughts about pretty-eyed squires, an odd stableboy or two, but his mind wanders to Merlin, to his smile and terrible sense of humour and those skilled, deft fingers working magic and miracles.

This isn’t how he would’ve imagined or wanted them to end up like this, with Merlin opening him up sweet and careful with a second finger and not nearly urgent enough for Arthur’s liking. He’s never dared to imagine this; every twist of Merlin’s fingers inside him and every sharp surge of pleasure unravels him, the loose threads of his restraint coming undone as he rocks back against them.

“How does this feel?” Merlin asks, leaning over him, holding Arthur up by his chest, the torturous, soft drag of his robes against Arthur’s skin as he crooks his fingers inside a distracting sensation. “Do you need me to slow down?”

“Good,” Arthur breathes, reaching up behind him to scrabble for the tell-tale long curve of Merlin’s neck – the most bafflingly graceful part of him – and ends up gripping at the dark mess of Merlin’s hair. “No. No, don’t – mmmn. More. I can take more.”

“Three fingers?” Merlin murmurs against the back of his neck, hot breath just ghosting over the rune, and Arthur feels like he could come from just that.

“Yes.” And then it’s three fingers, fucking steadily into him, a drawn-out and erratic pace with Merlin curling them like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself before thrusting in again to punch the breath out of Arthur. “Yes, yes.”

“Greedy.” A soft, tremulous whisper in his ear. “Arthur.”

“Merlin,” he says in answer, wondering how he could’ve ever imagined touching himself would be enough, alone in his room, when it pales so much in comparison to Merlin inside him, Merlin’s heat all along the side of his body. It’s as if Arthur has been dancing on the fringe of his release for hours, the heat churning inside him, out of reach and his control. “Merlin—”

Merlin nuzzles into Arthur’s nape, lips grazing the soft hairs there, and the fleeting moment sends a jolt through Arthur, leaving him short of breath and aching. “Touch yourself.” A hand closes over Arthur’s, guiding it down to his cock. “Do what you need to do.”

The relief when he takes himself in hand is so palpable, he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. Through it all, Merlin keeps his hand firmly on Arthur’s, the slick as he pumps himself getting over both their hands as he thumbs at the crown, teases at his foreskin the way he likes it, and God help him, Merlin’s pushing his hand to go faster, gripping around him with his longer fingers and touching him and fingerfucking him and then he’s licking up the back of Arthur’s neck—

He can’t fight it, the way the crashing tide of pleasure brings him down, the urgency and fire of it as he comes, holding on to Merlin through the sudden weightlessness of it all. Merlin slows his thrusts and pulls out as Arthur collapses on the bed, pulling the wet mass of Arthur’s hair back from his face and tucking loose strands behind his ear.

Arthur looks up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. “What.”

Merlin licks his lips and makes a face. “Those herbs taste nasty.”

“...Why did you lick it in the first place?”

Merlin seems to give this some serious thought before concluding, “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Chuckling, Arthur throws the back of a hand over his eyes, feeling sore and full and satiated. “Oh, Merlin. Whatever shall I do with you?”

Merlin draws himself up to his knees next to Arthur, stroking his forehead. “Never mind me for now.” He lets warmth travel to his fingertips again where he’s touching Arthur, whispering the stirrings of a spell. Whatever barely-there pain that’s resurfaced from pressure on his healing tattoo drifts away as if into a mist, and he’s thankful to Merlin for it. “Did that help?”

“Sometimes, you can be useful, Merlin,” Arthur says, resting his head on a pillow and turning to look at Merlin, feeling the weight of sentiment and gratitude creeping into what must be a terribly soppy smile. “Who knew?”

“I’ll take the compliment without the side of ambiguous insult.” A smile’s mirrored on Merlin’s face, and he presses the back of his knuckles to Arthur’s cheek.

“That’s what you always do, anyway.” The insults roll off Merlin like water off a duck’s back, especially when Arthur doesn’t mean them anymore these days. Except for the bits where he says Merlin’s obstinate, is rubbish with taking care of himself, can’t find anything when he’s supposed to or has appalling manners – well, all right, he does mean half of them, but  if Merlin really knew where to look, he’d see and draw the little not-confessions in each and every one:

You’re stubborn is his nod to how Arthur fiercely appreciates Merlin’s challenging him, lose your own head next his way of nudging Merlin, bleary-eyed and falling asleep over his parchments to get some rest, and stop scandalising my court, you’re ridiculous really means, never stop, because there’s nowhere else I’d have you be than beside me.

“Lies, every single one of them.”

“Even the one about you being unable to pour wine at a feast without threatening bodily harm with the way you swing the jug about?” Merlin really does have an incredible knack for causing a tiny little whirlwind of chaos at feasts, even if they both wisely don’t mention how he only becomes accidentally, incredibly clumsy when someone is making things particularly difficult for Arthur or sneering at him the wrong way, disparaging Camelot and Arthur’s person. 

No one is more loyal to Arthur in Camelot than Merlin, no friend so true.

There’s a soft, knowing quirk to Merlin’s mouth. “Especially that one.”

“Stay here tonight if you like.” Arthur feels his eyelids grow heavier with every word. “Petyr’s still not back yet, so you can have his pallet again – don’t think I can’t see the gleeful grin on your face.”

“It’s fine. I have to brew something, but I’ll see you in the morning. Petyr... I don’t like the bugger.” The thick blanket falls over him, soft down and clouds of cotton. “He gets to do all the little things I used to do, and he doesn’t do them right.”

“He’s very good, actually.” There’s a disbelieving snort from Merlin, so Arthur opens an eye lazily at him. “He’s not you, but he’s good.”

“Yeah.” Merlin gets up, leaving a pocket of warmth. “He’s... not a bad person, Petyr. I know that. But he gets to put on armour, see sides to you that only I was once able to see.” He takes up his basket slowly, sighing. “We used to be able to talk all the time, you and I. And now, sometimes, I only pass you in the corridors, can only see you from the top of my tower when you’re out on the training field with the knights.

“I’m not your manservant any longer – it’s not my place anymore.” The door creaks open slowly, the light falling through the gap catching briefly at the edges of Merlin’s face and silhouette as he lingers there. “Sometimes, I miss it.”

Petyr is a good manservant. He brings Arthur’s meals warm, knows how to stand attentively without being too active a part of the foreground, and has a way with cleaning his chambers Merlin never did even with his magic. But Arthur aches with the silence of Merlin’s absence after he makes him court sorcerer, with the familiar name on his lips when he hears a sound in his chambers until he realises it’s only Petyr, hands itching to hook an arm around Merlin and ruffle his hair and tease him in lieu of the words he cannot bring himself to say to Merlin to bring him closer, close until he’s sorcerer and friend and beloved and his.

Arthur waits until Merlin snuffs all the candles out in his room, shutting the door quietly behind him, before closing his eyes. Everything has changed. Even Arthur and Merlin. He misses the more carefree glimpses of what life would’ve been like as a king when he was a prince, when he and Merlin could still have a laugh without having someone barge in with news of the worsening war Morgana is bringing to Camelot’s borders every month, without time being such a precious commodity he can scarce afford a misstep lest everything they’ve done becomes reduced to waste and wrongs.

He misses it too, misses Merlin, more than his words can say. But Arthur’s always been a man of action, of decisions, and with this latest hiccup in their lives, this strange new arrangement between friends Merlin’s brought into the picture... well. No matter how good it feels, no matter how much he wants it and has Merlin give it to him out of a mixed sense of loyalty and obligation, it’s clear things won’t go back to the way they were before. For better or for worse.

The hours blend together into a muddle of incomprehensible moments and memories over the next few days as Merlin settles into his new role with the kind of determination and fixation he usually reserves for the most grueling of spells – the ones he loses sleep over to get the pronunciations and requirements right, trying again and again until he finally turns into a falcon on a halcyon day or succeeds to scry and look into the flashes of worlds beyond the seas that frame Albion, or into worlds beyond their time.

Except instead of Merlin poring through his books and writing varied translations of an incantation down furiously on old skins and parchment by flickering candlelight, he becomes unerringly accurate in reading Arthur’s desires.

Once, he shifts in his seat and has a harder set to his jaw from his body reacting to the rune, willing others to not notice, for Merlin to not notice for the embarrassment of it, that this could happen even in public, but to no avail. Merlin leans close when others aren’t looking, spells his laces untied and asks, unsure, “Do you want me to – ” before a hot hand slips underneath Arthur’s tunic, his arm hidden by Arthur’s heavy red cloak, a single finger finding its way inside his slick hole so that Arthur can breathe again, speak again, think again, and no one engaging him in conversation after that will be none the wiser as to what Merlin’s doing to him under the table.

And then Merlin tends to his back with a wet cloth on a night he draws a bath for Arthur, shooing Petyr away with a broom because he can. The rivulets of water seem to trickle a path of fire down his arms and back when Merlin tells Arthur to stand up in the large tub, holding Arthur by a shoulder and wiping up Arthur’s thighs through his frantic gasps and half-bitten moans, letting the rag fall into the water with nary a splash and fingering him while Arthur braces himself against the wall. 

“Tell me what works for you,” Merlin says slowly, all ethics and propriety for once, completely at odds with how he fucks Arthur over the edge of the tub, having learned that Arthur can take two fingers at once, craves it, sometimes even three. The water rocks in the tub, splashing everywhere as Arthur pushes back so Merlin can go even deeper. “Is this... how about this?”

“Yes,” is what Arthur will reply anyway, to Merlin making him spend in the tub, his come streaking the wooden edges of it and where he’s facing the wall.

“Yes,” is what he chokes into Merlin’s ear when he gets half-hard in his dreadfully public seat at a tourney that weekend and feels his arse get so slick and wet it’s a miracle no one can sense it, smell it. When he squirms, Merlin’s hand is already on his thigh, a muttered concealing spell rendering them unassuming and unseen as he pulls Arthur’s breeches down while the cheers ring out around them, the crowd getting to their feet and roaring their support for Leon. All this, while Merlin kneels between his legs and delicately lifts Arthur’s balls hanging heavy below his cock to screw two fingers inside him, casual and almost clinical with how he brings Arthur off like that as people talk to Arthur vaguely about the tourney, eyes never flicking down south of Arthur’s chest, thinking nothing of Arthur biting down hard on the back of his hand when he groans, eyes locked on Merlin’s as his come lands on Merlin’s throat, Merlin’s face.

“Yes,” in the damp, salty curve where Merlin’s neck meets his shoulder when Arthur pulls Merlin into a darkened nook a little too quickly, a little too hard, his back thudding against the dip of the wall while Merlin presses up against him, eyes bright and concerned. “Now?” He asks, looking Arthur over and testing, cupping a cheek for his temperature, drawing away the sweat there. “Someone could see.”

He growls out Merlin’s name while he undoes his breeches, low and urgent like the pulse of the rune inside him, fanning his wrecked, banked lust. “Then we’ll just have to be quick about it, I need, need it now.” When Merlin hesitates, glancing at the lit corridor behind them with his thumb brushing at Arthur’s lips, Arthur tilts to take it into his mouth with light graze of teeth and slide of tongue, sucking it to get Merlin’s attention. 

“Fucking hell,” Merlin breathes, pushing his forefinger in, his other hand roving down Arthur’s chest to his hip. “Make it easier for me, then, Arthur. Get my fingers wet.”

“Won’t need it.” He pants and licks at Merlin’s fingers anyway, mentally replacing it with thoughts of Merlin’s cock before he pushes his own fingers inside himself instead because Merlin’s chosen the worst moment to be orthodox for a change. He can feel his own dick, hard and hot, rubbing wetly against the front of Merlin’s robes. “C’mon, Merlin, Merlin, you said you would–”

“All right, Arthur. Arthur, shh.” Merlin’s lips are shivery, soft paths up his cheek, and he stays there, breathing heavily so that every exhale is a loud rumble in Arthur’s ears, a deafening echo. “I’ll help you, sire, just settle down. Part your legs for me, let me... yes. That’s it, Arthur, that’s it.”

Arthur is mortified about it afterwards, somehow even more so than the brief slip into shame he tries to shake off whenever Merlin does him another favour. Merlin had been right in that anyone could’ve seen him debauching the king so, unseemly and unheard of for others in their ranks. But he’d been deafened by the call of want, had been possessed by the urgency to make Merlin have him there where anyone could’ve passed them, bucking up into Merlin’s touch without caring to remind Merlin to hide them with magic.

He should have known better.

Horrified and sullen at his table with his quill hovering over a piece of parchment with no words forthcoming, he looks up and bites back an irrationally vindictive comment when Merlin enters the room. It’s been years since he last gave in to his pride and chagrin like that, lashing out at others for his own mistakes and failings because anger is what he used to know the most intimately. Anger, and the savage triumph that sings in his veins when he beats an opponent to the ground. Years. 

But it’s coming back now. After the first few days of simply surrendering to the pleasure, rolling with the waves as they crested and dragged him down into the throes of feeling nothing but the need to be spread open, fire lighting in his veins at the barest whisper of a touch over his hole, everything is beginning to clear. The shame he harbours towards his dependency on Merlin now and the guilt that Merlin is doing this when he shouldn’t have to – the guilt that Arthur is taking so much of what Merlin has to give – consumes his waking moments.

“I can hear you thinking,” Merlin says, leaning against a dresser and folding his arms, mouth in an unhappy line. 

Arthur’s thoughts are already wandering down the pessimistic and self-deprecating alleys of his mind’s labyrinth, considering the worst reasons for why Merlin’s tense mood matches his own. “I wasn’t aware I had to think quieter for the likes of you.”

Merlin’s hands drop and knock against the dresser as he straightens. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You’re in a mood yourself too, aren’t you, Merlin? Not so composed anymore, hmm?” Now Arthur’s just spoiling for a fight, pouring enough taunt into his voice to provoke Merlin. 

The deep, tell-tale flush of Merlin’s rising temper starts from his neck, a rush of colour. “I wasn’t aware I couldn’t have feelings, Arthur. Should’ve shown me that royal decree. Are you going to tell me what the fuck this is about, or are you going to continue being unreasonable?”

“What do you have to be upset about?” Arthur fires at him, clenching his fists, the frustration that has been steadily building over the last few days coming to a head. “You’re not the one who, the one who has to rely on someone touching him in public. Needing someone to fuck him. You’re not the one reduced to begging like a wanton just for some relief, needing it anywhere, everywhere when the urge strikes, like a whore plying her trade. Only I don’t even get paid any coin for it! Yeah? So tell me. Tell me what you have to be upset about, when I can’t – I can’t function, unless you touch me there. It’s humiliating.”

“You think I enjoy – ” Merlin begins, slamming a palm back against the dresser as he walks towards Arthur, loose robes billowing. “Upset? Yes. But not for me, you idiot. Do you think I enjoy having to do,” he swallows, biting his lip, “do that, to you?”

“Of course not.” Arthur massages his temples. “You offered, but why would anyone in their right mind want to... no. Merlin, of course you don’t. You have to do this at least twice a day, and more besides when I dictate you to. When you know I need to get my problem sorted. How could anyone enjoy that kind of duty?”

Hissing, Merlin curses and shoves at Arthur so that he bumps the edge of his table, the inkwell and books on it clattering from the force of it. “I told you it was a fucking favour! What’s your problem?”  

“You just said you were upset.” Arthur shoves back, baring his teeth. Oh, yes, physical confrontations he understands. He could do with a good fight; Merlin gives as good as he gets, and all he wants now is to wrestle Merlin to the ground, have Merlin push and kick at him so he can do the same, throw in a couple of punches because he can. The blood’s roaring in his ears when he fists his hands in the front of Merlin’s robes, where the hems fall open to reveal the thin brown tunic inside. “God, I can’t believe – if you hated it so much, you should’ve just told me. I said you didn’t have to. I’d rather go through this alone if it meant your not having to see me like this, at my worst.”

Their eyes meet, Merlin’s eyes gleaming gold as he holds out a hand, loosening Arthur’s grip and prying his hands away from his robes. “And I said I wasn’t upset for me,” he spits, locking Arthur’s hands in the air so they’re on either side of his head before letting go of his magic abruptly so that Arthur stumbles into Merlin. “I’m your friend. It’s upsetting to see you affected by the magic this way. To see you struggling and not wanting to confide in anyone. In me. And to know that you’d rather suffer it alone in silence than having me help you. How do you think that makes me feel, Arthur?”

“It is because it’s you,” Arthur nearly shouts now, yanking at Merlin’s arm and pulling it behind his back until he yelps, crowding Merlin into a corner and up against a bookshelf. “It’s because it’s you! I trust you above anyone else, you fucking matter to me, and it’s not fair that I’m doing this to you. That I have to. It’s not right.”

He has always believed he can share anything with Merlin, even let Merlin see glimpses of him in his other vulnerable times. But this: to have desired Merlin and have one of his deepest, darkest wishes granted in such a mocking and perverse fashion, making Merlin merely an accessory to satisfy his needs without regard for their ties and what lies between them – it’s not fair to either of them. 

Not to Arthur, because Merlin doesn’t know what he feels, doesn’t know that this means so much more to him than just a court sorcerer helping his king, and certainly not as the person who’s having to deal with the repercussions of needing Merlin to service him at his libido’s leisure. Even if it’s not his choice. And it’s not fair to Merlin, who’s gotten tangled up in Arthur’s mess as a loyal subject, a loyal friend, who is doing this out of his own sense of devotion without anything in return.

“I feel so helpless.” He pins Merlin’s hands above his head against a shelf, against thick tomes about warfare. The selfish anger and guilt is still simmering inside him, and he doesn’t let up, resting his forehead against Merlin’s even while Merlin doesn’t tear his eyes away from Arthur’s. Even after all this. “This is beyond my control. This is...”

“What is this about?” Merlin asks again, gentler now, close enough that his whisper carries like the loudest echo. “Arthur, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of—”

“No. No, it’s not that.” Arthur shakes his head, trying to put words to his muddled thoughts. “It’s not about rank. You are a very dear friend to me—” And more besides, but you don’t need to know that. “And no matter how you look at it, I’m using you. And you’re indulging me. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.” He lets go of Merlin’s arms, abashed at his explosion of temper. Not one of his finest moments.

“I know you’re going through a difficult time.” Merlin rests a hand on Arthur’s arm, rubbing gently at his skin through his tunic as if in forgiveness, for comfort. And it is comforting; Merlin’s presence itself is comforting, always, no matter how much he exasperates Arthur at times, but he suspects the feeling is mutual. “I wanted to help. I still do. But you have to let it go. I’ve searched for a cure, for some way to help alleviate your symptoms, and there’s nothing. We just have to ride this one out, Arthur.”

He flexes his fingers, planted firmly on either side of Merlin’s shoulders against the wood. “I’m sorry I’m putting you through this.”

“Don’t be.” Merlin smiles wanly, before he brightens the way he does when he’s about to tell a really lame joke. “I know I’m no pretty chambermaid, sire, but surely I’m not that unattractive a man that you are so repulsed.”

Arthur can appreciate the changing of a subject when he sees the need for it, unlike Merlin’s truly abysmal attempts at dodging his questions about the accounting for his potion materials. “Certainly not,” he replies, a smirk touching the corner of his lips, and he places a palm on Merlin’s chest. “You don’t have the bosom for it, to start.”

“What,” Merlin says, feigning outrage, catching Arthur’s wrist and pushing it inside the folds of his robes and against his loose tunic. “Feel these generous breasts! They are the envy of noblewomen all over the kingdom!”

“Merlin.” He can’t help the hysterical laughter that seizes him, makes his knees buckle so he’s falling forward with his face in Merlin’s neck, fist beating against the shelf. “Merlin, sometimes I think you’re a functioning adult, and then.”

“You started it!” Merlin accuses, but he’s laughing now too, his head thrown back and shaking against Arthur. “I’ll have you know it’s your fault, Arthur, your—”

His laughter stops abruptly when Arthur’s fingers accidentally brush against his nipple through the thin fabric.

“Oh,” Arthur says wonderingly. He can feel the small nub under his palm, and brings his fingers together to pinch it lightly, rubbing. It hardens under his touch, Merlin’s breathing coming faster above him.

“What are you doing?” Merlin murmurs, swallowing audibly, but not protesting. Not protesting, which in Arthur’s books is a good sign. Very good. Even if he’s not sure what it is he’s doing either.

“Hmm.” Feeling bolder, he slips his hand further inside Merlin’s robes, letting his nails graze down Merlin’s sides. “I don’t know.”

“Are you, ah.” The full-body shudder against him is delicious, and it’s as if that thrill of movement under his touch is what sets Arthur’s own nerves on fire, the hesitation melting away to be replaced with the fleeting, wild hope that perhaps Merlin, Merlin wants— “Are you sure?” 

“Why don’t you help me find out?” The rune flares to life, burning away whatever’s left of his control. He turns his head to mouth at Merlin’s neck, relishes in the little hitch of breath as Merlin squirms. “Hmm, Merlin?”

“Is that an invitation?” A soft chuckle from Merlin, and then a sigh when Arthur drops his hands to grip at Merlin’s hips, thumb toying with the terrible excuse of a belt he always has looped loosely there. It’s like the formal, court sorcerer version of Merlin’s once infamous neckerchief, which he still wears whenever he can get away with it until Arthur spots him and manhandles him until he takes it off (he really just wants to see Merlin’s neck laid bare and a teasing hint of shoulder, and enjoys the few times he can take advantage of his position to boss Merlin around when it comes to proper, official wear). 

He gives a stuttered moan when Arthur hitches his robes up and traces the trim of his breeches inside, rational thought deserting him and leaving only the need to explore, to touch, hands roving while he fastens his mouth on the slope of Merlin’s shoulder, sucking a bruise there because he can.

“Well, well.” The warm bulge his fingers skate over under the robes is an unexpected surprise. Arthur curves his hand against it, palm up, and cups it with a slow, slow stroke. “Look what I found.”

“Your gigantic ego?” Merlin may have meant for it to be sarcastic, but his bucking up into Arthur’s touch betrays him. 

“Not my ego, which isn't gigantic, thank you very much, but I did find something... very impressive.” The cock in his hand feels thick enough under layers of clothing, and Arthur bites down on his lip while he grins, getting harder just thinking about it inside him. He shifts so that his mouth is against Merlin’s ear, a dizzying change from the many times Merlin has done so over the last week, making sure to drag his teeth over an earlobe before he whispers the familiar words: “Do you want me to —”

Merlin’s reply to that is to groan and bury his fingers in Arthur’s hair before flipping their positions around with the briefest flicker of gold in his eyes, magic pinning Arthur’s arms above him again. No matter how he pushes his muscles to move, his fingers crooking as he struggles, he’s locked into place from the twin forces of Merlin’s power and the eagerness inside him that makes him spread his legs right there, begging without words into the sweaty curve of Merlin’s throat, attempts at playfulness and teasing forgotten at the rare, heady feeling of being overpowered.

“Fucking hell,” Merlin breathes. “The things you do to me.” 

And now it’s Merlin’s turn to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s wrists above his head before, God, before grinding against him. Arthur snaps his hips up, wanting to feel Merlin’s cock tease him with slick and heat between his thighs, pump himself to completion there and paint Arthur’s skin with his release before trailing an obscene path through it and stuffing his seed-coated fingers up Arthur’s arse, feeding it with come. “You taunt me. Tempt me.” The next thing he knows, Arthur’s breeches are undone and on the ground, and Merlin’s lifting one of his legs up to hook it around his skinny waist, robes sliding off his shoulders to reveal his thin clothes underneath and how aroused he is. “Oh, if I were a stronger man, Arthur. A better man. But I’m not.”

The sharp angles of Merlin’s limbs leave little room for purchase as Arthur clutches on to him, his crazed desire only climbing higher and higher when Merlin nudges at his knee to part his legs further. While Arthur moves a hand downwards again to stroke at Merlin’s cock through his breeches, Merlin reaches around to thrust two fingers inside Arthur where he’s already wet and dripping with slick, taking them in greedily. 

“Don’t need you to be a good man, Merlin,” Arthur says into Merlin’s ear, pitching his voice guttural and dark and deep, smirking privately when Merlin’s cock twitches against his fingers. “Just need you to fuck me.”

Cursing, Merlin slips another finger past Arthur’s clench, grabbing at his hair to pull him close and kiss him soundly.

They’ve gone through everything backwards. Arthur leans into it, takes in the play of teeth and tongue and hunger, moaning into Merlin’s mouth. “You’ve been driving me mad,” he whispers fiercely between breaths and the urgency of chasing Merlin’s lips. “I thought. I thought that you didn’t, thought it was just me—”

“Who thought it was a good idea to let you run a kingdom?” Merlin traces Arthur’s ear with his thumb, a fleeting rustle of touch. “You daft, beautiful man. How could you not have noticed?”

“I—ah!— resent that.” Fingers brush against his neck and scrape against his nape before tugging at his hair, covering the rune. The need thrumming low in his stomach intensifies, building to a fever pitch. “Idiot. You never said. Should’ve.” His arms are beginning to ache where they’re suspended tightly, a blissful kind of pain that Merlin proceeds to distract him from when he laves at the edge of Arthur’s jaw, light with stubble, trailing a wet path up to his earlobe. “You’re a little mad, you know. Mad, but wonderful.”

“Yeah?” An arm snakes under Arthur’s lifted knee again, and Merlin steps back so he can fully prop Arthur’s leg above his shoulder while he exercises the very judicious use of his magic to keep Arthur afloat, chained invisibly to the bookshelf and trying desperately to writhe against Merlin to take his fingers in deeper. Merlin obliges him, pressing forward so his leg over Merlin’s shoulder straightens out and those lovely, wicked fingers crook inside him. “Is that a good thing?”

“Well,” Arthur pants, tilting his head as Merlin bites up his neck, “I’m a little mad for you. So we’re even.”

It’s unfair how good Merlin has gotten at fingering him after just a few days. Granted, Arthur’s never had anyone else touch him there to speak of, and certainly not like this, but Merlin has become accustomed to the map of Arthur’s body from the waist down: he twists his fingers inside him to catch at that little spot of pleasure inside him that makes him cry out, a ceaseless fucking that Arthur never wants to end. “Just a little?”

“You’re insufferable. Shut up and fuck me,”  Arthur says, in what he hopes is his most regal voice of command imaginable considering the circumstances and the context of said command. He’s slowly grown to wean off his fear of magic over the years, and right now, he’s never been more grateful for how it allows him to lift his other leg to wrap it around Merlin’s waist, bringing him closer, tighter so that he’s just a breath away. “I want your cock.”

“How much?”

“What.” He lets out a whine despite himself when Merlin undoes his breeches and lines his cock up against Arthur’s hole, rubbing it gently around the rim and sliding between his parted cheeks. “Merlin, don’t fuck about—”

“I can do this for a while.” Deep, mischievous laughter and a mouth against his collarbone makes Arthur’s skin tingle. “C’mon, Arthur.” He resumes fingerfucking Arthur until the slick is dripping down between his legs. Dripping and wet like a girl. That shouldn’t make Arthur feel as aroused as it does. “How much d’you want me to fuck you?”

“I can’t believe you.” Getting his hands free to throttle Merlin would be great right about now; Arthur opens his mouth to voice as much, but Merlin lends a particularly wicked twist to his fingers inside, pressing up against somewhere inside him that makes Arthur arch his back against the shelf and sink down a little more on his fingers. “Oh. God, that’s good. Yeah.”

“The way you sound, Arthur. Mmm.” Arthur’s kissed again, sloppy, with all the persistent and avid enthusiasm of an inexperienced teenager Merlin probably secretly is that more than makes up for it. That’s just fine with Arthur; the idea of maybe being the first man that Merlin’s taken like this, kissed like this makes something triumphant and possessive burn inside him. “I’ve only really been with women. And not many,” Merlin says, as if imparting some guilty secret, placing a gentle hand on Arthur’s face. “Certainly not a man. Tell me if I’m— if I hurt you. If you want me to stop.”

“You won’t hurt me.” He knows this, knows how prepared he is, how ready he is to take in the hint of what he’d felt earlier, the blunt, delicious pressure of Merlin’s cockhead, and how much he wants it now. “I can take it, Merlin. Please.”

“Well, if I can make you say please...” Merlin slides his fingers out abruptly, dragging a sharp breath out of Arthur that ends in a moan, and then there’s Merlin’s cock nudging against him, hot and wet and teasing in at the tip and nowhere near enough until he pushes in, in, in, easy as you please, filling Arthur up slowly. “Oh. Oh, fuck, look at you. Taking me in like that, like—”

“Mm, yes. Yes.” It’s strange, having someone inside him, being joined to Merlin like this. Arthur rests his head back against the shelf, trying to catch his stolen breath as he adjusts to the feeling, clenching down experimentally on Merlin’s cock. Merlin grabs at one of the shelves above their heads for support, brushing against Arthur’s fingers and links their hands together while he moves, lets Arthur take more of him, lets Arthur take him deep. “More. Merlin, that’s just.” He lets out a rough groan when Merlin bottoms out inside him and stills. "Don't stop."

"M'not," Merlin murmurs, reaching down to cup Arthur's arse, pulling him closer so Arthur sinks down a little more on his cock. It's glorious. "Slow down. Let's take it easy, or I won't last."

“I need—” His eyes half-closed with the pleasure of it, Arthur strains to lean forward, moans against Merlin’s mouth, nipping at his lips and locking his legs around Merlin’s waist to drive him deeper. “Need.”

“Okay. Okay, Arthur.” Complying, Merlin starts a sweet slide out, before pushing back in, milking every second and passing sensation as he takes Arthur apart, slowly. “I’ve got you. Is this all right?”

Beyond talking now, Arthur tilts his head to bite at Merlin’s neck, hoping that’s answer enough as he tugs gently at skin between his teeth, sucking and wishing possessively to bruise, to mark. 

It works; Merlin groans something unintelligible and rubs a thumb over his lips, easing it in so Arthur can lave at it with his tongue. He does, drawing it into the wet warmth of his mouth, beyond shame or dignity now when he rocks back down against Merlin’s cock, matching his steady, gradual thrusts. 

“Too slow,” he urges, biting his lip as Merlin keeps him in place, hips rolling forward, every movement making Arthur’s hard cock jerk and smear against his stomach. “Faster.”

“No.” Merlin licks up the shell of Arthur’s ear, staying there and breathing heavily, still fucking him leisurely like he could do it for hours. “It’s... I’ve been thinking about this. For a while. It’s our first time together, so let me have this. Let me make it last. Make it special.”

Arthur huffs, frustrated, needing more but not able to have it, but something melts inside him at the fierce sincerity of Merlin’s words. “Sweet talker. You’re just a gigantic tease, s’what you are.”

“Oh, sire.” Merlin smiles against his cheek, and the promise in his voice makes a thrill run down Arthur’s spine. “You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

He makes Arthur come all over himself after, cock hard and untouched, white splatters catching at his chin. Arthur could swear he feels his arousal hitching again when Merlin licks his seed off the side of his jaw, licking his lips like he’d just had a too-sweet honeycomb and would like some more.

“Nothing?” Arthur pants, slumping bonelessly against the bookshelf, his knees failing him until Merlin supports him to the bed and deposits him gracelessly there, facedown with his unlaced tunic and naked arse in the air. All fucked out. “Do I even want to know?”

“Hmm?” He’s dragged to the side of the bed proper, and the wave of pleasure exhaustion that crashes over him is so sudden and heavy that even burying his face in his pillow takes a few moments to orchestrate. “You might. If we do this again.” A pause, and then Merlin’s voice shifts; softer, uncertain. “We don’t have to, you know.”

Arthur looks up to where Merlin’s sitting next to him, hands tucked in his lap. “You...” He extends a hand to Merlin, who takes it, and then Arthur yanks so that Merlin falls on him and the bed, an elbow digging into Arthur’s ribs briefly before he slides off and rests on his side. “I told you I wanted you to. Probably for as long as you have.”

“Wasn’t it just the magic talking, Arthur?” Merlin’s shirt is loose, so Arthur slips his hand inside because he can, tracing the little sliver of pale skin he can see, edging nearer to Merlin so they’re flush against each other. “I thought...”

He must’ve made that assumption after they’d wound down, blinking and taking everything around them in sudden startling clarity, as you do after a particularly good bout of sex. And with how the magic has been making him act, Arthur can’t blame Merlin for thinking that. “No. I meant what I said.” Pushing disorderly black curls away, Arthur presses his lips to Merlin’s forehead. “Why I pined after you of all people is anyone’s guess. Your manners are appalling, you’re the most insubordinate, mouthy idiot I know...” 

“You pined for me?” Merlin smiles, that cheeky little dimpled smile that had taken eight years for Arthur to perk up his day, two to make him realise that maybe Merlin wasn’t up to no good whenever he smiled at Arthur like that (although he often was), one to stop feeling like wiping it off with a well-placed noogie because he couldn’t fathom what peculiar little kick to his heart Merlin was making him feel and yeah, okay, maybe he’d noticed from the very beginning that it was a little bit adorable. 

“You’re good at your magic, though,” Arthur admits between kissing down Merlin’s stupid, grinning face that’s become so dear to him. “A small mercy. You’re a lot better as a sorcerer than you are as a manservant.” He lets his lips linger on Merlin’s closed eyelids, breathing him in. “Can you even clean your boots properly without magic, Merlin?”

“You pined for me.” 

The cheeky little shit sounds gleeful now, and Arthur leans down to cup Merlin’s face and bite at his lips for being his usual insolent self. They’re as kissable as he’s always thought they would be, so he leans in for a taste before brushing his lips against Merlin’s chin, a little prickly now with stubble. “Whatever. Maybe. You don’t need to harp on about it.”

“Why not?” Merlin murmurs, grin still in place. “After you stopped being an ass to me you managed occasional moments of being nice. And I thought to myself, hey, maybe the clotpole’s not so bad after all.”

“Excuse me?”

The rumble of laughter in Merlin’s throat against Arthur’s lips is pleasant, and he nuzzles at the angular jut down to his collarbones, drowsy with the comforting warmth of it until Merlin speaks again. “You’re still terrible, most days. Such a bully. Only it’s your court sorcerer getting bullied now and not your manservant.”

“Slander and treason.”

“Not if it’s true.” Merlin curls his fingers in Arthur’s hair as well, teasing gently at the skin of his scalp until he’s touching Arthur’s nape. For once, the rune is completely silent but for a hum of contented magic that seeps lazily through Arthur’s veins like wine, lulling him into this space between wakefulness and sleep. “I’m only half-joking. You’re really a lot better now as king.” Moving down the bed to take Arthur more tightly in his arms, Merlin kisses him. “I’m proud of you. There’s no other I would so readily swear such fealty to.”

“Oh, Merlin.” He returns Merlin’s smile against his lips, and chuckles softly. “Shall I shed a tear for ceremony?”

“Idiot,” is the last thing Arthur remembers Merlin fondly saying while still stroking his hair, the first stirrings of dreams drifting to claim him.

His eyes aren’t even open yet, and he’s not even sure why he’s awake. Arthur stretches out against the bed with half a mind to go back to sleep, arching back against the lazy pocket of heat under his blanket.

“Aren’t you the picture of sunshine?” Comes an amused voice in his room, and it’s credit to his sheer self-restraint that he doesn’t let his reflexes take over to swing at the source before he sees it’s Merlin, partly huddled underneath the blankets still with Arthur’s cock against his cheek and his tongue trailing up the length all the way to the top. “It’s just me.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur says, his heart hammering for a completely different reason than alarm, toes curling at the wanton image in front of him. “This isn’t a typical morning greeting. What’s the occasion?”

“Must there be a reason to celebrate your morning glory?” Merlin sucks briefly at the tip, parting Arthur’s legs further to brush at his hole, still wet with Merlin’s come and the slick inside. 

“Did you just – forget whatever I said before about making you a royal jester, your puns are abhorrent.” It’s been too long since he’s had someone’s mouth, and the wet enveloping heat of it and Merlin’s rubbing at where he’s been fucked last night makes him squirm. He’s already hard, his cock leaking, and so is his –

Two fingers in, as always, and Arthur accepts them readily now with barely a stutter in his breath, reaching down with his hands to part his legs and hold up his knees in the air for Merlin. “Yeah, ah. Ah.”

Merlin kisses down to his stones, laving at the hot, secret skin under while he twists. “Think I could slide my cock into you like this, Arthur?” Pulling out, three fingers now, teasing out all the come and fluids from their coupling the night before and making Arthur messy with it, getting on the sheets and his skin. He’s never had someone inside him before, to have someone spend inside him like that, steady spurts of seed filling him up good and dirty and hot, trickling down his thighs after when he’s sore and empty. Oh, but he wants it again, wants Merlin to take him like that again and again until he can’t anymore.  

His fingers are replaced with his cock, sliding in, hell, and it feels so good like this on his back, Merlin pushing all the way in with both of Arthur’s legs over his shoulders and it’s deep, full and deep and glorious. “Move,” Arthur says, hungry for it already, feeling his clench pulse with slick, ready to take Merlin. “You useless sorcerer.”

Drawing back, Merlin pulls out until his cockhead’s just inside Arthur, before he shoves in again, a lazy thrust at an angle, his hips circling. Arthur cups at Merlin’s neck, locking him in place there as Merlin shuffles his knees on the bed, fucking slowly into him while he parts Arthur’s arsecheeks further, teasing at the rim. Even some women hadn’t welcomed him so readily when Arthur had lain with them, because they weren’t wet enough for him, for his cock. Whatever the rune’s done to him is clearly both a curse and a blessing, but he’d still like to punch Paden or someone in the face for all the fuss this has generated, even if he’s got something – someone – great out of it.

 “Not so useless now, mm?” Merlin says, teasing more slick and come out of Arthur, spreading it down from his arse to his balls, heavy and full as he plays with them. “Is this,” he continues, breath hitching when he rolls his hips forward again to make Arthur arch back, yeah, makes Arthur feel torn in three different places at once with the lust and the fullness and the sheer exhilarating disbelief that it’s Merlin doing this to him, Merlin’s mouth and hands and hard cock inside him, “this what you wanted then, hmm? Yeah?” 

He pulls at Arthur’s cock, palm sloppy with the both of them, licking into Arthur’s mouth. Merlin’s not a very good kisser, not like some of the noblewomen he’s had, but he’s a fast learner; already he’s learning the dips of Arthur’s tongue, nibbling at Arthur’s lip the way he does Merlin’s when they kiss, urging him gently over the edge as he continues fucking through Arthur’s shudders, swallows all of Arthur’s moans.

“That was even better than,” Arthur manages, looking up at the ceiling when Merlin slips out of him with a slippery sigh of a sound, resting his head against Arthur’s chest. “Even better than when we did it against the bookshelf.”

“You do have a nice bed,” Merlin concedes, patting the sex-soaked sheets around them as if to make a point. “It’s a lot more comfortable than standing up.”

“Why are you so good at this?” He turns over to narrow his eyes at Merlin a little accusingly, but Merlin just looks unrepentant. And a little smug. “You said you’d not been with a lot of women!”

“No, but apparently I’m not too bad of a lover.” Merlin trails the back of his knuckles down Arthur’s chest, catching at his hair, and pinches a nipple firmly. Oversensitised, Arthur can’t help but buck his hips up, and Merlin smirks. “Maybe it’s time for you to admit there’re some things I’m just naturally good at.”

Arthur presses his lips to Merlin’s hair, pressing a hand to the base of his spine and inching his fingers down to linger over Merlin’s tailbone because he can. Merlin shivers against him, too. “And I’ve not been with a man either,” Arthur says, tracing his fingers up and down the long, sensual curve of Merlin’s back, smiling to himself. “But maybe I’ve got a knack for these things too.”

“Fine, you competitive bastard. Does it really matter, anyway? If we’re both good at it, everyone wins.”

“My father didn’t have me out of wedlock,” is his absent reply, but he pulls Merlin up his body with one arm, liking the way Merlin blinks at him like he didn’t expect that. Merlin might have his magic, but Arthur’s still one of the most skilled warriors in the realm, with strength in him yet. “You know...” He slides his hand down to Merlin’s arse, pushing Merlin’s legs apart with his knee, and slips a finger into the little cleft there, feeling Merlin’s breath catch. “I could try fucking you next time. I’ll have to take my time with you, but I’ll open you up for me. Maybe with my tongue, I’ve heard people do that like when they pleasure a woman.”

Arthur doesn’t need to ask Merlin if he likes the idea; his cock twitching against his thigh is answer enough, and Arthur rubs up against it, stroking it with his palm up. “You’re insatiable,” he whispers into Merlin’s ear, secretly delighted. He’s not as lust-addled as he was the previous night, and the sudden clarity of mind allows him to lick down Merlin’s chest now, mouth over his stomach and down to his long, hard cock, which is even more of a picture in the morning sunlight. 

This time, it’s his turn to make Merlin scream.

Arthur doesn’t have to lead the drills or assign patrols these days, having long given the responsibility to Leon, so he takes a walk with Merlin instead around the castle after his other events for the day are done and he can enjoy his rare evening off. Even if he has to keep from wincing with every other second step or so.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mutters from the corner of his mouth, but he’s fighting back a smile, looking right ahead as he walks a few steps behind Arthur.

“No, you’re not.” And why should he be, after a night of unexpected and fantastic sex, followed by another morning fuck and then some? Merlin had been sweet with him, really, so tentative and slow, but even with the magic thrown in the mix Arthur supposes his arse has its limits. His own face is hurting from the effort to keep a straight face, though, because he’s never felt this contented in a long time. 

He turns around and sees Merlin’s gaze drifting downwards. “Are you – are you looking at my arse?”

“Those are some very tight trousers you have on, sire,” Merlin says, completely innocent. His biting down on his lip thoughtfully betrays him. “Really frames your royal... curvature.”

Shaking his head, Arthur keeps walking. “And how long have you been appreciating my royal curvature, o depraved one?”

There’s a considerable pause as Merlin hmmms and haws. “You have been awfully fit for quite a number of years, it’s hard to say. But you were too much of a prat back in the day for the royal curvature to hold much appeal, as I keep telling you.” They’re in a quieter corner of the castle,and this time of day all the bustling about is downstairs, but Merlin sneaks a quick look around them anyway before moving close to squeeze Arthur’s arse. “Now, though? It’s just fine.”

“I’m still fit.” Arthur chuckles, wondering how subtle Merlin must’ve been for him to not have noticed his interest. Or how blind he was, if Merlin had ever made any overtures. Any at all. “And I wasn’t that bad,” he teases, taking Merlin’s hand in his own. His hands are softer these days, what with spending more time at court, poring over books and making strange things in his new, scary-looking cauldron; a far cry from when the days where he still had to do his chores by hand under Arthur’s supervision without resorting to magic levitating and cleaning his armour while he lazed about.

“I beg to differ.” Merlin curls his fingers around Arthur’s,  pressing them together briefly before he stops Arthur in his tracks, a questioning hand on his arm. “How are you feeling? Honestly.”

“Just a little sore,” he admits, liking the way that brings a light flush to Merlin’s cheeks. “I’ve never – you had your fingers so often in me, but having your cock was different, last night. At least the... urges don’t come so intensely now.” They’re softer, insistent pushes at the back of Arthur’s mind, getting him slick enough to feel it and long to be filled. They don’t send him into a frenzy of want like before, they don’t make him want to pull Merlin aside and make him touch him there for hours, just moving those long fingers in and out of him with no cruel end in sight. “You helped, though, earlier.”

“When I was under the table?” Merlin smirks, pulling Arthur towards a window where the muted sounds of a typical Camelot evening are rolling in like a wave. “Your cock in my mouth, your arse full of my fingers. No one catching on.”

Arthur’s not sure if he should be insulted on behalf of his court for being so unobservant that no one noticed Merlin slipping away into the shadows when Arthur had prompted him, an urgent squeeze on his knee, returning so utterly unremarkable and nearly invisible to the eye that even Arthur had started a little when the tablecloth had rustled beneath him and his knees were being parted with his laces undoing themselves. But then Merlin had taken the head of his cock into his mouth to still him, had pulled his breeches down just enough to expose him and hold up one of his legs so that he could twist his fingers in.

All of this, while eleven of his lords and ladies were carrying on about Camelot’s taxes and new measures for coping with droughts and excessive snowfall. Sure, the only person who sits close enough to Arthur at these things is Merlin, but really, how could they not have seen Arthur’s lips part while he struggled not to speak, how he was digging his fingers into the edges of the table while Merlin worked him ruthlessly, licking down to his bollocks and punching the breath out of his too-aroused, shameless king who even arched his back at one point because he couldn’t help himself?

Unobservant is putting it mildly.

“I think you’re beginning to enjoy this a bit too much.” Arthur frowns, tapping at Merlin’s forehead like a reprimand, the situation and the weight of it rushing back over him. “Don’t doubt that I enjoy what you do to me, but the circumstances of which these... happen...” 

Merlin sombers. “I know. You wouldn’t have asked me, if you weren’t truly desperate.” When Arthur opens his mouth, worried, Merlin claps a hand over it. “No, I know now you feel the same way. It’s exciting, the things we’ve been doing, but I’d rather it just be you. You, you. Without being under the tattoo’s influence.”

“Yes.” They’ve not been friends for years for nothing; Merlin can occasionally read him well, like a book. Other times, he’s just a drifting cloud of dreamy bewilderment, especially after he’s tried some of his potions he’s concocting from scratch, reminding Arthur fondly – and a little exasperatedly – of all their hunting trips where Merlin shooed game off by mistake because he just couldn’t get the grasp of any of Arthur’s hand gestures which had been perfectly comprehensible, thank you very much. “Merlin, you know...” Arthur hesitates, wondering how to word this. “Isn’t there some way to relieve it? Maybe something temporary, so you wouldn’t have to do it? Because it’s so risky.”

“Like a spell?” Merlin asks, folding his arms and leaning against the frame of the window, his loose sleeves billowing a little in the breeze. Standing closer, Arthur holds the sill for support, leaning in to nuzzle at Merlin’s ear. “I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re healing, and the effects are wearing off. I don’t want to impede the process or make it worse.”

He has a point. “Say it’s not magic then.” He kisses the side of Merlin’s jaw, liking the curve over Merlin’s cheekbones there. “Right. But I can’t do it myself.”

Merlin cups his face, just stroking Arthur’s cheeks carefully and lingering with his fingers over certain spots as if he’s something fragile. Beautiful. If Arthur had been but a little younger, he would’ve teased Merlin for it, made a joke of it. But he has changed, things have changed; he just holds his breath, overwhelmed, while Merlin maps the contours of his face with the reassuring touch of his fingers, sweeping over his brow. 

“I’ll think of something,” Merlin says, finally just resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “I want to make things easier for you.”

“Thank you.” He wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, pulling him close and kissing him. “It’s fine if we don’t – if we keep doing this. I can handle it a while longer.”

Shaking his head, Merlin sighs. “I know. But I can’t imagine what it’s like not being able to want to have sex on your own terms, to be compelled like that. And when the situation isn’t conducive... no, Arthur. I’ll find an answer.”

He smiles, licking at the side of Merlin’s mouth, words coming out tender. “Don’t pressure yourself. I don’t have faith in you keeping your room clean, but I know if there’s anyone who can find a workaround for this... it’s you.”

“Always with the backhanded compliments.”

“You love them.”

“I never said that,” Merlin says indignantly, bursting into laughter.

Arthur drags him away by the sleeve so they can get back to his chambers.

“You never need to.”

Three days later with Merlin’s ‘workaround’ in his arse as he strides around the field yelling at his knights and correcting techniques with a firm hand but wavering voice, Arthur doesn’t know if he should be amazed at Merlin’s ingenuity or disgruntled.

“Princess,” Gwaine says slowly, backing away a little as Arthur barks at some new hapless knight to ‘bloody swing that thing like you’re supposed to, is that sword just for decoration or do you need me to withdraw your knighthood?!’ He tilts his head. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Fine. I’m fine,” Arthur grits out, storming away and knocking a sword out of a squire’s hand, feeling petty. It could be worse, though; at least he’d made an excuse to not actually train, citing a sprain. It might as well be, with the small wooden phallus in him that moves in him whenever he so much as shifts the balls of his feet. He didn’t need Merlin’s attention the day before after Merlin had coughed and showed him the smooth, carved plug, blushing and saying he really needed to get some herbs away from Camelot, because his bloody apprentices couldn’t tell one green plant from another, so would Arthur be okay?

He’d nodded fervently, granting his permission for Merlin to ride, secretly missing Merlin a little already even before he’d left. Arthur, though, of all people, understands the importance of duties and needing to attend to responsibilities no one else can. They’d fucked before Merlin left, a slow dance of skin and tongues on Arthur’s rug in front of the fire, and then Arthur had woken up with the blasted thing in him all tight and delicious and locking Merlin’s seed in.

Yes, he’d been fine. Ecstatic, even, at the solution Merlin had thought up — for all of ten hours. Maybe less.

The stimulation had helped, for a while. It had soothed him, let him forget about his condition. A comforting and arousing, pleasant touch, really, that had eventually become too much and yet not enough as he kept walking, becoming steadily oversensitised, feeling his clench pulse more and more slick around the plug so it moved more easily inside him with accidental, lazy thrusts if he sat down, if he walked.

He’s going to fucking killMerlin. Well, all right, he’s going to bloody fuck Merlin, make him fuck Arthur into the mattress until he can’t walk and maybe even have a go at keeping him helpless and writhing for hours or something as revenge for this entire debacle. And then he’ll kill him.

No matter what Arthur does, he’s ruined for his own touch. The relief he feels when he takes himself in hand and fingers himself roughly at night on his bed is weak, inadequate, even if he spills twice a night and gets his sheets wet from his seed and the dribbling fluids from his clench, the phallus lying innocently next to him after he’d tried futilely to get it deeper inside himself, make it reach that spot Merlin found and abuses with unerring accuracy these days to render Arthur into a moaning, trembling mess. He’d glared at it every morning, knowing he’d have to put it back in to cope with the unfortunate timing of the fickle rune’s magic otherwise, hating and loving what it does to him in Merlin’s absence.

He’s about to take the turning down the corridor to his room before he realises his arms are decidedly empty and without the oil he’d needed for polishing some of his weapons back in his room. Petyr usually does it, but Arthur needs the therapeutic calm of getting his swords back into shape and the scrape of whetstone against blade to still him. Distract him. The walk to the armoury is full of discomfort and shame, the small phallus-shaped plug inside him reminding him of all that he could having inside him and what is, of course, very conspicuously not inside him at the moment.

When he’s corked the large vial he’d taken with him to the armoury, trapping cool oil in the webbing of his fingers in his haste, Arthur sees the wooden swords behind a rack, just under the large shields emblazoned with the red and gold of Camelot’s dragon and her fire. And he hesitates.

The armoury’s too public, he tells himself, even as he finds himself walking over to the swords of his own volition. Anyone could walk in. His gloved hand shakes as he closes it around one of the swords with finer craftsmanship. It’s smoother, he can see, even through the leather of his gloves, and the impossible idea that’s taken root in his mind grows more wicked and appealing by the minute.

He makes the decision in all of four seconds, shaking off the embarrassment and the stoic warrior he’s sure he’d been just this morning, making quick work of shucking his breeches down and yanking out the phallus with a hiss, letting it fall to the side, forgotten. Arthur spreads a palm against the wall for support, pumping three fingers inside himself to stretch his hole where it’s still tender from the night before, the soft squelching noises terribly loud in the still, metallic silence of the armoury. 

A part of him’s thrilled, another still somewhat scandalised that he’s doing this, and another’s smug and turning up its nose at Merlin, Merlin who was supposed to be back this morning and is nowhere in sight, Merlin who is so clearly missing out on all the fun that Arthur’s going to be having without him. 

The rack’s the wrong height for Arthur to fuck back against it, so he just takes the wooden sword and, with a deep breath, spills the polishing oil over it as he slinks down the wall, resting his head back and parting his shaking, sweating thighs. Normally, Arthur’d be the one fiercely chastising his knights or their squires for wasting perfectly good oil, but he’s probably quite sure they’ve never had to deal with magical side-effects that required them to be spread apart and fucked constantly with fingers or cock or tongue. He can be excused, just this once. Arthur closes his eyes and tries to breathe, pants and moans spilling from his throat as the slick wooden sword hilt breaches him, works him open, hard and thick and just what Arthur needs now.

“Merlin,” he groans, wondering if Merlin would work him like this, would fuck him open with a sword hilt or the phallus or another object while Arthur could get his mouth on his cock, choke on it. The thoughts are filthy, shocking him, but he’s too far gone with the torture of the past afternoons, making him feel like he’s up for anything, would do anything for the release that only Merlin can grant him. The edge of the wooden blade isn’t sharp, and it’s thick enough for Arthur to hold on to near the crudely carved guard, pushing it deeper inside himself and pulling out again before thrusting at an angle, his hungry hole taking it in easily with the slick and oil.

The sloppy, wet sounds of the sword hilt inside his arse completely mask the sound of the door to the armoury opening — a whisper of a creak.

“Sire?” Someone murmurs, just when Arthur’s circling his wrist for a particularly deep thrust and arches his back with his knees spreading wider, his entire body freezing in shock. 

Fuck.

He tries to keep still, as still as he can with the sword inside him, hopes to all deities of the Old Religion and New that his dark tunic and even darker corner are hidden enough. They probably are, to people who aren’t looking for them. Then again, Arthur’s quite certain nobody actually goes to the armoury looking for the king breathing heavily with a sword hilt up his arse, his legs wide open like he’d take that and another cock inside him besides if he could.

All right, his imagination isn’t helping.

His fingers, trembling on the hilt, slip so that he accidentally pushes it further in, up and inside him, the guard just brushing the bottom of his balls hanging heavy and tight with the need to come. Biting down on his hand, Arthur moans, snapping his eyes shut as the mortification fills him. There’s no way the intruder won’t notice, he—

“Where are—” a familiar swish of sweeping robes, and then Merlin’s walking around the rack, looking around and looking lost until he finally takes in what’s been in front of him all along. Arthur could throttle him for the panic he’s still feeling in his chest, his heart thudding like a rabbit’s from fear and arousal both, but he’s too dazed from it to think right now. 

“Arthur, fuck, Arthur, are you all right?” Merlin kneels down in front of him, cheeks flushed as he averts his eyes and swallows, cupping Arthur’s face. When Arthur just leans in to kiss him fiercely, he thinks he sees Merlin’s gaze following the play of sunlight to where the phallus is on the floor, filthy with slick. “Oh. Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Arthur snarls, pulling Merlin down so he tumbles between Arthur’s legs, robes falling askew and his lips parted in surprise. “This is all your fucking fault.”

“You said you would be fi— mmph!” He’s not in a mood for talking, so Arthur kisses him again, biting, licking hotly into it and yanking at Merlin’s hair to control the kiss, feels Merlin going boneless beneath his fingers. Rocking up with the hilt still inside him to grind his cock against Merlin’s, he tugs impatiently at Merlin’s robes and hisses, “Get them off. Get them off, Merlin, or so help me—”

“Fine,” Merlin gasps, glaring at him, eyes flaring as the robes fall away and the door to the armoury slams shut, the sound of it being bolted with magic music to Arthur’s ears. Their clothes fall away, laces magically undoing themselves and falling into a useless pile, but Arthur’s only concerned with the vast expanse of bare skin in front of him right now and what’s between Merlin’s legs, hanging long and hard and wet at the tip where he needs to taste so badly now he could kill something. “So fucking— bossy—”

“Fuck me. Need you to fuck me. It wasn’t enough, damn you, I’ve spent the last few days needing you. Need your cock,” he says in a frenzy, pulling the edge of the hilt out with a pop and turning them both around on the cold stone floor so he’s got Merlin’s arms pinned where he’s seated haphazardly on the floor, and his legs on either side of Merlin’s thighs while he writhes in Merlin’s lap. “Yeah. God, needed you.”

He spreads his slick hands on Merlin’s chest, biting down on his lower lip as he braces himself and seats himself on Merlin’s cock where it’s jutting out tempting and gorgeous between Merlin’s legs, pushes down until he can feel Merlin bottoming out inside him, the blunt and full pressure of it such a relief that he actually cries out, circles his hips.

“You. Arthur, oh, Arthur, God, I was thinking about you, wondering if you’d—” And now Merlin’s babbling, just when Arthur needs him to do some fucking work with his cock. How typical. He moves on his knees and slams back down again on Merlin’s cock, his own prick bobbing red and flushed against his stomach, and that at least works in shutting Merlin up, who begins to moan against Arthur’s chest instead, sucking bruises there and curling his fingers around Arthur’s arse, helping to lift Arthur up and push him back down to meet Merlin’s thrusts. It turns Arthur on so fucking much that Merlin is so much stronger than he looks, even if you’d never have guessed it from how lean he seems in his robes.

“Merlin,” he says, lifting himself off, a little breathless when he sees the string of slick, sticky wetness from his arse dripping down to Merlin’s cock, wanting without knowing why or what. “Merlin, you’ve never — I want your mouth. Lick me there. Yeah. Please.”

“Are you,” Merlin begins, sounding flabbergasted and lost and terribly aroused. Good. That’s exactly how Arthur wants him. All the time. “Yes. Fuck, yes, turn around.”

God, his hole is so tender and used, in all the best ways. Arthur does as he’s told while Merlin lies down, changing his position so his arse is in Merlin’s face and his hands are white-knuckled and tight, clutching at Merlin’s knees for whatever little support and encouragement knees can give, which isn’t a lot. “Fuck me,” Arthur says, shivering when Merlin parts his cheeks and he leans forward, knees giving out, face brushing the side of Merlin’s still-erect cock, “with your tongue.”

Trust Merlin to obey quickly when sex is involved. He breathes over Arthur’s quivering hole, mouths at Arthur’s balls while gently tugging at them.  “I’ve never done this,” he admits, tracing a wet finger over the rim, before licking experimentally around it and making Arthur groan. “But I’ll be damned if I haven’t thought about it.”

“So do it.”

Merlin spreads his legs and reaches for his cock, angling and stroking the head against Arthur’s lips. “You talk too much too, sire. While I’m attending to you, why not do something useful with that pretty mouth of yours?”

Leaning down, Arthur shoots Merlin a glare from between his legs, seeing Merlin wink at him upside down. “I’ll show you useful,” he vows, mirroring the way Merlin’d tugged at his balls and closing his lips just around the head of Merlin’s cock, pulling the skin back.

His chuckle slipping into a moan, Merlin dips his tongue in, fingers spreading Arthur’s cheeks open. Arthur’s knees actually buckle a little at that first, shocking tingle of warm wetness there, completely unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s taken as encouragement, apparently, because Merlin delves in with his nose brushing against Arthur’s skin, pushing his tongue deeper.

“Ah,” he groans softly, grip faltering around Merlin’s prick as Merlin circles his tongue inside him, pulling out to lap briefly and wetly with a sucking sound before thrusting the tip of his tongue into Arthur again without warning. “God, that’s just.” He flicks his tongue over the slit as Merlin hums in pleasure, legs trembling as he keeps himself from bucking up into Arthur’s mouth. “More.”

His hole’s completely wet and slick from how aroused he is now, he can feel it through the nearly forgotten, faded echoes of the rune’s magic and Merlin’s lips rubbing against him, the foreign and intimate pressure of a tongue there. It makes his face heat, trying to imagine how he must look like to Merlin like this, spread open with fingers exposing the tender crease of his pucker, all but begging Merlin to fuck him with his tongue with every movement of his body: from his grinding back against Merlin’s mouth, his bitten-off moans,  the rolling of his hips.

Merlin keeps him like that for a while, spit dripping down his hole and to his balls while he licks into and around him in different patterns, even sucking a little which makes Arthur dizzy with it. The combined feeling of Merlin’s cock pushing into his mouth and the clever tongue inside him is almost too much, but then Merlin pulls away and pulls at Arthur’s cock, guiding it to his lips.

Arthur nearly protests, until he feels the blunt and familiar weight of the phallus pushing against his entrance, making him gasp. At least, he thinks so, until Merlin keeps thrusting it in, and he doesn’t remember it being this fucking long, because he wouldn’t have been able to walk around with it inside him. “What—”

“I made something for you,” Merlin says, breathless, sucking one of Arthur’s balls into his mouth, teeth grazing lightly over it by accident and feeling absolutely fucking amazing. “When I was away, when I was in the forest and thinking of you touching yourself. Carved this out of magic, made it smooth, thought about fucking you with it while I suck you.”

“Thought you went there to — ah! — collect herbs and do your sorcerous job, not wank yourself stupid thinking of putting things in my arse.” It’s smooth and blunt inside him, this wooden cock, and Merlin pushes it in at a different angle each time, testing out the drag against his sweet spot that makes Arthur bite down on his lip. “Told you. Useless.”

“This,” Merlin murmurs, licking all the way up Arthur’s cock, “says otherwise.”

“You can be useless and good in bed.” Shameless now, Arthur parts his legs further, rubbing his cock against the flat of Merlin’s tongue. “The two are not mutually exclusive.”

Merlin snorts and starts fucking him faster with it, sealing his lips around Arthur’s cock and sucking, hard. It’s really too much now, so Arthur gives up all pretense of being able to concentrate on returning the favour and just collapses in the cradle of Merlin’s skinny hips, struggling to breathe with Merlin taking him apart. 

“Fuck, ah. Ah. Ah, Merlin, Merlin –”

He breaks, sighing Merlin’s name over and over again into the soft space where Merlin’s thigh meets his hipbone, shaking through it as Merlin pulls off, catching some of Arthur’s spill on his tongue, the rest of it landing on Merlin’s chest and stomach. Merlin keeps him upright, hands tight around his thighs, with the phallus still large and blunt inside him, mouth coaxing Arthur through his release until his cock stops pulsing and Merlin’s sucked him dry.

It doesn’t stop there. Merlin runs his fingers through the come on his chest, gathering it up and pressing at the edges of Arthur’s hole, still stuffed and tender with the wooden cock inside him. “What have you done to me?” Merlin murmurs, sounding dazed, pulling it out.

“Now you know how I feel.” To distract Merlin, Arthur takes him in hand. It doesn’t take many strokes until Merlin’s coming, cursing and gripping at Arthur’s hips so tightly he thinks they might bruise. “God, I really want to fuck you. Wish I could see you the way you see me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur growls, turning around quickly to hold Merlin’s hands above his head this time, slamming them down against the cold stone floor. Merlin whimpers a little, and fuck if Arthur doesn’t want to hear that again, preferably when he’s fucking it out of him. “I’m not done with you. We’re going back to my chambers, and then I’m going to have you at my mercy this time.”

“Taking advantage of your helpless, naked sorcerer now?”

“There’s nothing helpless about you,” Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes as Merlin holds up a hand, making a wind whip up around them—

—and then they’re tumbling onto Arthur’s bed, feet kicking pillows out of the way until Arthur rolls over with his weight on Merlin, breathless, his mouth open. “That was a judicious exercise of your magical abilities, was it, Lord Emrys?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Merlin whinges, biting his lip and spreading his legs to wrap them around Arthur’s waist, pushing up with the serpentine arch of his back. Pulling Merlin’s hands away from him to pin them at his sides, Arthur grinds down for more of that impossible, wonderful friction, taking them in hand together.  “Go on, you brute.”

“Y’know, Merlin?” Arthur narrows his eyes at Merlin and licks at his fingers, still wet from what’s trickling down between his legs. “Just for that, I’m going to make you beg for it.”

“Well, well, well.”

Lying on his stomach in his little corner of the woods, tucked inside the shadows of branches and trees, Paden beams down at the small scrying wooden bowl in front of him as he sees Camelot’s ruler hoist Emrys’ legs over his shoulders in the water, smirking, murmuring something that makes Emrys blush and look away, his lips parted. 

He scribbles something on a leaf of parchment, chuckling when the surface of the water in the bowl ripples just as Arthur starts fucking Emrys so hard the headboard starts thumping against the wall in the shimmering image. He wasn’t expecting this today when he tried to scry and See Arthur again, feeling a little guilty about the tattoo after the first time he checked on the king and had seen Emrys and him in the middle of a blazing row, looking very upset. Looks like things worked out on their own just fine.

Truth be told, Paden hadn’t expected the rune to react the way it did, but it must have responded to Arthur’s pent up, unfulfilled desire for Emrys. Judging by how familiar they are with each other’s bodies now in such a short time, Paden notes with a raised eyebrow, they must’ve gotten a lot of that out of his system.

“No matter,” he murmurs to himself, finishing a paragraph he’d just written on the properties of protection and fertility runes with a dramatic flourish of his quill. Once the tattoo heals entirely, it will serve properly as aegis against sword and sorcery while still providing its additional... benefits off the battlefield. It may have been inconvenient at the start, but Paden’s confident enough that after a few more months, their next delegation in Camelot will be welcome with open arms.

At least, if Arthur doesn’t get to him and throttle him first.

“There you are.” Élan walks over to him, arms behind his back. “Shall we have lunch together with the rest?”

“Ah.” Paden pushes the bowl discreetly out of sight, glancing up at his keeper of the clan as he dangles his feet in the air behind him. “I lost track of time. Let’s.”

Élan hums, nodding and peering down at the hastily shaded runes and lengthy diatribes written all over his parchments, spilling into the corners with ink and colour. “I wonder if the King of Camelot liked our gift.”

Inside the scrying bowl, Paden can make out Emrys kissing Arthur tenderly, gentle and possessive all at once. It’s sweet seeing them acknowledge their feelings for one another after what must have been years and years of longing with the curl of their arms around each other, the slow sweep of Emrys’ fingers over the rune behind Arthur’s neck as it glows.

Paden gets up and waves a hand over the bowl, returning it to an ordinary bowl water once more. Dusting his knees off and looking away at the familiar castle in the distance, Paden sighs, shaking his head and smiling both at Élan's cluelessness and the satisfaction all matchmakers the kingdom over must feel, only better — because Arthur is Emrys' destiny, and there's a world of wonder and glory ahead of them yet.

“Who knows?”

The End