Fic - What Infinite Heart's Ease [1c/3]
Aug. 25th, 2012 04:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arcadianmaggieWhat Infinite Heart's Ease - Part 1c
If Arthur had thought things were strained between him and Merlin before, there was no comparison to how tense they were now. Prior to that morning, Merlin avoided touching him, performing his duties involving Arthur’s person with quick efficient dispatch. Now, he couldn’t even bear to look at Arthur.
Arthur had tried to speak to him that afternoon, when Merlin had shown up in the armoury at the end of training. Still troubled by guilt for taking pleasure with his servant before he was even fully awake, Arthur wanted to address the issue head on, clear up his lingering uncertainty. Merlin had responding willingly, enthusiastically even. He had seemed to enjoy their physical pleasure, to want Arthur. Yet afterwards, he couldn’t even bear for Arthur to touch him.
Arthur would never bed a servant who was unwilling, but after Guinevere, something Lancelot had said during their confrontation had stuck with him, and he wondered how willing a servant could actually be. Who, after all, would refuse the prince? As Lancelot said, Guinevere would never deny him anything, even as her heart apparently belonged to another. Did Merlin only acquiesce because of who Arthur was? Did Arthur imagine the expression on his face, the one he wore when he first awoke?
Clearing his throat nervously, Arthur spoke as Merlin worked to remove his hauberk. “Merlin,” he began, “about this morning—”
He stopped abruptly when Merlin’s head shot up to his, blue eyes wide, his face wearing a look that could only be described as panic. Merlin pulled his hands away from his task as if they suddenly burned, and he took a step back, away from Arthur.
Arthur swallowed, unsettled by Merlin’s reaction. Was he that uncomfortable around Arthur now? Was Merlin afraid of him?
He took a deep breath before trying again. “Look, Merlin… I—”
“I think I left something on the field,” Merlin cut in, voice high-pitched and strained. He took another step backward, putting more distance between the two of them. “I’ll…” he continued, moving slowly toward the door, “just be… right back.” Then he turned and fled.
Arthur stood helplessly, looking at the empty doorway, not sure how he was feeling about Merlin’s reaction. He noted, however, his heart was racing and his palms were damp. He shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to quell his response. When Merlin didn’t return, Arthur wiped his hands on his trousers then removed the rest of his armour, concentrating on his task so he wouldn’t have to think about what had just happened. Leon entered the room just as he was finishing up.
“Arthur, there you are. I wanted to ask you about—”
Arthur, still upset, wasn’t in any frame of mind to form coherent thoughts. “Not now, Leon,” he said, walking past him, bumping his shoulder as he went by.
That evening, Arthur paced restlessly in his chambers, wondering if Merlin was going to show up. When he heard a small knock on the door as someone pushed it open, he was filled with relief to see Merlin appearing on the other side carrying a tray with his supper.
He kept far away from the boy, not wanting to scare him off again.
“Thank you, Merlin,” he said, waiting for him to place the tray on the table and move away before walking over to eat his meal.
Merlin busied himself in his chambers, building the fire, turning down his bed, getting his night shirt readied.
Without looking up, Arthur started to speak. He could hear Merlin still the moment he began. “I’ll not have you sleeping in the corridor again,” he said. “You’ll sleep in here, in front of the fire. And,” he hastened to add before Merlin bolted, like a frightened colt, “you’ll have no need to worry… about me.” He pressed on before he lost his nerve. He needed to get this out. “I won’t… touch you again. You’ll be safe here. I give you my word.”
He wanted to look up, to see Merlin’s reaction, but he didn’t think he could bear to see panic or fear in his eyes again.
“I’ll arrange to have a pallet brought up tomorrow. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.”
After a long pause, Merlin finally spoke. “Thank you, sire.”
-o-
Having Merlin sleeping in his rooms every night was a new kind of torture. Before that morning, Arthur had rarely given his manservant a thought, certainly not the kinds of thoughts he was now having about the boy. Images of Merlin filled his mind at all hours of the day.
Arthur was dining with his father one evening, discussing the latest reports from the scouts who had returned earlier in the day. Merlin was leaning over his shoulder to pour him some wine when Arthur glanced at his servant and caught sight of a small, fading purple bruise on his neck, just behind his ear. His words faltered mid-sentence as he was brought back to the moment the bruise was formed, his teeth biting into Merlin’s skin, the boy shaking and trembling against him as he spilled his release.
He felt hot all over, arousal pooling in his stomach, and Arthur forced himself to tear his eyes away and return to the conversation, as if the serving of the wine had interrupted his thoughts, and not Merlin’s pale skin, marked by his mouth.
That night he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, that small dark bruise. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again, every time Merlin was near. He wanted to touch it, press against it with his thumb. He wondered how long it would be until it had faded completely. Irrationally, the thought made him angry and he wanted to mark it fresh, suck again on that long, elegant neck and taste his skin, biting over the exact same spot, bringing blood to the surface as proof that Arthur was there.
He noticed every detail about Merlin now, how striking his colouring was—the night-dark hair against the pale white skin, the deep pure blue of his eyes. And though he was young, and Arthur was used to thinking of him as a boy—Merlin having started serving him when they were both much younger and he being the older of the two by several years—he realized Merlin had at some point grown into a man. He was taller than Arthur, if only by a bit, and though thin, evinced a wiry strength. No, he wasn’t a child. Not by any means. And he was definitely of age. The realization eased some of his guilt over what had happened, but he still hadn’t forgiven himself for taking advantage of his servant and for making him so obviously uncomfortable.
His lingering guilt, however, couldn’t stop the memories from stealing into his thoughts multiple times during the day. Merlin’s mouth proved to be the biggest distraction of all. Arthur found himself staring at it all too often. Plump, pink lips, delicately bowed. They were almost pretty, like a girl’s. But Arthur remembered all too well the taste of them, the slight scrape of stubble as his own lips mouthed across Merlin’s jaw, the throaty sounds escaping from between them.
His eyes were drawn again to that lush gorgeous mouth as Merlin stood near, assisting him with his armour after training one afternoon. The lips were parted, just a bit, and the tip of Merlin’s pink tongue was pressed between his teeth as his servant struggled with a fastening that was proving resistant to his efforts. When it finally gave way, his mouth curved up into a smile, revealing the small dimple in Merlin’s cheek that had appeared all too infrequently lately. Arthur’s heart gave a lurch, and when Merlin’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, the kind of casual touch he hadn’t felt in so long, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and he drew in a breath, all concentration focused on that tiny spot where Merlin’s hand was touching his skin.
He felt Merlin pause and braced himself for the inevitable pulling away, but his servant surprised him, continuing to remove his armour, not stopping his fingers from brushing against Arthur’s skin again and again, the way they used to, before Arthur learned to appreciate such minor affections. Arthur kept his eyes shut, feeling the increase in his pulse at every slight touch. He craved it. He hadn’t realized just how much until that very second. He thought about that one morning, Merlin’s fingers brushing his cheek, his breathy voice as he said Arthur’s name, the press of his body against his own, and Arthur wanted it again. Wanted it with a ferocious strength that took him by surprise.
As much as Arthur had missed the Merlin of old—the impertinent talking back, the overly familiar attitude—he realized, now that he was seeing the first traces of his return, he didn’t really want that Merlin at all. No, Arthur wanted the Merlin he had caught glimpses of only once before—the one who shivered under his touch, who gasped and whimpered against his skin. The one who looked at him with adoration and unravelled in his arms. He’d give almost anything to have that Merlin back again.
Not wanting to open his eyes and see who was currently assisting him—the distant Merlin of late, the old Merlin with his casual touches, or the one he so desperately desired—Arthur stepped out of reach and without turning to look at the boy, asked, “Could you please find Sir Leon? He said he needed to speak to me about something.” Unable to stand the thought of another disappointment, he only relaxed after Merlin replied, “Yes, sire,” and left the room.
That night he was attuned to every sound Merlin made, each time he shifted under the blanket, trying to get comfortable, the small noises he made as he settled himself on his pallet, the change in his breathing when he finally fell asleep. Arthur longed to get out of bed, to walk over and stare his fill at the beautiful boy, trace those high cheekbones with his eyes, those ridiculous ears, the sensuous curve of his lips, the long column of his neck. But he had promised. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to keep his hands at his sides, his lips from tasting that sinful mouth one more time.
Instead, he lay quietly in bed, trying to ignore the hardness between his legs, but unable to keep thoughts of Merlin from filling his head—the way he had rocked against Arthur’s thigh, his long, slender fingers clutching at his chest, the sounds he made as he pulsed his release. But especially that expression on his lovely open face, the one that said Arthur, and I want you, and I adore you.
Arthur reached his hand down and squeezed his length, not planning anything other than easing the ache. But as soon as he touched himself, a rush of images filled his mind—Merlin’s pale fingers wrapped around his cock; that perfect mouth, closing over the head, licking at the moisture beading at the tip; and those eyes, deep and blue and expressive, staring up at him from under a fringe of black lashes. Arthur tried to banish the pictures from his mind, thinking of Guinevere and her sweet smile and dark shining eyes. He had never been aroused by thoughts of men before, but Guinevere’s image refused to stay fixed. Dark eyes faded to blue and soft brown curves shifted to ivory, taut and angular. Finally, Arthur gave up the pretence and let himself indulge, muffling his voice in his pillow as he stroked himself off, seeing Merlin in his mind’s eye—pale and wanton and beautiful. Only Merlin.
Twice the following day, he could swear he caught Merlin looking at him. The first was during training, after a particularly skilled bout with Lancelot. Even as he was filled with uncertainty these days, and troubled by doubts, Arthur’s confidence never forsook him on the battle field. Wielding his sword grounded him in ways nothing else could. He knew his skill had been impressive; even Lancelot agreed. And when Arthur turned to walk off the field, yielding the area to the next pair of fighters, he was flushed with victory and smiling broadly. A movement on the sidelines caught his eye and he looked over to see Merlin watching him, a soft smile on his lips and his face holding a look of pride. There was something else there as well—a heated intensity to his gaze that Arthur felt right in his gut. But when Merlin saw Arthur looking, the smile disappeared abruptly and his face shifted into an impassive mask. It all happened so quickly, Arthur was left to wonder if he had only imagined the expression he had just seen on Merlin’s face.
The second was in the armoury afterward. There were no casual touches this time, and Merlin flinched at any accidental contact with Arthur’s skin. Arthur tried not to be disappointed, to put his inappropriate thoughts aside, but Merlin was so near, and his craving for the boy all-consuming. He couldn’t keep his eyes closed this time, couldn’t deny himself the chance to revel in their closeness. If he breathed deeply, he could even smell his skin. Arthur turned slightly as Merlin’s fingers fumbled with a buckle on his armour. He looked over at the boy’s face, eyes drawn to his mouth, and imagined leaning in, closing the small distance between them, and crushing those plump lips with his own. He swallowed, pushing the impulse back, and lifted his eyes away from such delicious temptation. His heart gave a leap when he saw Merlin’s gaze firmly fixed on his own mouth.
When Merlin realized Arthur was staring at him, his eyes snapped up and he took a short step back. The colour bloomed on his cheeks. This time, however, he didn’t run, but took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and moved back to finish his task. Arthur was tempted to lean in, crowd closer to see if the blush would spread, but he held fast to his promise. He wouldn’t act on his desires.
It wasn’t his imagination, Arthur decided. He had caught Merlin staring at him numerous times in the past weeks, gaze heated, and not at all afraid. When their eyes met, Merlin didn’t turn away in embarrassment. No, he held Arthur’s eyes a little longer than usual, the flush stealing over his cheeks. His fingers reached automatically to his neck, as if he wasn’t aware what he was doing, touching the spot that used to bear Arthur’s mark. Arthur was mesmerized by the gesture, the rush of blood colouring his skin. Something stirred in him, possessive and wild, but as always, he pushed such feelings back, refusing to let them take hold, cause him to do something he’d later regret.
The small touches had continued; indeed, they had grown more bold and were not the innocent ones of old. Merlin’s fingers lingered on his skin, soft caresses that raised goose pimples where they passed. He stood closer as he helped Arthur dress, so near Arthur could feel the heat from his body through the fabric of his clothing, feel the warmth of his breath in his ear. Merlin’s actions had to be deliberate, and Arthur grew increasingly frustrated, unable to act on his desires. He took his anger out on Merlin, snapping at him, short-tempered, increasing the tasks he assigned—often the most unpleasant he could find.
Merlin retaliated by taunting him in small unsettling ways, standing even closer, leaning into his body whenever he could, wetting his lips with a slow sweep of his pink tongue while looking up at him through a fringe of lush thick lashes. Arthur had no idea how he resisted such obvious goading, but he somehow managed, even if he repeated his act of seeking release while Merlin slept peacefully nearby.
Everything came to a head one brisk afternoon. Arthur arrived at training agitated and tense. The crisp clear sky seemed to mock his stormy mood. The meeting with his father over breakfast had not gone well.
“How is it that we still do not know who’s behind these attacks?” Uther had asked as they ate their meal, discussing the report of yet another slaughtered druid camp, this time to the west, made to look as if Camelot was the perpetrator.
“I have my suspicions—”
“Well, confirm them,” Uther said with a stern look in Arthur’s direction.
Feeling like a failure under the weight of Uther’s disappointment, Arthur could only answer, “Yes, father.”
Later on the practice field, Arthur called out, “Leon, let’s you and I have a go at it, shall we?”
“Are you sure, sire? You’ve been at it hard all afternoon. Don’t you want to take a break?”
“Ah, scared to fight me, I see. I don’t blame you one bit.”
Leon tipped back his head and laughed. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Leon fought well, but he was no match for the prince. Arthur knew he had nothing to prove, but he gave it his all anyway. With a sword in his hand, he was in his element. This was where he excelled. The rest of his life may have been a riot of tumult, but here, on the field, he was at home. He felt invincible. Arthur was tiring, but nonetheless, he looked assured of an easy victory. That is, until he noticed Leon nodding in acknowledgment to someone off the field. Curious, Arthur turned to look and saw Guinevere standing there; she was joined quickly by Lancelot. He raised his hand to her face, stroking his knuckles tenderly over her cheek, and her answering smile was like the cut of a blade.
Completely unprepared for his visceral reaction to the sight, as if he’d been punched hard in the gut, Arthur faltered when Leon pressed the attack. Unable to get his shield properly in place, Leon’s blow fell at an odd angle, wrenching his shoulder. The pain shot through his arm, but at least managed to bring his full attention back to the fight, and even with his arm hanging practically useless at his side, he surged forward and quickly disarmed the other knight.
“Well fought,” he congratulated Leon, grasping his forearm in acknowledgment. When Arthur winced, Leon asked, “Are you all right, sire?”
Arthur nodded. “You’re not so useless, after all,” he joked. “It’s nothing. My shoulder. I’ll get some salve from Gaius. I think, however, I’ve had enough for the day. Can you finish up here with the men?”
“Of course.”
Merlin was by his side almost instantly once Arthur was off the field. He relieved Arthur of his shield and hovered over him like a worried nursemaid. When he stood too close, as had been his wont of late, Arthur took a step back. Once his hauberk had been removed, Merlin began working on the ties to his gambeson. Merlin crowded close again, and Arthur gritted his teeth in irritation. When he felt Merlin’s hot breath in his ear and his fingers gently stroking the back of his neck, anger flared at his body’s traitorous response. He twisted away, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he said, voice cold as steel, “but I’m in no mood for your games.”
“Arthur… I—”
He didn’t want to hear whatever Merlin had to say. He only wanted a few moments alone to nurse his wounds in private. “See if Gaius has some sort of salve for my shoulder. Bring it to my chambers with my supper.”
“But Arthur—”
“And make sure there’s a hot bath waiting for me.”
When Merlin still didn’t make move to leave, he added, “That will be all.”
After a long pause, Merlin said, “Yes, sire.”
The hot bath did little to ease the ache in his shoulder. And having Merlin tip-toeing around the room while he bathed only reminded him of one more thing he couldn’t have. Seeing Guinevere and Lancelot together had affected him more than he expected. His mind had been so occupied with other thoughts lately, he hadn’t dwelt as much on that particular wound. But seeing them, their obvious love for each other clear in every small gesture, it was as if the bandage had been ripped away, leaving a fresh bleed.
He groaned as he pulled himself from the tub. Merlin was immediately by his side with a towel. He rubbed it over his hair then wrapped it around his waist, grimacing with each move.
“Why don’t you lie down on the bed and I’ll rub this into your shoulder?” Merlin suggested, holding up the pot of salve.
The surge of arousal he felt at the thought of his servant’s hands on him both unsettled and irritated him. He didn’t need this added complication to his life. He needed to put Merlin out of his mind, not give himself more images to make his nights more restless. But he was tired, and sore, and worn down; he knew it would be difficult to reach the muscles himself.
Coming to a decision, he arranged himself on his stomach, the towel draped over his hips. Arthur shut his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the bed dip next to him, then he shivered at the first touch of Merlin’s hands on his skin. Merlin pulled them away.
“Sorry. Sorry. I should have warmed it up first.”
Arthur grunted in response, not wanting to admit it wasn’t the temperature of the salve that caused his reaction.
Merlin’s fingers were strong as they kneaded their way across his shoulders. Eventually, Arthur started to relax as the salve worked its way into his muscles, warming them and easing the ache.
“Right there. A little harder,” he directed.
Merlin pressed deeper, but the angle was wrong.
“I can’t really get… wait… let me…” then he was shifting on the bed, swinging his knees over Arthur’s hips and straddling his thighs.
As Merlin’s weight settled on the back of his legs, Arthur’s previous state of relaxation disappeared. His shoulders tensed and he gave a small gasp as his muscles contracted painfully. Merlin made a little clucking noise, stroking his skin in a soothing manner, both hands pressing into the flesh by his shoulder blades.
“Try to relax, sire.”
Arthur did try, but the gentle rocking motion on his thighs, the agile hands on his bare skin made him acutely aware he was all but naked and there was a boy touching him everywhere, his weight pressing him into the bed. Every inch of skin burned with a deep heat wherever Merlin’s hands roamed and he felt himself start to harden.
Arthur closed his eyes, ignoring his erection, and tried to let the salve and the deep tissue massage do its work. After a while he became aware that Merlin’s hands had at some point ceased their therapeutic movements and were now moving over his body with what could only be called caresses—slow sensuous strokes, the salve coating his palms allowing them to slip smoothly over his skin. Merlin’s breathing had also changed. His breaths were deeper, heavier. His thumbs pressed down the sides of Arthur’s spine, sliding all the way down from the base of his skull to his lower back, slipping beneath the edge of the towel, skimming the edge of his rear. Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and tried not to reveal how his own breathing was more laboured. Merlin repeated the motion again and again, the slow slide down the spine, the tease below the hips.
His hands eventually stilled, thumbs pressing into the indentations just above the globes of his arse, fingers splayed loosely at his waist.
“Can I…?” he started, his hands sliding slowly up Arthur’s back, then back down to his waist.
“Can you what?” Arthur prompted, face muffled in his arms, but his mind screaming yes.
“Can I…?” His thumbs slid beneath the fabric again and dipped slightly farther down, grazing the top of the crevice of his rear. His breathing was quicker now, still audible to Arthur’s ears. Arthur waited silently, not wanting to interrupt Merlin’s request. After a moment, he finally spoke.
“I know you won’t touch me, but… would it be all right if I touched you?” His hands had stilled at Arthur’s hips, but he could feel them trembling.
Arthur didn’t respond right away, the request causing his face to flush with a sudden rush of heat, every nerve hyper aware of the boy balancing behind him.
“Please, Arthur,” he begged in a low breathy voice. “This isn’t a game. Please let me touch you.”
Arthur squeezed his eyes tighter at the sudden onslaught of feeling. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead he shifted his leg, crooking it slightly at the knee, relieving the pressure on his throbbing shaft and tilting his arse in the air, letting the towel slip from his hips.
A small gasp escaped from Merlin’s lips and he was still for one shocked moment, as if he couldn’t believe that Arthur was acquiescing, then he gave a noise of appreciation before sliding his hands reverently over the muscular globes of Arthur’s arse.
Arthur’s hips bucked instinctively, his cock seeking friction, rubbing against the bedding. As Merlin explored his body, strong agile hands kneading into his flesh, Arthur reached a hand down to fist himself, aching for relief. Merlin let out another small noise, as if he were choking, and his fingers dug even harder into Arthur’s arse. Then his slick hand, still covered in salve, slid in the crevice between his rounded flesh, stretching him apart, exposing his hole.
Arthur had never had anyone touch him so intimately, never been this close with another man. He knew, of course, what some men got up to together on long campaigns, but he had never felt the desire to explore such things, his heart while away still belonging to Guinevere. He was unsure what he wanted, if he could allow another man to touch him there. When Merlin’s slick finger glided over his hole, Arthur reacted immediately, clenching his cheeks tight and gasping into his arm, a strangled noise of protest escaping his mouth.
Merlin retreated immediately, pulling his hand away, moving his fingers back to the curve of his arse, then sliding his palms upwards, massaging slowly, and pressing soothingly into his lower back.
“Shhh,” Merlin said. “It’s all right.” After a few more gentling strokes he whispered, “Gods, you’re so beautiful.” His voice was reverent, worshipful. His hand were as well, touching him as if he were precious, a rare treasure to hold.
Arthur’s head was spinning at the sensations this man’s hands were bringing out in him. He marvelled how the tables had turned, how he was the one unravelling while Merlin’s touch took him apart. Shaken by his reactions and how vulnerable he felt, Arthur wanted Merlin to lose a little of his control—to be more like the boy who had trembled against him, shuddering and shaking apart with his release. Arthur shifted his leg a little higher, bringing it back toward his chest, spreading his arse wider, offering himself to Merlin’s touch.
“Oh,” Merlin breathed with a sigh. “Gods, Arthur.” His voice shook. He didn’t waste a second, sliding his hands back down, spreading him wider and pressing a single slicked finger against his hole. Arthur’s hand sped between his legs; he was already near the edge of his release. His emotions were too overwhelming to process. He only knew that he wanted more, wanted Merlin, his hands, his fingers on his flesh. Releasing his cock to reach behind him, Arthur groped blindly for Merlin’s hand. Pulling it away from where it held his arse prised open, he tugged it around his hips, telling him without words what he needed. The boy didn’t disappoint. He wrapped his hand around Arthur’s own, fisting them over his cock. Together their fingers intertwined as they stroked Arthur toward his climax. Merlin was almost incoherent, babbling, “Oh gods. So beautiful. Gods, Arthur. Gods.”
Merlin’s other hand was still poised at his entrance, the tip his finger pressing at the delicate furled skin. As Arthur spun toward completion, moaning and thrusting into their fists, Merlin pushed in with his finger, breaching his opening. Arthur felt his body clamp tight around the intrusion as he spasmed and pulsed in thick stripes across the bed. He barely recognized the harsh, broken cries coming from his mouth as his own voice.
Merlin gave one last stroke to Arthur’s sensitive cock before pulling his hand away. Arthur heard him frantically working at the laces of his breeches and then the rhythmic movement as Merlin stripped his cock, fast and hard. In just minutes Merlin was crying out and Arthur felt the hot splash of come across his arse, each drop incinerating him to oblivion.
Wrung out and exhausted, a little embarrassed by his uncontrolled responses, Arthur lay face down, listening to Merlin’s panting breaths. He tried to ignore the loss he felt when Merlin finally moved off his legs. He felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, reliving the things he had just let Merlin do. And now he was lying naked, alone on the bed and covered with seed. But then Merlin returned with a damp cloth and tenderly wiped him clean, as if he were fragile as glass.
Drained by emotion and sinking into post-orgasmic torpor, Arthur longed to lose himself in sleep. As he began to drift, he felt a blanket being pulled up over his hips, then the soft press of lips at the knob of bone near the top of his spine, breath hot on his neck. He shivered with pleasure.
“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin said.
The next morning Merlin was quiet as he helped ready Arthur for the day. His fingers were back to their old clumsiness and when they brushed against Arthur’s skin, a pink blush spread over his face. Arthur stared, fascinated, watching the blood rise up to his ears. He wanted to lick them, see if the temperature was as warm as it looked. Again preferring to face things head on, Arthur asked, low, while Merlin’s face was inches from his own, “So, not a game?”
Merlin’s head whipped up and the look on his face was so raw, it took Arthur’s breath away—full of heat, and longing, and the same devotion Arthur had seen the morning he woke him in front of the fire.
Humbled, Arthur searched his eyes, stunned by the emotion laid bare to him.
“No,” Merlin whispered, never averting his gaze. “Not a game.”
Arthur reached his hand to Merlin’s neck, rubbing his thumb tenderly across his cheek. Then he tugged him closer, kissing him soft and sweet. “Merlin,” he breathed, a smile in his voice. Then he pulled the man to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. They swayed gently for a few moments until Arthur pulled away, placing a kiss at his temple as he released him. Merlin’s radiant smile filled his belly with warmth.
-o-
In the upcoming days, Arthur didn’t have time to explore this new dynamic with his manservant, but he had plenty of time to think about what had transpired. After leaving his chambers, he was summoned almost immediately to meet with his father. Hours later he was riding out of Camelot’s gates with his men, toward Escetia, tasked with discovering whether rumours of amassing forces held any truth. Typically, Merlin would have accompanied him on such a mission, but Gaius had requested he stay behind to help with an outbreak of illness in the lower town.
The days were long and the nights were cold and Arthur felt a sense of isolation from his men that hadn’t existed before Lancelot’s betrayal. He watched while they sat around the fire laughing and joking over the evening meal; their camaraderie was evident. Arthur sat apart, observing, but not joining in. The men made attempts to include him, but even they seemed relieved when he retired early for the evening.
Arthur lay in his tent, listening to sound of their voices, the occasional peal of raucous laughter. Loneliness settled over him like a blanket. He shut his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep before he completely succumbed to his maudlin mood. They’d be travelling home soon. Already he could feel the weight of his father’s disappointment, knowing they’d be returning once again with no real answers. Cenred was up to something, of that he was certain. Yet, they had been unable to uncover any overt evidence of his plans. What they had determined, however, was Escetia had become a refuge for the druids. They were fleeing Camelot in the wake of the attacks on their settlements. Cenred had the magic users on his side. Perhaps they were the only army he’d need.
Pressing his fingers against his forehead, Arthur groaned. His father would be unbearable. As would watching Guinevere and Lancelot reunite once again. The sting Arthur usually felt when thinking about Guinevere wasn’t as sharp this time, the pain not so deep. Another face, paler and angled sharp, kept slipping to the forefront in his mind—blue eyes, heavy lidded and sleep-soft. The smile on Merlin’s face after Arthur had kissed him that last morn. The hot splash of his seed on Arthur’s bare skin.
Arthur felt his cock stirring as he thought about Merlin. Deciding that spending his release would help him relax, Arthur kicked off his breeches and began stroking himself to hardness. For the first time since he left Camelot, Arthur allowed himself to indulge in the memories, playing them over in his mind at his leisure, lingering on specific moments—the tug of Merlin’s fist in his hair, the hot slide of his tongue against his own. As he stroked himself, using his thumb to roll back his foreskin, sliding the gathering wetness over the head of his cock, he thought of Merlin’s hands, those long elegant fingers, how they stroked across his cheek, so loving and tender, how they clutched at his clothing that first time, grasping and clenching almost desperately as his body trembled and shook with desire. How they kneaded deep into his muscles, first relaxing Arthur, then arousing him unbearably. How they spread him open, then penetrated him while bringing him off with his fist.
Fully hard now, and aching with need, Arthur spread his knees wider. Curious, he reached between his legs with one hand, rubbing the soft bit of skin behind his balls for a moment before sliding his finger down to press at his opening. Grimacing, he pushed the tip of his finger against his hole, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He took a deep breath and continued to stroke his cock, focusing instead on the memory of Merlin’s hands, how he had felt as his slick finger slid against his hole. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Arthur sucked his finger between his lips, slicking it with spit. He reached down between his legs again, pushing in with increased pressure. This time his finger slipped into his body. His breath hitched and he flushed with heat; his body gave a little reflexive jerk of discomfort, but he kept his finger there, trying to get used to the sensation. When he had adjusted, he pushed it in even deeper, as far as it would go. Picturing Merlin’s graceful hands, he wondered how much deeper they could slide, how many more fingers he could fit. Remembering the feel of Merlin’s length on his thigh as he rutted against him, Arthur let himself imagine Merlin’s cock replacing those fingers, buried deep inside.
The thought of Merlin draped over him with his cock stuffing him full was almost too much for Arthur. He started pumping his erection hard and swift and with a long quiet shudder, he spilled over his fist, his finger slipping from his body as he climaxed.
-o-
A light dusting of snow came down around them as they neared Camelot. The closer they got, the lighter the moods of his men became. Laughter flowed freely and even the horses seemed to sense the excitement, their footsteps prancing as they picked up speed. For the first time in recent memory, Arthur’s chest didn’t ache with a hollow emptiness. He was full of a nervous energy, an anticipation that made him anxious for home.
After he had let himself relive those memories of Merlin, he found it almost impossible to keep thoughts of the man out of his head. He had imagined Merlin’s lush mouth, the long tendons of his neck, his elegant fingers, so many times, he couldn’t wait to compare his recollections with the real thing. And he had yet to see it, but Arthur had also imagined Merlin’s cock innumerable times—in his hand, between his lips… buried deep in his arse. Night after night he’d dreamed about what he would do if he had Merlin in his bed again; he hoped he’d be given the chance to make some of those fantasies come true. When they broke through the trees and the tall towers and stately walls of the castle came into view, her graceful lines draped in a veil of white, Arthur’s heart gave a leap of joy. They spurred their horses faster, hurrying toward Camelot.
Arthur’s eyes scanned the courtyard looking only for one face. Not the one he would have expected to seek only weeks ago. Instead of warm brown eyes and long dark curls, he sought a thatch of night-dark hair atop porcelain skin. When he caught sight of a flash of crimson, his eyes were drawn to Merlin, bright kerchief around his neck, standing near the stables. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and snowflakes adorned his hair and lashes, like sparkling jewels. Arthur couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. Merlin’s answering grin carried no uncertainty, only pleasure at Arthur’s return.
Dismounting, Arthur strode toward his manservant, leading his horse toward the stable.
He stopped, standing close, looking into shining blue eyes, brilliant sapphires gazing up through a sable fringe. “Merlin,” he said.
“Welcome home, sire.” His voice was warm as he took the reins from Arthur’s hand.
They stood staring at each other, the cold weather having no effect on the coil of heat winding through Arthur’s belly. Merlin broke their eye contact first, giving a small laugh, as if his happiness was too great to be contained and had bubbled up from the pressure through a much needed outlet.
“Let me…” he said, nodding toward the stable, starting to move in that direction leading Arthur’s steed.
“Right. Yes,” Arthur agreed, following alongside, concentrating on keeping his hands at his sides, and not where he wanted—on Merlin’s shoulders, pulling his slender body back against his chest.
The moment they were through the stable door, Arthur’s control snapped. He manhandled Merlin into the first available open stall and swung the door shut behind them. Merlin dropped the lead he was holding, only half-heartedly attempting to get free, saying in a flustered voice, “Arthur… what…”
His words were cut off by Arthur’s lips as Arthur pressed Merlin back against the stable wall and kissed him with all the pent up passion that had been building the entire journey home. Merlin tensed in surprise, but only for fractions of a second before he melted against Arthur, his mouth opening to emit a low moan, his hands reaching up to sink into Arthur’s hair, nails scraping on his scalp. Arthur immediately took advantage of his parted lips and thrust his tongue between them, tasting Merlin’s mouth as if he were starved. His hands moved to Merlin’s hips, pulling them tight against his own. Then he brought one gloved hand up to Merlin’s jaw, tilting his head so he could kiss him even more deeply, tangling their tongues together. He analyzed the taste, the textures of his mouth, determined to never again have only hazy memories to rely on.
Arthur kissed him for a few moments more, shifting his hips against Merlin’s, his erection growing, arousal building like a rising storm. He could feel Merlin’s own cock becoming hard as he moved from his lips to bite at Merlin’s jaw then suck down his neck. He licked wet stripes across his skin, tasting him, drinking him in, then moved to the spot behind Merlin’s ear, the one that used to bear his mark, and sucked against his skin, nipping him sharply with his teeth.
Merlin’s frantic little whine went straight to Arthur’s cock and he rocked his hips harder against the boy, grinding against him.
“Thought about this…” Arthur panted the whispered confession in Merlin’s ear. “Thought about you...”
He reached his hand down between their bodies and cupped it over Merlin’s cock, squeezing.
“What you’d taste like,” he continued. “The noises you’d make.”
In response, Merlin’s hips bucked into his hand and small desperate whimpers fell from his lips.
Arthur fumbled at the laces of Merlin’s breeches, growling in frustration when his still-gloved hands were too bulky and inept for finesse. Reaching his hand up to his face, he pulled his mouth away from Merlin’s skin long enough to use his teeth yank the glove off one hand. He tossed it into the straw at their feet and went back to his task, loosening the tie and plunging his hand under the fabric.
He groaned when his fingers closed over Merlin’s hot shaft and it twitched beneath his fingers. Pulling back to look at Merlin’s face, he was rewarded with the sight of his manservant, face flushed, mouth open and panting, lips red and swollen, his eyes gone dark with desire.
“Gods, look at you,” Arthur murmured, moving his hand over Merlin’s cock, watching his lashes flutter and his chest heave with a gasp as he stroked.
Wanting to finally look at what he was touching, Arthur leaned in to kiss Merlin hard on the mouth, then he sank to his knees, pushing aside the fabric of Merlin’s coat and tugging his breeches down.
A strangled noise came from above and Arthur looked up to see Merlin’s eyes staring down at him, shocked and wild.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a choked voice, hands plucking at Arthur’s shoulders, feebly attempting to get him to rise.
“Tasting you,” Arthur said, torn between keeping his eyes locked on the wrecked face of the boy above him or examining what was jutting out a fingerspan from his lips. The hot flesh in front of his face won and Arthur grasped Merlin’s cock with his fist, sliding the foreskin away and revealing the rosy head, a few clear drops of liquid beading at the slit. He stuck out his tongue, bringing his face closer, and licked the wetness away, his own eyes drifting closed at the taste, salty and pungent.
Wanting more, he closed his lips around the head of Merlin’s cock, moaning, sliding his tongue across the head again, savouring his flavour. Arthur had never done anything like this with another man before, but he’d received pleasure in this manner, so he understood in concept what to do. What he didn’t expect, however, was his own craving to have Merlin in his mouth, to suck him down, feel the vein on the underside of his cock against his tongue. He didn’t expect the effect his actions would have on Merlin, his hips bucking frantically, incoherent noises pouring from his mouth.
Arthur pulled back, gagging, eyes watering, and looked up at Merlin. His own desire flared at the pure naked want on his face, hot and hungry and intense.
“You’ll have to be quiet,” Arthur said, voice low and hoarse.
Merlin nodded, and when Arthur grasped the base of his cock in his hand again, Merlin’s head flung back, knocking into the wall with a thump, hips jerking in response. Arthur used his gloved hand to grip Merlin’s hip, holding him steady against the wall, his thumb digging into his flesh. He moved his mouth back around Merlin’s erection, slurping and sucking, no art to his actions, but driven by an uncontrollable urge to get as much of Merlin in his mouth as he could.
As he knelt, completely consumed by his need, devouring Merlin’s cock, he began to hear the voices of the other men arriving in the stable, the squires and stable boys assisting with the returning horses. Merlin lifted his head, panic that they may be caught now mixed with the desire showing on his face. Arthur simply continued his actions, hollowing his cheeks to suck harder, eyes locked on Merlin’s. He sped the movement of his hand, swirling his tongue around Merlin’s shaft and almost had to shut his own eyes against the sight of Merlin, hand reaching for Arthur’s hair, trying to tug him away, but unable to before his body tensed and he spasmed against Arthur’s tongue, filling his mouth with hot seed.
Arthur pulled back a little, trying to swallow it down, savouring the slightly bitter flavuor on his tongue, rapt at the expression on Merlin’s face—pain and pleasure combined—but he was unprepared for the continuing pulsing of Merlin’s cock and he struggled to swallow again as more of Merlin’s release dribbled out of the side of his mouth. When Merlin stilled, Arthur pulled his hand away to frantically work at his own laces, trying to release his own aching cock. Merlin sunk down to the ground, kneeling next to Arthur and joined his hands to the task, freeing his erection from his breeches then wrapping his fingers around it.
Licking at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, cleaning his seed off his skin, Merlin pressed his lips against Arthur’s, capturing his low moan as he spilled on the ground. Arthur pulled his mouth away, panting, resting his head against Merlin’s forehead; their hands gave one last slow pull against his spent cock and he gave a shudder, oversensitive. After a moment, he pulled back to look at Merlin’s debauched face.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, slightly breathless, face breaking into a grin.
Merlin lips quirked, then he broke out in a dazzling smile, a bark of laughter leaving his lips. They collapsed against each other again, laughing softly and Arthur felt almost giddy with the ridiculousness of it all.
-o-
Arthur barrelled through the castle, still stinging from his father’s words, not paying any attention to where he was heading, only driven by the need to escape. A surprised cry rang out as he collided with someone after turning a corner. He reached out to grab the person’s shoulders, an apology on his lips, and found himself staring into Guinevere’s startled brown eyes.
“Arthur,” she gasped.
“Guinevere. Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes I’m fine. You just startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I was… preoccupied. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Oh. Is anything wrong?”
“It’s—” Arthur automatically started to tell her about the recent conversation with his father, Uther’s disappointment at Arthur’s continuing failure to uncover more about the attacks on the druid camps or Cenred’s plans, but stopped himself. For a moment he forgot she was no longer his, no longer the one he could turn to for comfort, for a sympathetic ear. A hot flash of rage burned briefly in his gut. He shook his head, quelling the flare of emotion, tamping it down.
“It’s nothing important,” he said.
Realizing his hands were still holding her shoulders, Arthur dropped them and took a step backward. He cleared his throat and looked away.
“Are you… how have you been?” Guinevere asked.
“I’ve been well. And you?”
“Fine. I’ve... I’ve been fine.”
Was this how it’d always be now, he wondered? Polite strangers? The awkward conversation was bringing that urge to flee even more into focus.
Guinevere put her hand on his arm. He stared at it, uncomprehendingly, then looked at her questioningly.
“Arthur…” she faltered.
He continued to stare, noting the flush creeping up her cheeks. He felt detached, as if he were simply an observer to the conversation instead of a participant.
“It’s just that…” she continued. “I haven’t had the chance to… You’ve been gone so much and… I wanted to say I’m—”
“It’s all right, Guinevere,” Arthur cut in, interrupting her stammering while removing her hand from his arm. He took another step back.
“But I wanted to—”
“There’s no need,” he interrupted again. He didn’t want to hear whatever she had to say, whether she was sorry, or grateful, or missed him, or something else entirely. Anything at all was going to hurt in some way and he wasn’t prepared right now to hear it. He didn’t need the scab ripped open anew.
“I want you to be happy,” he said.
She stared him, her eyes searching his face. “I am,” she finally said.
“Good. That’s… good.”
“But Arthur—”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve somewhere I need to be. It was good to see you, Guinevere.”
“Oh… of course.” She took the step back this time, looking flustered.
He gave a slight bow, then turned, heading down the corridor at a swift pace. His only impulse had been to escape the conversation with Guinevere, to keep his thoughts and memories at bay, lest they consume him. But as he walked, he realized he had spoken the truth; he did have somewhere he needed to be. His footsteps picked up speed.
Merlin looked up as he burst through the door.
“Arthur?”
Arthur strode across the room and grabbed Merlin’s upper arms, pulling him close, kissing him soundly. His lips were demanding and sure and Merlin responded instantly, opening his mouth and seeking out Arthur’s tongue with his own. Arthur urged him closer still, pushing his knee between Merlin’s leg and rubbing his thigh against his groin. Merlin’s moans filled his mouth.
Heat uncurled in Arthur’s stomach, spreading through him like a wildfire. Since Arthur’s return to Camelot after his last mission away, his time with Merlin had been a revelation. Their frantic reunion in the stable was only the beginning. They had righted their clothing, kicked straw over Arthur’s release and exited the stall so Merlin could take care of Arthur’s steed. Ignoring Gwaine’s assessing stare, Arthur had left to report to his father. He didn’t see Merlin again until that evening. They didn’t discuss what had happened earlier, but Arthur was aware of every small touch, every glance. When Merlin prepared to retire to his pallet, Arthur stopped him, grabbing his wrist.
“I’d like you to…” he hesitated. Arthur didn’t want this to be a command. He thought back on what Lancelot had said to him, the realization he’d had that any request would be seen that way regardless. But he was too selfish, wanted this too much, to not ask at all.
“If you’re willing, I’d like you to share my bed tonight.” He was strangely nervous, pulse beginning to race, palms growing damp.
He needn’t have worried. Merlin looked into his eyes, a soft smile on his face, and said, “I’m willing.”
Arthur felt his stomach drop, as if he were falling. Merlin’s expression held nothing back, every thought and feeling bared to him. The pure devotion staring back at him made Arthur tremble with a tumult of emotions. He wanted so much, too much, all at once—to gather him close, protect him, and keep that look in his eyes forever; to be the kind of man worthy of what was being offered; to throw him on the bed, strip him naked and ravage him senseless. Instead, he wordlessly tugged Merlin toward the bed, climbed under the blankets and moved to make room, pulling Merlin in afterwards.
They lay on their sides, facing each other. Arthur’s chest grew tight, as if he couldn’t breathe, unable to look away from Merlin’s face, sharp angles casting shadows in the dim light. Merlin leaned over, pressing his lips softly against Arthur’s, lightly touching his tongue to his top lip, catching the small gasp of air. He pulled back then, saying, “You should get some sleep, sire.”
As if the words themselves caused the exhaustion he suddenly felt crashing over him, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. “Arthur,” he slurred, already half asleep. “Call me Arthur.”
He felt another soft kiss on his lips, then Merlin moved closer, tucking himself against Arthur’s chest, feet and legs tangling with his own. A quiet, “Good night, Arthur,” was the last thing he heard before sleep overtook him.
Merlin had been in his bed every night since. And there were few that ended as that first night had done. Arthur could never have imagined the sheer pleasure this shift in their relationship would bring. With a look, or a touch, Merlin could have him aching and hungry. He used his fingers, then his mouth to take Arthur apart, leaving him writhing and desperate for release. The first time Merlin slid his cock into Arthur’s arse, Arthur was shaking from the overwhelming sensations, pleasure and pain, Merlin’s sweat slicked body draped across his back, hips pushing into him, and Merlin’s hot breath in his ear, panting, “Arthur, Arthur,” like a prayer.
That same heady arousal was rising as they kissed in his chambers. He could feel it washing over him like a wave, swamping him and pulling him under so he was drowning in a pool of desire. He freed his lips to growl in Merlin’s ear, “I need you inside me.” Then there was the frantic tugging of clothing, the stumbling toward the bed, the slick slide of fingers preparing him, the exquisite burn as Merlin’s cock filled Arthur deep.
The sight before him was beautiful, the tendons of Merlin’s neck taut and straining, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and intense and he leaned over Arthur, thrusting into him. Arthur locked his eyes on Merlin’s, grasping for something to ground him before he broke apart into pieces. Merlin had Arthur’s knee hooked over his elbow, Arthur’s strong thigh bent toward his chest and he leaned over to kiss him, panting into his mouth. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, Arthur. You can let go.”
Arthur surrendered, giving himself completely to the moment, to Merlin, not thinking of anything but the beautiful boy above him, their bodies joined together, the inferno building between them. Nothing existed but Merlin. Not his loneliness, his heartache, the uncertainty of the future, his doubts and insecurities. When he was here, like this, everything faded away. Morgana, Guinevere, Lancelot, his father—the betrayals and disappointments. He could take them all, deal with them all if he could only have this. This one thing was his, his alone to treasure and keep.
“Merlin,” he practically sobbed, voice breaking on the name as he spiralled to his release.
Yes, he could deal with everything else if he could just have this.
End Part 1
Continue to Part 2 | Masterpost
If Arthur had thought things were strained between him and Merlin before, there was no comparison to how tense they were now. Prior to that morning, Merlin avoided touching him, performing his duties involving Arthur’s person with quick efficient dispatch. Now, he couldn’t even bear to look at Arthur.
Arthur had tried to speak to him that afternoon, when Merlin had shown up in the armoury at the end of training. Still troubled by guilt for taking pleasure with his servant before he was even fully awake, Arthur wanted to address the issue head on, clear up his lingering uncertainty. Merlin had responding willingly, enthusiastically even. He had seemed to enjoy their physical pleasure, to want Arthur. Yet afterwards, he couldn’t even bear for Arthur to touch him.
Arthur would never bed a servant who was unwilling, but after Guinevere, something Lancelot had said during their confrontation had stuck with him, and he wondered how willing a servant could actually be. Who, after all, would refuse the prince? As Lancelot said, Guinevere would never deny him anything, even as her heart apparently belonged to another. Did Merlin only acquiesce because of who Arthur was? Did Arthur imagine the expression on his face, the one he wore when he first awoke?
Clearing his throat nervously, Arthur spoke as Merlin worked to remove his hauberk. “Merlin,” he began, “about this morning—”
He stopped abruptly when Merlin’s head shot up to his, blue eyes wide, his face wearing a look that could only be described as panic. Merlin pulled his hands away from his task as if they suddenly burned, and he took a step back, away from Arthur.
Arthur swallowed, unsettled by Merlin’s reaction. Was he that uncomfortable around Arthur now? Was Merlin afraid of him?
He took a deep breath before trying again. “Look, Merlin… I—”
“I think I left something on the field,” Merlin cut in, voice high-pitched and strained. He took another step backward, putting more distance between the two of them. “I’ll…” he continued, moving slowly toward the door, “just be… right back.” Then he turned and fled.
Arthur stood helplessly, looking at the empty doorway, not sure how he was feeling about Merlin’s reaction. He noted, however, his heart was racing and his palms were damp. He shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to quell his response. When Merlin didn’t return, Arthur wiped his hands on his trousers then removed the rest of his armour, concentrating on his task so he wouldn’t have to think about what had just happened. Leon entered the room just as he was finishing up.
“Arthur, there you are. I wanted to ask you about—”
Arthur, still upset, wasn’t in any frame of mind to form coherent thoughts. “Not now, Leon,” he said, walking past him, bumping his shoulder as he went by.
That evening, Arthur paced restlessly in his chambers, wondering if Merlin was going to show up. When he heard a small knock on the door as someone pushed it open, he was filled with relief to see Merlin appearing on the other side carrying a tray with his supper.
He kept far away from the boy, not wanting to scare him off again.
“Thank you, Merlin,” he said, waiting for him to place the tray on the table and move away before walking over to eat his meal.
Merlin busied himself in his chambers, building the fire, turning down his bed, getting his night shirt readied.
Without looking up, Arthur started to speak. He could hear Merlin still the moment he began. “I’ll not have you sleeping in the corridor again,” he said. “You’ll sleep in here, in front of the fire. And,” he hastened to add before Merlin bolted, like a frightened colt, “you’ll have no need to worry… about me.” He pressed on before he lost his nerve. He needed to get this out. “I won’t… touch you again. You’ll be safe here. I give you my word.”
He wanted to look up, to see Merlin’s reaction, but he didn’t think he could bear to see panic or fear in his eyes again.
“I’ll arrange to have a pallet brought up tomorrow. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.”
After a long pause, Merlin finally spoke. “Thank you, sire.”
Having Merlin sleeping in his rooms every night was a new kind of torture. Before that morning, Arthur had rarely given his manservant a thought, certainly not the kinds of thoughts he was now having about the boy. Images of Merlin filled his mind at all hours of the day.
Arthur was dining with his father one evening, discussing the latest reports from the scouts who had returned earlier in the day. Merlin was leaning over his shoulder to pour him some wine when Arthur glanced at his servant and caught sight of a small, fading purple bruise on his neck, just behind his ear. His words faltered mid-sentence as he was brought back to the moment the bruise was formed, his teeth biting into Merlin’s skin, the boy shaking and trembling against him as he spilled his release.
He felt hot all over, arousal pooling in his stomach, and Arthur forced himself to tear his eyes away and return to the conversation, as if the serving of the wine had interrupted his thoughts, and not Merlin’s pale skin, marked by his mouth.
That night he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, that small dark bruise. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again, every time Merlin was near. He wanted to touch it, press against it with his thumb. He wondered how long it would be until it had faded completely. Irrationally, the thought made him angry and he wanted to mark it fresh, suck again on that long, elegant neck and taste his skin, biting over the exact same spot, bringing blood to the surface as proof that Arthur was there.
He noticed every detail about Merlin now, how striking his colouring was—the night-dark hair against the pale white skin, the deep pure blue of his eyes. And though he was young, and Arthur was used to thinking of him as a boy—Merlin having started serving him when they were both much younger and he being the older of the two by several years—he realized Merlin had at some point grown into a man. He was taller than Arthur, if only by a bit, and though thin, evinced a wiry strength. No, he wasn’t a child. Not by any means. And he was definitely of age. The realization eased some of his guilt over what had happened, but he still hadn’t forgiven himself for taking advantage of his servant and for making him so obviously uncomfortable.
His lingering guilt, however, couldn’t stop the memories from stealing into his thoughts multiple times during the day. Merlin’s mouth proved to be the biggest distraction of all. Arthur found himself staring at it all too often. Plump, pink lips, delicately bowed. They were almost pretty, like a girl’s. But Arthur remembered all too well the taste of them, the slight scrape of stubble as his own lips mouthed across Merlin’s jaw, the throaty sounds escaping from between them.
His eyes were drawn again to that lush gorgeous mouth as Merlin stood near, assisting him with his armour after training one afternoon. The lips were parted, just a bit, and the tip of Merlin’s pink tongue was pressed between his teeth as his servant struggled with a fastening that was proving resistant to his efforts. When it finally gave way, his mouth curved up into a smile, revealing the small dimple in Merlin’s cheek that had appeared all too infrequently lately. Arthur’s heart gave a lurch, and when Merlin’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, the kind of casual touch he hadn’t felt in so long, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and he drew in a breath, all concentration focused on that tiny spot where Merlin’s hand was touching his skin.
He felt Merlin pause and braced himself for the inevitable pulling away, but his servant surprised him, continuing to remove his armour, not stopping his fingers from brushing against Arthur’s skin again and again, the way they used to, before Arthur learned to appreciate such minor affections. Arthur kept his eyes shut, feeling the increase in his pulse at every slight touch. He craved it. He hadn’t realized just how much until that very second. He thought about that one morning, Merlin’s fingers brushing his cheek, his breathy voice as he said Arthur’s name, the press of his body against his own, and Arthur wanted it again. Wanted it with a ferocious strength that took him by surprise.
As much as Arthur had missed the Merlin of old—the impertinent talking back, the overly familiar attitude—he realized, now that he was seeing the first traces of his return, he didn’t really want that Merlin at all. No, Arthur wanted the Merlin he had caught glimpses of only once before—the one who shivered under his touch, who gasped and whimpered against his skin. The one who looked at him with adoration and unravelled in his arms. He’d give almost anything to have that Merlin back again.
Not wanting to open his eyes and see who was currently assisting him—the distant Merlin of late, the old Merlin with his casual touches, or the one he so desperately desired—Arthur stepped out of reach and without turning to look at the boy, asked, “Could you please find Sir Leon? He said he needed to speak to me about something.” Unable to stand the thought of another disappointment, he only relaxed after Merlin replied, “Yes, sire,” and left the room.
That night he was attuned to every sound Merlin made, each time he shifted under the blanket, trying to get comfortable, the small noises he made as he settled himself on his pallet, the change in his breathing when he finally fell asleep. Arthur longed to get out of bed, to walk over and stare his fill at the beautiful boy, trace those high cheekbones with his eyes, those ridiculous ears, the sensuous curve of his lips, the long column of his neck. But he had promised. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to keep his hands at his sides, his lips from tasting that sinful mouth one more time.
Instead, he lay quietly in bed, trying to ignore the hardness between his legs, but unable to keep thoughts of Merlin from filling his head—the way he had rocked against Arthur’s thigh, his long, slender fingers clutching at his chest, the sounds he made as he pulsed his release. But especially that expression on his lovely open face, the one that said Arthur, and I want you, and I adore you.
Arthur reached his hand down and squeezed his length, not planning anything other than easing the ache. But as soon as he touched himself, a rush of images filled his mind—Merlin’s pale fingers wrapped around his cock; that perfect mouth, closing over the head, licking at the moisture beading at the tip; and those eyes, deep and blue and expressive, staring up at him from under a fringe of black lashes. Arthur tried to banish the pictures from his mind, thinking of Guinevere and her sweet smile and dark shining eyes. He had never been aroused by thoughts of men before, but Guinevere’s image refused to stay fixed. Dark eyes faded to blue and soft brown curves shifted to ivory, taut and angular. Finally, Arthur gave up the pretence and let himself indulge, muffling his voice in his pillow as he stroked himself off, seeing Merlin in his mind’s eye—pale and wanton and beautiful. Only Merlin.
Twice the following day, he could swear he caught Merlin looking at him. The first was during training, after a particularly skilled bout with Lancelot. Even as he was filled with uncertainty these days, and troubled by doubts, Arthur’s confidence never forsook him on the battle field. Wielding his sword grounded him in ways nothing else could. He knew his skill had been impressive; even Lancelot agreed. And when Arthur turned to walk off the field, yielding the area to the next pair of fighters, he was flushed with victory and smiling broadly. A movement on the sidelines caught his eye and he looked over to see Merlin watching him, a soft smile on his lips and his face holding a look of pride. There was something else there as well—a heated intensity to his gaze that Arthur felt right in his gut. But when Merlin saw Arthur looking, the smile disappeared abruptly and his face shifted into an impassive mask. It all happened so quickly, Arthur was left to wonder if he had only imagined the expression he had just seen on Merlin’s face.
The second was in the armoury afterward. There were no casual touches this time, and Merlin flinched at any accidental contact with Arthur’s skin. Arthur tried not to be disappointed, to put his inappropriate thoughts aside, but Merlin was so near, and his craving for the boy all-consuming. He couldn’t keep his eyes closed this time, couldn’t deny himself the chance to revel in their closeness. If he breathed deeply, he could even smell his skin. Arthur turned slightly as Merlin’s fingers fumbled with a buckle on his armour. He looked over at the boy’s face, eyes drawn to his mouth, and imagined leaning in, closing the small distance between them, and crushing those plump lips with his own. He swallowed, pushing the impulse back, and lifted his eyes away from such delicious temptation. His heart gave a leap when he saw Merlin’s gaze firmly fixed on his own mouth.
When Merlin realized Arthur was staring at him, his eyes snapped up and he took a short step back. The colour bloomed on his cheeks. This time, however, he didn’t run, but took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and moved back to finish his task. Arthur was tempted to lean in, crowd closer to see if the blush would spread, but he held fast to his promise. He wouldn’t act on his desires.
It wasn’t his imagination, Arthur decided. He had caught Merlin staring at him numerous times in the past weeks, gaze heated, and not at all afraid. When their eyes met, Merlin didn’t turn away in embarrassment. No, he held Arthur’s eyes a little longer than usual, the flush stealing over his cheeks. His fingers reached automatically to his neck, as if he wasn’t aware what he was doing, touching the spot that used to bear Arthur’s mark. Arthur was mesmerized by the gesture, the rush of blood colouring his skin. Something stirred in him, possessive and wild, but as always, he pushed such feelings back, refusing to let them take hold, cause him to do something he’d later regret.
The small touches had continued; indeed, they had grown more bold and were not the innocent ones of old. Merlin’s fingers lingered on his skin, soft caresses that raised goose pimples where they passed. He stood closer as he helped Arthur dress, so near Arthur could feel the heat from his body through the fabric of his clothing, feel the warmth of his breath in his ear. Merlin’s actions had to be deliberate, and Arthur grew increasingly frustrated, unable to act on his desires. He took his anger out on Merlin, snapping at him, short-tempered, increasing the tasks he assigned—often the most unpleasant he could find.
Merlin retaliated by taunting him in small unsettling ways, standing even closer, leaning into his body whenever he could, wetting his lips with a slow sweep of his pink tongue while looking up at him through a fringe of lush thick lashes. Arthur had no idea how he resisted such obvious goading, but he somehow managed, even if he repeated his act of seeking release while Merlin slept peacefully nearby.
Everything came to a head one brisk afternoon. Arthur arrived at training agitated and tense. The crisp clear sky seemed to mock his stormy mood. The meeting with his father over breakfast had not gone well.
“How is it that we still do not know who’s behind these attacks?” Uther had asked as they ate their meal, discussing the report of yet another slaughtered druid camp, this time to the west, made to look as if Camelot was the perpetrator.
“I have my suspicions—”
“Well, confirm them,” Uther said with a stern look in Arthur’s direction.
Feeling like a failure under the weight of Uther’s disappointment, Arthur could only answer, “Yes, father.”
Later on the practice field, Arthur called out, “Leon, let’s you and I have a go at it, shall we?”
“Are you sure, sire? You’ve been at it hard all afternoon. Don’t you want to take a break?”
“Ah, scared to fight me, I see. I don’t blame you one bit.”
Leon tipped back his head and laughed. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Leon fought well, but he was no match for the prince. Arthur knew he had nothing to prove, but he gave it his all anyway. With a sword in his hand, he was in his element. This was where he excelled. The rest of his life may have been a riot of tumult, but here, on the field, he was at home. He felt invincible. Arthur was tiring, but nonetheless, he looked assured of an easy victory. That is, until he noticed Leon nodding in acknowledgment to someone off the field. Curious, Arthur turned to look and saw Guinevere standing there; she was joined quickly by Lancelot. He raised his hand to her face, stroking his knuckles tenderly over her cheek, and her answering smile was like the cut of a blade.
Completely unprepared for his visceral reaction to the sight, as if he’d been punched hard in the gut, Arthur faltered when Leon pressed the attack. Unable to get his shield properly in place, Leon’s blow fell at an odd angle, wrenching his shoulder. The pain shot through his arm, but at least managed to bring his full attention back to the fight, and even with his arm hanging practically useless at his side, he surged forward and quickly disarmed the other knight.
“Well fought,” he congratulated Leon, grasping his forearm in acknowledgment. When Arthur winced, Leon asked, “Are you all right, sire?”
Arthur nodded. “You’re not so useless, after all,” he joked. “It’s nothing. My shoulder. I’ll get some salve from Gaius. I think, however, I’ve had enough for the day. Can you finish up here with the men?”
“Of course.”
Merlin was by his side almost instantly once Arthur was off the field. He relieved Arthur of his shield and hovered over him like a worried nursemaid. When he stood too close, as had been his wont of late, Arthur took a step back. Once his hauberk had been removed, Merlin began working on the ties to his gambeson. Merlin crowded close again, and Arthur gritted his teeth in irritation. When he felt Merlin’s hot breath in his ear and his fingers gently stroking the back of his neck, anger flared at his body’s traitorous response. He twisted away, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he said, voice cold as steel, “but I’m in no mood for your games.”
“Arthur… I—”
He didn’t want to hear whatever Merlin had to say. He only wanted a few moments alone to nurse his wounds in private. “See if Gaius has some sort of salve for my shoulder. Bring it to my chambers with my supper.”
“But Arthur—”
“And make sure there’s a hot bath waiting for me.”
When Merlin still didn’t make move to leave, he added, “That will be all.”
After a long pause, Merlin said, “Yes, sire.”
The hot bath did little to ease the ache in his shoulder. And having Merlin tip-toeing around the room while he bathed only reminded him of one more thing he couldn’t have. Seeing Guinevere and Lancelot together had affected him more than he expected. His mind had been so occupied with other thoughts lately, he hadn’t dwelt as much on that particular wound. But seeing them, their obvious love for each other clear in every small gesture, it was as if the bandage had been ripped away, leaving a fresh bleed.
He groaned as he pulled himself from the tub. Merlin was immediately by his side with a towel. He rubbed it over his hair then wrapped it around his waist, grimacing with each move.
“Why don’t you lie down on the bed and I’ll rub this into your shoulder?” Merlin suggested, holding up the pot of salve.
The surge of arousal he felt at the thought of his servant’s hands on him both unsettled and irritated him. He didn’t need this added complication to his life. He needed to put Merlin out of his mind, not give himself more images to make his nights more restless. But he was tired, and sore, and worn down; he knew it would be difficult to reach the muscles himself.
Coming to a decision, he arranged himself on his stomach, the towel draped over his hips. Arthur shut his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the bed dip next to him, then he shivered at the first touch of Merlin’s hands on his skin. Merlin pulled them away.
“Sorry. Sorry. I should have warmed it up first.”
Arthur grunted in response, not wanting to admit it wasn’t the temperature of the salve that caused his reaction.
Merlin’s fingers were strong as they kneaded their way across his shoulders. Eventually, Arthur started to relax as the salve worked its way into his muscles, warming them and easing the ache.
“Right there. A little harder,” he directed.
Merlin pressed deeper, but the angle was wrong.
“I can’t really get… wait… let me…” then he was shifting on the bed, swinging his knees over Arthur’s hips and straddling his thighs.
As Merlin’s weight settled on the back of his legs, Arthur’s previous state of relaxation disappeared. His shoulders tensed and he gave a small gasp as his muscles contracted painfully. Merlin made a little clucking noise, stroking his skin in a soothing manner, both hands pressing into the flesh by his shoulder blades.
“Try to relax, sire.”
Arthur did try, but the gentle rocking motion on his thighs, the agile hands on his bare skin made him acutely aware he was all but naked and there was a boy touching him everywhere, his weight pressing him into the bed. Every inch of skin burned with a deep heat wherever Merlin’s hands roamed and he felt himself start to harden.
Arthur closed his eyes, ignoring his erection, and tried to let the salve and the deep tissue massage do its work. After a while he became aware that Merlin’s hands had at some point ceased their therapeutic movements and were now moving over his body with what could only be called caresses—slow sensuous strokes, the salve coating his palms allowing them to slip smoothly over his skin. Merlin’s breathing had also changed. His breaths were deeper, heavier. His thumbs pressed down the sides of Arthur’s spine, sliding all the way down from the base of his skull to his lower back, slipping beneath the edge of the towel, skimming the edge of his rear. Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and tried not to reveal how his own breathing was more laboured. Merlin repeated the motion again and again, the slow slide down the spine, the tease below the hips.
His hands eventually stilled, thumbs pressing into the indentations just above the globes of his arse, fingers splayed loosely at his waist.
“Can I…?” he started, his hands sliding slowly up Arthur’s back, then back down to his waist.
“Can you what?” Arthur prompted, face muffled in his arms, but his mind screaming yes.
“Can I…?” His thumbs slid beneath the fabric again and dipped slightly farther down, grazing the top of the crevice of his rear. His breathing was quicker now, still audible to Arthur’s ears. Arthur waited silently, not wanting to interrupt Merlin’s request. After a moment, he finally spoke.
“I know you won’t touch me, but… would it be all right if I touched you?” His hands had stilled at Arthur’s hips, but he could feel them trembling.
Arthur didn’t respond right away, the request causing his face to flush with a sudden rush of heat, every nerve hyper aware of the boy balancing behind him.
“Please, Arthur,” he begged in a low breathy voice. “This isn’t a game. Please let me touch you.”
Arthur squeezed his eyes tighter at the sudden onslaught of feeling. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead he shifted his leg, crooking it slightly at the knee, relieving the pressure on his throbbing shaft and tilting his arse in the air, letting the towel slip from his hips.
A small gasp escaped from Merlin’s lips and he was still for one shocked moment, as if he couldn’t believe that Arthur was acquiescing, then he gave a noise of appreciation before sliding his hands reverently over the muscular globes of Arthur’s arse.
Arthur’s hips bucked instinctively, his cock seeking friction, rubbing against the bedding. As Merlin explored his body, strong agile hands kneading into his flesh, Arthur reached a hand down to fist himself, aching for relief. Merlin let out another small noise, as if he were choking, and his fingers dug even harder into Arthur’s arse. Then his slick hand, still covered in salve, slid in the crevice between his rounded flesh, stretching him apart, exposing his hole.
Arthur had never had anyone touch him so intimately, never been this close with another man. He knew, of course, what some men got up to together on long campaigns, but he had never felt the desire to explore such things, his heart while away still belonging to Guinevere. He was unsure what he wanted, if he could allow another man to touch him there. When Merlin’s slick finger glided over his hole, Arthur reacted immediately, clenching his cheeks tight and gasping into his arm, a strangled noise of protest escaping his mouth.
Merlin retreated immediately, pulling his hand away, moving his fingers back to the curve of his arse, then sliding his palms upwards, massaging slowly, and pressing soothingly into his lower back.
“Shhh,” Merlin said. “It’s all right.” After a few more gentling strokes he whispered, “Gods, you’re so beautiful.” His voice was reverent, worshipful. His hand were as well, touching him as if he were precious, a rare treasure to hold.
Arthur’s head was spinning at the sensations this man’s hands were bringing out in him. He marvelled how the tables had turned, how he was the one unravelling while Merlin’s touch took him apart. Shaken by his reactions and how vulnerable he felt, Arthur wanted Merlin to lose a little of his control—to be more like the boy who had trembled against him, shuddering and shaking apart with his release. Arthur shifted his leg a little higher, bringing it back toward his chest, spreading his arse wider, offering himself to Merlin’s touch.
“Oh,” Merlin breathed with a sigh. “Gods, Arthur.” His voice shook. He didn’t waste a second, sliding his hands back down, spreading him wider and pressing a single slicked finger against his hole. Arthur’s hand sped between his legs; he was already near the edge of his release. His emotions were too overwhelming to process. He only knew that he wanted more, wanted Merlin, his hands, his fingers on his flesh. Releasing his cock to reach behind him, Arthur groped blindly for Merlin’s hand. Pulling it away from where it held his arse prised open, he tugged it around his hips, telling him without words what he needed. The boy didn’t disappoint. He wrapped his hand around Arthur’s own, fisting them over his cock. Together their fingers intertwined as they stroked Arthur toward his climax. Merlin was almost incoherent, babbling, “Oh gods. So beautiful. Gods, Arthur. Gods.”
Merlin’s other hand was still poised at his entrance, the tip his finger pressing at the delicate furled skin. As Arthur spun toward completion, moaning and thrusting into their fists, Merlin pushed in with his finger, breaching his opening. Arthur felt his body clamp tight around the intrusion as he spasmed and pulsed in thick stripes across the bed. He barely recognized the harsh, broken cries coming from his mouth as his own voice.
Merlin gave one last stroke to Arthur’s sensitive cock before pulling his hand away. Arthur heard him frantically working at the laces of his breeches and then the rhythmic movement as Merlin stripped his cock, fast and hard. In just minutes Merlin was crying out and Arthur felt the hot splash of come across his arse, each drop incinerating him to oblivion.
Wrung out and exhausted, a little embarrassed by his uncontrolled responses, Arthur lay face down, listening to Merlin’s panting breaths. He tried to ignore the loss he felt when Merlin finally moved off his legs. He felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, reliving the things he had just let Merlin do. And now he was lying naked, alone on the bed and covered with seed. But then Merlin returned with a damp cloth and tenderly wiped him clean, as if he were fragile as glass.
Drained by emotion and sinking into post-orgasmic torpor, Arthur longed to lose himself in sleep. As he began to drift, he felt a blanket being pulled up over his hips, then the soft press of lips at the knob of bone near the top of his spine, breath hot on his neck. He shivered with pleasure.
“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin said.
The next morning Merlin was quiet as he helped ready Arthur for the day. His fingers were back to their old clumsiness and when they brushed against Arthur’s skin, a pink blush spread over his face. Arthur stared, fascinated, watching the blood rise up to his ears. He wanted to lick them, see if the temperature was as warm as it looked. Again preferring to face things head on, Arthur asked, low, while Merlin’s face was inches from his own, “So, not a game?”
Merlin’s head whipped up and the look on his face was so raw, it took Arthur’s breath away—full of heat, and longing, and the same devotion Arthur had seen the morning he woke him in front of the fire.
Humbled, Arthur searched his eyes, stunned by the emotion laid bare to him.
“No,” Merlin whispered, never averting his gaze. “Not a game.”
Arthur reached his hand to Merlin’s neck, rubbing his thumb tenderly across his cheek. Then he tugged him closer, kissing him soft and sweet. “Merlin,” he breathed, a smile in his voice. Then he pulled the man to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. They swayed gently for a few moments until Arthur pulled away, placing a kiss at his temple as he released him. Merlin’s radiant smile filled his belly with warmth.
In the upcoming days, Arthur didn’t have time to explore this new dynamic with his manservant, but he had plenty of time to think about what had transpired. After leaving his chambers, he was summoned almost immediately to meet with his father. Hours later he was riding out of Camelot’s gates with his men, toward Escetia, tasked with discovering whether rumours of amassing forces held any truth. Typically, Merlin would have accompanied him on such a mission, but Gaius had requested he stay behind to help with an outbreak of illness in the lower town.
The days were long and the nights were cold and Arthur felt a sense of isolation from his men that hadn’t existed before Lancelot’s betrayal. He watched while they sat around the fire laughing and joking over the evening meal; their camaraderie was evident. Arthur sat apart, observing, but not joining in. The men made attempts to include him, but even they seemed relieved when he retired early for the evening.
Arthur lay in his tent, listening to sound of their voices, the occasional peal of raucous laughter. Loneliness settled over him like a blanket. He shut his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep before he completely succumbed to his maudlin mood. They’d be travelling home soon. Already he could feel the weight of his father’s disappointment, knowing they’d be returning once again with no real answers. Cenred was up to something, of that he was certain. Yet, they had been unable to uncover any overt evidence of his plans. What they had determined, however, was Escetia had become a refuge for the druids. They were fleeing Camelot in the wake of the attacks on their settlements. Cenred had the magic users on his side. Perhaps they were the only army he’d need.
Pressing his fingers against his forehead, Arthur groaned. His father would be unbearable. As would watching Guinevere and Lancelot reunite once again. The sting Arthur usually felt when thinking about Guinevere wasn’t as sharp this time, the pain not so deep. Another face, paler and angled sharp, kept slipping to the forefront in his mind—blue eyes, heavy lidded and sleep-soft. The smile on Merlin’s face after Arthur had kissed him that last morn. The hot splash of his seed on Arthur’s bare skin.
Arthur felt his cock stirring as he thought about Merlin. Deciding that spending his release would help him relax, Arthur kicked off his breeches and began stroking himself to hardness. For the first time since he left Camelot, Arthur allowed himself to indulge in the memories, playing them over in his mind at his leisure, lingering on specific moments—the tug of Merlin’s fist in his hair, the hot slide of his tongue against his own. As he stroked himself, using his thumb to roll back his foreskin, sliding the gathering wetness over the head of his cock, he thought of Merlin’s hands, those long elegant fingers, how they stroked across his cheek, so loving and tender, how they clutched at his clothing that first time, grasping and clenching almost desperately as his body trembled and shook with desire. How they kneaded deep into his muscles, first relaxing Arthur, then arousing him unbearably. How they spread him open, then penetrated him while bringing him off with his fist.
Fully hard now, and aching with need, Arthur spread his knees wider. Curious, he reached between his legs with one hand, rubbing the soft bit of skin behind his balls for a moment before sliding his finger down to press at his opening. Grimacing, he pushed the tip of his finger against his hole, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He took a deep breath and continued to stroke his cock, focusing instead on the memory of Merlin’s hands, how he had felt as his slick finger slid against his hole. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Arthur sucked his finger between his lips, slicking it with spit. He reached down between his legs again, pushing in with increased pressure. This time his finger slipped into his body. His breath hitched and he flushed with heat; his body gave a little reflexive jerk of discomfort, but he kept his finger there, trying to get used to the sensation. When he had adjusted, he pushed it in even deeper, as far as it would go. Picturing Merlin’s graceful hands, he wondered how much deeper they could slide, how many more fingers he could fit. Remembering the feel of Merlin’s length on his thigh as he rutted against him, Arthur let himself imagine Merlin’s cock replacing those fingers, buried deep inside.
The thought of Merlin draped over him with his cock stuffing him full was almost too much for Arthur. He started pumping his erection hard and swift and with a long quiet shudder, he spilled over his fist, his finger slipping from his body as he climaxed.
A light dusting of snow came down around them as they neared Camelot. The closer they got, the lighter the moods of his men became. Laughter flowed freely and even the horses seemed to sense the excitement, their footsteps prancing as they picked up speed. For the first time in recent memory, Arthur’s chest didn’t ache with a hollow emptiness. He was full of a nervous energy, an anticipation that made him anxious for home.
After he had let himself relive those memories of Merlin, he found it almost impossible to keep thoughts of the man out of his head. He had imagined Merlin’s lush mouth, the long tendons of his neck, his elegant fingers, so many times, he couldn’t wait to compare his recollections with the real thing. And he had yet to see it, but Arthur had also imagined Merlin’s cock innumerable times—in his hand, between his lips… buried deep in his arse. Night after night he’d dreamed about what he would do if he had Merlin in his bed again; he hoped he’d be given the chance to make some of those fantasies come true. When they broke through the trees and the tall towers and stately walls of the castle came into view, her graceful lines draped in a veil of white, Arthur’s heart gave a leap of joy. They spurred their horses faster, hurrying toward Camelot.
Arthur’s eyes scanned the courtyard looking only for one face. Not the one he would have expected to seek only weeks ago. Instead of warm brown eyes and long dark curls, he sought a thatch of night-dark hair atop porcelain skin. When he caught sight of a flash of crimson, his eyes were drawn to Merlin, bright kerchief around his neck, standing near the stables. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and snowflakes adorned his hair and lashes, like sparkling jewels. Arthur couldn’t help the smile that took over his face. Merlin’s answering grin carried no uncertainty, only pleasure at Arthur’s return.
Dismounting, Arthur strode toward his manservant, leading his horse toward the stable.
He stopped, standing close, looking into shining blue eyes, brilliant sapphires gazing up through a sable fringe. “Merlin,” he said.
“Welcome home, sire.” His voice was warm as he took the reins from Arthur’s hand.
They stood staring at each other, the cold weather having no effect on the coil of heat winding through Arthur’s belly. Merlin broke their eye contact first, giving a small laugh, as if his happiness was too great to be contained and had bubbled up from the pressure through a much needed outlet.
“Let me…” he said, nodding toward the stable, starting to move in that direction leading Arthur’s steed.
“Right. Yes,” Arthur agreed, following alongside, concentrating on keeping his hands at his sides, and not where he wanted—on Merlin’s shoulders, pulling his slender body back against his chest.
The moment they were through the stable door, Arthur’s control snapped. He manhandled Merlin into the first available open stall and swung the door shut behind them. Merlin dropped the lead he was holding, only half-heartedly attempting to get free, saying in a flustered voice, “Arthur… what…”
His words were cut off by Arthur’s lips as Arthur pressed Merlin back against the stable wall and kissed him with all the pent up passion that had been building the entire journey home. Merlin tensed in surprise, but only for fractions of a second before he melted against Arthur, his mouth opening to emit a low moan, his hands reaching up to sink into Arthur’s hair, nails scraping on his scalp. Arthur immediately took advantage of his parted lips and thrust his tongue between them, tasting Merlin’s mouth as if he were starved. His hands moved to Merlin’s hips, pulling them tight against his own. Then he brought one gloved hand up to Merlin’s jaw, tilting his head so he could kiss him even more deeply, tangling their tongues together. He analyzed the taste, the textures of his mouth, determined to never again have only hazy memories to rely on.
Arthur kissed him for a few moments more, shifting his hips against Merlin’s, his erection growing, arousal building like a rising storm. He could feel Merlin’s own cock becoming hard as he moved from his lips to bite at Merlin’s jaw then suck down his neck. He licked wet stripes across his skin, tasting him, drinking him in, then moved to the spot behind Merlin’s ear, the one that used to bear his mark, and sucked against his skin, nipping him sharply with his teeth.
Merlin’s frantic little whine went straight to Arthur’s cock and he rocked his hips harder against the boy, grinding against him.
“Thought about this…” Arthur panted the whispered confession in Merlin’s ear. “Thought about you...”
He reached his hand down between their bodies and cupped it over Merlin’s cock, squeezing.
“What you’d taste like,” he continued. “The noises you’d make.”
In response, Merlin’s hips bucked into his hand and small desperate whimpers fell from his lips.
Arthur fumbled at the laces of Merlin’s breeches, growling in frustration when his still-gloved hands were too bulky and inept for finesse. Reaching his hand up to his face, he pulled his mouth away from Merlin’s skin long enough to use his teeth yank the glove off one hand. He tossed it into the straw at their feet and went back to his task, loosening the tie and plunging his hand under the fabric.
He groaned when his fingers closed over Merlin’s hot shaft and it twitched beneath his fingers. Pulling back to look at Merlin’s face, he was rewarded with the sight of his manservant, face flushed, mouth open and panting, lips red and swollen, his eyes gone dark with desire.
“Gods, look at you,” Arthur murmured, moving his hand over Merlin’s cock, watching his lashes flutter and his chest heave with a gasp as he stroked.
Wanting to finally look at what he was touching, Arthur leaned in to kiss Merlin hard on the mouth, then he sank to his knees, pushing aside the fabric of Merlin’s coat and tugging his breeches down.
A strangled noise came from above and Arthur looked up to see Merlin’s eyes staring down at him, shocked and wild.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a choked voice, hands plucking at Arthur’s shoulders, feebly attempting to get him to rise.
“Tasting you,” Arthur said, torn between keeping his eyes locked on the wrecked face of the boy above him or examining what was jutting out a fingerspan from his lips. The hot flesh in front of his face won and Arthur grasped Merlin’s cock with his fist, sliding the foreskin away and revealing the rosy head, a few clear drops of liquid beading at the slit. He stuck out his tongue, bringing his face closer, and licked the wetness away, his own eyes drifting closed at the taste, salty and pungent.
Wanting more, he closed his lips around the head of Merlin’s cock, moaning, sliding his tongue across the head again, savouring his flavour. Arthur had never done anything like this with another man before, but he’d received pleasure in this manner, so he understood in concept what to do. What he didn’t expect, however, was his own craving to have Merlin in his mouth, to suck him down, feel the vein on the underside of his cock against his tongue. He didn’t expect the effect his actions would have on Merlin, his hips bucking frantically, incoherent noises pouring from his mouth.
Arthur pulled back, gagging, eyes watering, and looked up at Merlin. His own desire flared at the pure naked want on his face, hot and hungry and intense.
“You’ll have to be quiet,” Arthur said, voice low and hoarse.
Merlin nodded, and when Arthur grasped the base of his cock in his hand again, Merlin’s head flung back, knocking into the wall with a thump, hips jerking in response. Arthur used his gloved hand to grip Merlin’s hip, holding him steady against the wall, his thumb digging into his flesh. He moved his mouth back around Merlin’s erection, slurping and sucking, no art to his actions, but driven by an uncontrollable urge to get as much of Merlin in his mouth as he could.
As he knelt, completely consumed by his need, devouring Merlin’s cock, he began to hear the voices of the other men arriving in the stable, the squires and stable boys assisting with the returning horses. Merlin lifted his head, panic that they may be caught now mixed with the desire showing on his face. Arthur simply continued his actions, hollowing his cheeks to suck harder, eyes locked on Merlin’s. He sped the movement of his hand, swirling his tongue around Merlin’s shaft and almost had to shut his own eyes against the sight of Merlin, hand reaching for Arthur’s hair, trying to tug him away, but unable to before his body tensed and he spasmed against Arthur’s tongue, filling his mouth with hot seed.
Arthur pulled back a little, trying to swallow it down, savouring the slightly bitter flavuor on his tongue, rapt at the expression on Merlin’s face—pain and pleasure combined—but he was unprepared for the continuing pulsing of Merlin’s cock and he struggled to swallow again as more of Merlin’s release dribbled out of the side of his mouth. When Merlin stilled, Arthur pulled his hand away to frantically work at his own laces, trying to release his own aching cock. Merlin sunk down to the ground, kneeling next to Arthur and joined his hands to the task, freeing his erection from his breeches then wrapping his fingers around it.
Licking at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, cleaning his seed off his skin, Merlin pressed his lips against Arthur’s, capturing his low moan as he spilled on the ground. Arthur pulled his mouth away, panting, resting his head against Merlin’s forehead; their hands gave one last slow pull against his spent cock and he gave a shudder, oversensitive. After a moment, he pulled back to look at Merlin’s debauched face.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, slightly breathless, face breaking into a grin.
Merlin lips quirked, then he broke out in a dazzling smile, a bark of laughter leaving his lips. They collapsed against each other again, laughing softly and Arthur felt almost giddy with the ridiculousness of it all.
Arthur barrelled through the castle, still stinging from his father’s words, not paying any attention to where he was heading, only driven by the need to escape. A surprised cry rang out as he collided with someone after turning a corner. He reached out to grab the person’s shoulders, an apology on his lips, and found himself staring into Guinevere’s startled brown eyes.
“Arthur,” she gasped.
“Guinevere. Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes I’m fine. You just startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I was… preoccupied. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Oh. Is anything wrong?”
“It’s—” Arthur automatically started to tell her about the recent conversation with his father, Uther’s disappointment at Arthur’s continuing failure to uncover more about the attacks on the druid camps or Cenred’s plans, but stopped himself. For a moment he forgot she was no longer his, no longer the one he could turn to for comfort, for a sympathetic ear. A hot flash of rage burned briefly in his gut. He shook his head, quelling the flare of emotion, tamping it down.
“It’s nothing important,” he said.
Realizing his hands were still holding her shoulders, Arthur dropped them and took a step backward. He cleared his throat and looked away.
“Are you… how have you been?” Guinevere asked.
“I’ve been well. And you?”
“Fine. I’ve... I’ve been fine.”
Was this how it’d always be now, he wondered? Polite strangers? The awkward conversation was bringing that urge to flee even more into focus.
Guinevere put her hand on his arm. He stared at it, uncomprehendingly, then looked at her questioningly.
“Arthur…” she faltered.
He continued to stare, noting the flush creeping up her cheeks. He felt detached, as if he were simply an observer to the conversation instead of a participant.
“It’s just that…” she continued. “I haven’t had the chance to… You’ve been gone so much and… I wanted to say I’m—”
“It’s all right, Guinevere,” Arthur cut in, interrupting her stammering while removing her hand from his arm. He took another step back.
“But I wanted to—”
“There’s no need,” he interrupted again. He didn’t want to hear whatever she had to say, whether she was sorry, or grateful, or missed him, or something else entirely. Anything at all was going to hurt in some way and he wasn’t prepared right now to hear it. He didn’t need the scab ripped open anew.
“I want you to be happy,” he said.
She stared him, her eyes searching his face. “I am,” she finally said.
“Good. That’s… good.”
“But Arthur—”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve somewhere I need to be. It was good to see you, Guinevere.”
“Oh… of course.” She took the step back this time, looking flustered.
He gave a slight bow, then turned, heading down the corridor at a swift pace. His only impulse had been to escape the conversation with Guinevere, to keep his thoughts and memories at bay, lest they consume him. But as he walked, he realized he had spoken the truth; he did have somewhere he needed to be. His footsteps picked up speed.
Merlin looked up as he burst through the door.
“Arthur?”
Arthur strode across the room and grabbed Merlin’s upper arms, pulling him close, kissing him soundly. His lips were demanding and sure and Merlin responded instantly, opening his mouth and seeking out Arthur’s tongue with his own. Arthur urged him closer still, pushing his knee between Merlin’s leg and rubbing his thigh against his groin. Merlin’s moans filled his mouth.
Heat uncurled in Arthur’s stomach, spreading through him like a wildfire. Since Arthur’s return to Camelot after his last mission away, his time with Merlin had been a revelation. Their frantic reunion in the stable was only the beginning. They had righted their clothing, kicked straw over Arthur’s release and exited the stall so Merlin could take care of Arthur’s steed. Ignoring Gwaine’s assessing stare, Arthur had left to report to his father. He didn’t see Merlin again until that evening. They didn’t discuss what had happened earlier, but Arthur was aware of every small touch, every glance. When Merlin prepared to retire to his pallet, Arthur stopped him, grabbing his wrist.
“I’d like you to…” he hesitated. Arthur didn’t want this to be a command. He thought back on what Lancelot had said to him, the realization he’d had that any request would be seen that way regardless. But he was too selfish, wanted this too much, to not ask at all.
“If you’re willing, I’d like you to share my bed tonight.” He was strangely nervous, pulse beginning to race, palms growing damp.
He needn’t have worried. Merlin looked into his eyes, a soft smile on his face, and said, “I’m willing.”
Arthur felt his stomach drop, as if he were falling. Merlin’s expression held nothing back, every thought and feeling bared to him. The pure devotion staring back at him made Arthur tremble with a tumult of emotions. He wanted so much, too much, all at once—to gather him close, protect him, and keep that look in his eyes forever; to be the kind of man worthy of what was being offered; to throw him on the bed, strip him naked and ravage him senseless. Instead, he wordlessly tugged Merlin toward the bed, climbed under the blankets and moved to make room, pulling Merlin in afterwards.
They lay on their sides, facing each other. Arthur’s chest grew tight, as if he couldn’t breathe, unable to look away from Merlin’s face, sharp angles casting shadows in the dim light. Merlin leaned over, pressing his lips softly against Arthur’s, lightly touching his tongue to his top lip, catching the small gasp of air. He pulled back then, saying, “You should get some sleep, sire.”
As if the words themselves caused the exhaustion he suddenly felt crashing over him, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. “Arthur,” he slurred, already half asleep. “Call me Arthur.”
He felt another soft kiss on his lips, then Merlin moved closer, tucking himself against Arthur’s chest, feet and legs tangling with his own. A quiet, “Good night, Arthur,” was the last thing he heard before sleep overtook him.
Merlin had been in his bed every night since. And there were few that ended as that first night had done. Arthur could never have imagined the sheer pleasure this shift in their relationship would bring. With a look, or a touch, Merlin could have him aching and hungry. He used his fingers, then his mouth to take Arthur apart, leaving him writhing and desperate for release. The first time Merlin slid his cock into Arthur’s arse, Arthur was shaking from the overwhelming sensations, pleasure and pain, Merlin’s sweat slicked body draped across his back, hips pushing into him, and Merlin’s hot breath in his ear, panting, “Arthur, Arthur,” like a prayer.
That same heady arousal was rising as they kissed in his chambers. He could feel it washing over him like a wave, swamping him and pulling him under so he was drowning in a pool of desire. He freed his lips to growl in Merlin’s ear, “I need you inside me.” Then there was the frantic tugging of clothing, the stumbling toward the bed, the slick slide of fingers preparing him, the exquisite burn as Merlin’s cock filled Arthur deep.
The sight before him was beautiful, the tendons of Merlin’s neck taut and straining, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and intense and he leaned over Arthur, thrusting into him. Arthur locked his eyes on Merlin’s, grasping for something to ground him before he broke apart into pieces. Merlin had Arthur’s knee hooked over his elbow, Arthur’s strong thigh bent toward his chest and he leaned over to kiss him, panting into his mouth. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, Arthur. You can let go.”
Arthur surrendered, giving himself completely to the moment, to Merlin, not thinking of anything but the beautiful boy above him, their bodies joined together, the inferno building between them. Nothing existed but Merlin. Not his loneliness, his heartache, the uncertainty of the future, his doubts and insecurities. When he was here, like this, everything faded away. Morgana, Guinevere, Lancelot, his father—the betrayals and disappointments. He could take them all, deal with them all if he could only have this. This one thing was his, his alone to treasure and keep.
“Merlin,” he practically sobbed, voice breaking on the name as he spiralled to his release.
Yes, he could deal with everything else if he could just have this.
Continue to Part 2 | Masterpost
