Fic: an arse is an arse, of course, of course (1/3)
Title: an arse is an arse, of course, of course (1/3)
Characters: Arthur/Merlin, slight Arthur/OMC and Merlin/Lancelot
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 5,539 (out of 13,383)
Notes: Oh man...I had SO MUCH HELP on this story. mini_moue was my lightning-fast proofer, dark_reaction gave this story the swift kick in the butt that it needed, and oxoniensis was amazingly sweet to look this over on such short notice and still have such extensive concrit. So, THANK YOU GUYS. This story was major suckage before they chipped in with their amazing brains. Other than that...gosh, this story took me about SIX MONTHS to write but it's finally here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Summary: Merlin accidentally walks in on one of Prince Arthur's...indiscretions.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
One afternoon, some weekday-a normal day replete in all its mundane fetch-and-clean glory-Merlin sees something he wasn’t meant to see.
Moreover, it’s something he wishes he hadn’t seen: Prince Arthur’s pale, bare arse.
There’s more, of course. If that were the whole of it-a simple case of accidental nudity-Merlin would hardly be bothered. He dresses the man, after all. He gets glimpses of Arthur’s skin and blond hair in all sorts of sensitive areas on almost a daily basis. No, seeing Arthur’s naked bum is no big deal…it’s what that bum was doing. Or rather, who it was doing.
That particular afternoon, Merlin softly nudges open the door of Arthur’s private chambers with the back of his shoulder. He’s laden down with an armful of towels and equipment, bucket handle clamped firmly in his teeth to steady the entire, teetering monstrosity. When he finally turns around he’s immediately confronted with the following scene: the bare arse of Camelot’s very own Prince Arthur Pendragon pounds frenetically into the (equally bare) arse of another young man.
What is he…? Oh.
Arthur gets a couple of thrusts in, partner squirming beneath him and Merlin watching with wide eyes before he snaps out of it-he splutters out the handle of the bucket (nearly dumping the entirety of its scalding contents all over himself) and his feet scramble an about-turn.
Merlin flees, practically airborne. He tosses his things aside, catapults across the courtyard and dashes upstairs to bolt himself shut behind the solid door of his bedroom.
Inside, the stillness of the unkempt room slowly infects him with its air of nonchalance and normalcy. Merlin allows himself to relax as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, though it doesn’t stop him vowing never again to enter Arthur’s chambers without first knocking. Funny, he’s been reprimanded often enough for such transgression-perhaps Arthur ought to have been caught with his britches down earlier, if it would encourage Merlin to be a little more discreet.
On the other hand-Merlin winces, vividly recalling the scene-no one should ever have to undergo such trauma. One victim (one glimpse) was more than enough.
-----
Unfortunately, if ‘once is more than enough’, then what’s ten, twenty times? Fifty times?
Merlin heaves a great sigh and flops onto his bed, unceremoniously dropping his open book of magic upon his face. Magic, indeed, Merlin thinks sourly, breathing musty ink from the useless pages. What good is it if it can’t stop you from re-living such a disturbing moment? Merlin grunts discontentedly and closes his eyes.
It shouldn’t really be as awful as he’s making it to be. On that day, when he’d nudged open the door, Merlin hadn’t even seen all that much. He was too busy balancing everything in his arms.
It was the scent in the air that really tipped him off. Clean sweat and deep musk. Only then did Merlin think to pay attention, and only then did he see it: two or three yards away, Arthur moving in unmistakable undulations against an unmistakably male body.
The skin of Arthur’s back was golden, the broad stroke of it glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun that lazily filtered through the open window. Every muscle, every sinew of Arthur’s body was raised in stark relief as he mercilessly worked the body beneath him, and as Merlin stood there, dumbfounded, a strange notion had suddenly leapt forth. He fucks like he fights.
Even now, days later in the privacy of his own room, Merlin cannot dispel the notion: Arthur fucks like he fights. It’s as true today as it was last week, that Arthur indeed throws himself into every activity with the same single-mindedness as he does when duelling. On offence, Prince Arthur drives forth with reckless abandon but when the situation begs caution, he coils up, tense and dangerous.
Despite the fact that Merlin caught only a fleeting view of the prince’s tryst, it in no way discredits his theory. Arthur’s quick jab into the body below resembled one of his easy insults, the long draw out like the holding of breath before an opponent’s blow. Few seconds though they were, they’d felt interminable-slow-motion, almost, as if Merlin had blinked and halted time himself. Who knows, maybe he had. Lord, but if Merlin could invoke his magic once again and banish the scene from his consciousness! He’s positively sick of it, of seeing Arthur lasciviously screwing some faceless stranger every time his eyes fall shut-
“Merlin!”
Jumping at the sound of his name, Merlin jerks upright. His book slips off his face with a thud on the ground beside him.
“Are you in there?” Gaius’ voice, though muffled through the door, sounds closer now. A firm knock follows. “You’re being called upon, Merlin. What are you doing home, anyway? The prince has been petulant all week, says you’ve been shirking your duties. He wants you in his chambers, now. ”
A deep flush makes its way to Merlin’s face. He can feel it there, warm and unbidden, but for what reason? He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, after all-it should be the prince who feels mortified!
Merlin steels himself and unlocks the door. Before him stands Gaius, exasperated but bemused. “You’ve got ink on your cheeks,” he dryly remarks. “Is there something I should know about you and that book?”
Merlin mutters something under his breath, but Gaius simply looks at him with that quirked eyebrow so he quickly trails off. “Never mind,” he says hastily. “I’ll be going, now.”
“You do that.”
Merlin is so eager to escape Gaius’ all-knowing gaze, he momentarily forgets his dread of confronting Arthur. Sprucing up quickly and efficiently, he heads downstairs.
-----
By the time Merlin’s back at the scene of the crime, the nauseating feeling of dread has returned. Outside Arthur’s bedchamber, he shifts his weight from foot to foot in acute discomfort and it’s only when he hears a muffled crash from within (followed by bellowed expletives) that he announces his presence with two nervous raps of his fist. The scuffle quiets, followed by Arthur’s heavy footfalls that echo like an ominous countdown.
The door snatches open, the breeze of it whispering over Merlin’s face.
“Good Lord, Merlin, what have you been doing all day? I’ve got a good mind to sack you again, you’ve been absolute rubbish lately.”
“I, erm-“
“Have you seen the state of my room? I suppose you couldn’t have, considering how I haven’t seen the likes of your idiotic arse gracing my doorway in the past five days. ” Arthur pulls back just enough to let Merlin squeeze by, then doggedly follows him inside. “What, afraid I’ve got the pox, or something? You’ve got no excuse skiving off, I’m fit as a fiddle-“
Merlin quickly interjects, “No, it’s nothing like that. I know you’re fit.” Arthur halts his tirade long enough to raise both his eyebrows, and Merlin feels the blood drain from his face. “I mean-I know you’re, erm. Healthy. I’m the one who’s been unwell lately, is what I’m trying to say.” The air swells with Arthur’s profound scepticism, so Merlin quickly produces a cough-an appropriately pitiful one, he’s hoping.
Luckily, Arthur’s never been all that perceptive, and he isn’t about to begin now. He simply gives Merlin a lordly once-over before sighing, as if very put upon, “I suppose you do look a bit peaked.”
“Right,” Merlin swallows. “But I’m better now. So…you called for me?”
Arthur looks vaguely relieved to assume his usual state of haughtiness (sympathy doesn’t sit well with him). In a commanding voice, he starts, “I did call for you. There’s everything to do. You can start with my armour; it’s in a sorry state, needs a good polish. Both suits. Then there’s my sword, obviously, and all my secondary weapons…”
Merlin quickly loses interest in Arthur’s monologue. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so he allows his attention to wander off, watching Arthur pace the room as he imperiously ticks off items on each finger.
It’s strange…Arthur looks no different than any other day, but suddenly Merlin perceives a colour to him-a vibrancy, of sorts, that manifests itself through Arthur’s carriage (straight-backed), through his eyes (clear), his mouth (expressive, and rosy)…
Merlin’s pleasant thoughts are rudely interrupted when Arthur huffily slaps him on the cheek in two quick successions.
“Oy,” Arthur says. “The prince. Is speaking. To you.” As an afterthought, he smirks and adds, “Dimwit. You do realize, you’ve just agreed to being put in the stocks wearing Morgana’s knickers and stays?”
“What? I did not.”
“You did too,” Arthur insists.
Merlin gives him a half-lidded glare, saying, “There’s no need get snippy, my Lord. ” Then before Arthur can sneak in one last insult, Merlin grabs the empty hamper next to him, balances it awkwardly against his hip, and begins tracking across the room, gathering Arthur’s dirty clothes where they lie in piles on the floor or draped across furniture.
He’s about ten feet from the doorway, swiping for a pair of hose ridiculously stuck in the chandelier, when Arthur turns around to add, “Oh, and don’t forget the bed sheets.”
Merlin swallows hard.
-----
One week later, Merlin snuffs it. It happens like this: poisoned wine, down the chute!
That isn’t the part Merlin’s concerned with, however. What he’s interested in is how he comes back to life. Something about Arthur and some flower, some antidote-Gwen brings up jail cells and plates of food…Merlin’s still rather fuzzy on all of it. He’s been dead, after all.
Luckily, it was only a temporary state. His fever broke a few hours earlier and Merlin is downstairs now, keeping Gwen company as she does some mending by torchlight.
Merlin looks at her with a sidelong glance, then subtly rolls into her with his shoulder. “So…you kissed me.”
Gwen, the little darling, unsuccessfully tries to hide behind her hair. “Come on, Merlin, don’t pretend you didn’t know already. It isn’t cute.”
“On the contrary,” Merlin grins. “I’d like to think I’m very cute.”
Gwen’s voice quickly takes on a sharp edge. “I’m serious, don’t be coy. It’s mean, and I’d like to think you’re better than that.”
Merlin’s serious-he doesn’t know what she’s on about. “Gwen, I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
Gwen turns evasive again, needling into Morgana’s old dress robe with renewed fervour. Merlin isn’t letting her off the hook so easily though; his stare outlasts her patience and before long, Gwen heaves a great sigh and says, “You don’t have to pretend around me. I know about you. About Arthur.”
If Merlin were confused before he’s completely lost now. “We’re talking about Arthur, now? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“I heard you, Merlin-“ Gwen picks up momentum, her words tumbling like rain, “You were delirious, I know, but the things you said…you were calling his name out, for God’s sake. I know you don’t want anyone to know, though, so I won’t say a word.” She eyes their surroundings, sending wary looks at the lone guards and courtyard stragglers. “I won’t tell a soul. But in the meantime, don’t lead me on. It isn’t fair.”
Merlin stares at Gwen, at the way her hair curls around her delicate jaw…and inwardly shrugs. He still has no idea what she’s talking about.
-----
Gwen watches Merlin’s face trample over with wide-eyed bewilderment, looking like Morgana used to when she got caught watching boys take a pee-totally red-handed, that is. Gwen hurriedly pulls him into a motherly embrace, cooing, “Don’t fret, Merlin. I won’t deny I find it strange and, well, a little unpalatable, but you’re my friend. I won’t turn my back on you, and neither would Arthur if he ever found out. He did save your life; that counts for something, right?”
“He-“ Merlin woodenly sits up. “He what?”
“Oh, I suppose you can’t have known-you have been feverish. Arthur saved your life. Quite dashingly, too, I might add. Who knows, maybe the prince feels the same way as you do.” She smiles conspiratorially. “There have been rumours, after all. About the prince and his…well, his liberal proclivities.”
“You mean…” Merlin squints at Gwen in a way that might have been endearing, had she still been fond of him. Which she’s not, of course. “…liberal proclivities, as in politics? Or like, liberal morals.”
Gwen frowns. Is he having her on? “What I mean is,” she says deadpanned, “people say that Arthur sleeps with men.” Here, Merlin’s eyes grow huge and Gwen takes the opportunity to roll her own skyward. “Honestly, Merlin. I can’t tell if you’re feigning or not, sometimes.”
“I don’t feign ignorance, if that’s what you’re getting at!” Merlin scoffs. “Can I help it if everyone in Camelot goes around talking in riddles? Where I come from, an apple’s just an apple.”
“Well, in the big city, an apple means temptation. Or a vessel for poison.” Gwen deftly ties a knot at the hem of Morgana’s old robe and snaps the thread off. It’s about time she got back, so she gathers her kit together and rises, throwing one last look over her shoulder to cheekily add, “Or as you well know, fodder for the stocks.”
The jibe is lost, however, for Merlin’s attention is miles away, his brows knitted together in concentration. It is only when Gwen’s stepped off the lower staircase that he rises with her.
“Gwen, you said…” Merlin avoids her gaze, looking uncharacteristically shy, so Gwen cocks her head in encouragement. Finally, he ventures, “You said Arthur saved my life. What did you mean by that? I only saw you and Gaius by my bedside when the fever broke.”
Gwen crosses her arms, Morgana’s robe folded in between, and explains, “After you slipped into fever, Arthur rode out into the forest to find the antidote. It was very brave; Gaius mentioned a dangerous beast that dwells there, but Arthur hardly batted an eyelash.”
Merlin balks. “He could’ve got himself killed.”
“But you would’ve died,” Gwen reasons. “You should’ve seen him-Arthur was so worried. He’ll kill me if he knew I told you, but he was. Even went against his father’s orders to ride out. And for all his mettle, he’s spending the night in the dungeons.”
“The dungeons?” Merlin repeats incredulously, and Gwen simply nods.
Merlin is clearly upset, but the anger is soon replaced with embarrassment. He scratches behind his head (making his hair stick up in the back), then softly says, “I ought to thank him, shouldn’t I?”
Gwen bites her lip and watches Merlin’s face as his eyes turn soft. Oh, how her heart beats for this beautiful boy! “You should,” she gently replies. “I think he’d like that.”
Merlin just crosses his arms over his knees and rests his chin on top, too preoccupied to give a proper response. Gwen sighs, fastens her cloak round her shoulders and takes off, leaving Merlin behind to sort through his thoughts in solitude.
-----
The next evening, Merlin gets ambushed at home.
He’s sitting in the front room, swaddled in itchy blankets and busy making faces at the foul-tasting concoction Gaius brewed for him, when someone appears in the doorway.
It’s Arthur. He lets himself in (he would). Swaggers in, really, waiting until he’s over Merlin’s shoulder to announce loudly, “Still alive, then?”
Merlin jolts in his chair, fumbling his cup. “Um, yeah. Just about,” he blurts, spinning around and getting a face full of His Highness’ midriff. Merlin quickly reels back and tips his gaze up, when Arthur-good God, now that’s just distracting-rests a hand on the back of his chair and leans forward expectantly.
It takes Merlin a beat too long, but eventually he catches on and stutters out something that resembles a thanks for saving my life. It doesn’t come out the way he wants, though; he can’t think straight when the prince is looking at him like that-all caring and fondness-especially in light of what he’s learned (and what he’s seen) of Arthur during the week.
The prince doesn’t seem to notice Merlin’s inner turmoil, however; he simply jeers at him with the usual amusement, but he does so in low, intimate tones that seem out of place on the normally detached prince. The transformation is complete when Arthur grins disarmingly at him, broad smile belying the soft look in his eyes.
There seems to be some more exchange of words-Merlin can’t be expected to remember. He’s still in recovery of mortal peril, after all. No one should be expected to muster up coherence in such a state. But before Merlin can get himself up to speed, Arthur’s turned to leave with long, confident strides that give Merlin a narrow time frame in which he steels himself, and calls:
“Arthur-”
At the sound of his name, Arthur stops and lifts his head in query. The low sun is directly behind him, hair struck with gold and blinding for it. Arthur’s expression is shadowed and inscrutable.
Merlin clamps his hands into fists for fortitude, then says, simply, “Thank you.”
There’s a lengthy pause. Merlin’s breath sticks in his throat as he waits for Arthur to (finally) respond, “You too...” He wavers on the edge of decision, and maybe it’s because Merlin wills him to continue, that he does. Arthur says, in a warm voice devoid of its usual mockery: “Get some rest.”
Arthur leaves the room and shuts the door, orange light closing behind him.
-----
The next day, however, is just another day. As is the one after that, and the one after that. The sun doesn’t stop traversing the sky and the moon doesn’t stop chasing it.
Similarly, Arthur doesn’t stop being the Crown Prince, and Merlin doesn’t stop being his servant. Which is fine and all, but after the poisoning incident he sort of hoped that something between them would change.
It’s a vindictively bright Monday morning. Still in bed and mostly asleep, Merlin musters up the energy to chuckle at his own expense.
He’ll admit it; the notion that he and Arthur could ever be real friends is a bit laughable. Nobility will always be something to be revered, and peasants like himself will always be the ones to do it. There is no blurring of boundaries, not in Uther’s Camelot.
In fact, since that day Arthur’s shown nothing but cold aloofness as dictated by propriety; Merlin hardly even sees Arthur anymore, who’s become as rare as a bird of paradise. Instead, Merlin spends the days completing long, odious tasks while other times, more simply, Arthur passes him over to Gaius on the grounds that the physician has more need of him-which is totally ridiculous, because normally Arthur couldn’t give a rat’s arse about who needs Merlin.
I’m not lending you my manservant, he used to say, when asked by various castle officials. Go and find one of your own. They’re quite handy, actually, when they’re not being totally incompetent. Merlin would look affronted (as he was usually right there when Arthur insulted him), and Arthur would fix his eyes forward but the sly, secretive smile that invariably crept out was always for him, and him alone.
It’s been two full weeks with none of the old jocularity and now, at the start of what promises to be a third week of dull, humourless duty, all Merlin wants to do is bury his head under his pillow and hide from the world. So he does; flops over onto his stomach and throws the lumpy thing over his head. Once properly shielded, Merlin grumbles his first word of the day, “Ugh.”
…because ‘ugh’ is how his day’s schedule looks. ‘Ugh’ is what how his days have been. And ‘ugh’ is how it’s going to stay unless Merlin gets the chance to save Arthur from another life-threatening situation and thus garner some eye contact, at least.
Merlin sighs, then slowly removes the pillow from his head. There’s nothing to be done for it. Perhaps he’ll stir up some trouble with Gwen later, if only to quell the boredom.
-----
It takes less than hour for Merlin to eat his words.
He’s out by the edge of the forest gathering penny buns and horse mushrooms for lunch when, with irony so palpable Merlin might never complain of boredom again, he’s suddenly bum-rushed by an enormous, winged beast. That might have been the end of it-nearly is-but Merlin manages to escape with his life intact.
It isn’t due to any heroics on his part, however. Hardly. All Merlin contributed was to fall on his arse long enough for the beast to rear up, exposing its breast in invitation for a killing blow when miraculously, that blow materializes.
Well, of sorts. What would be a killing blow turns out to be more of a deterrent than anything, at the hand of someone with wild hair and a shitty sword that splinters on impact, but Merlin’s not going to complain now (or EVER AGAIN). He hasn’t got time, anyway-too busy dragging said someone back to the castle before the man’s wounds bleed out and he dies on Merlin’s shoulder without ever accepting a heartfelt thanks from a young, still-alive warlock.
-----
The man’s name is Lancelot, and Merlin takes an interest in him immediately. The whole part where he saved Merlin’s life may or may not have something to do with it, but Merlin thinks he would’ve come to the same conclusion on his own, as Lancelot’s a likeable guy.
Across the room, Gaius staunches Lancelot’s still-bleeding wound with a clean cloth though his patient is totally out of it, weak with blood loss. All he can do is groan, sweat a bit, then groan some more in a low, gravelly rasp, only to turn his head and bare a long-did Merlin mention sweaty?-swath of gleaming neck.
Merlin swallows hard as he feels his blood pool down somewhere south of appropriate. There may be such a thing as too likeable, Merlin thinks. God, the recent discovery of the “liberal proclivities’ of Camelot’s men must be affecting Merlin in the head. He spares a muttered curse for the culprit (Arthur) and then another for Arthur’s rediscovered superiority complex…then leaves the room before something embarrassing happens in front of (moaning, panting) Lancelot and (know-it-all) Gaius.
-----
Unfortunately, nothing prevents something embarrassing from happening to Merlin the following night.
“Have you ever-“ Merlin chokes on his words, eyes widening in dismay as the rest of his sentence barrels on without him, “-been with a man before?”
The question lingers in the air, taking its time to circle about the room before sheepishly returning to Merlin in the form of a hot blush that he feels creeping up his cheeks.
“Never mind. It was a joke. Ha ha,” Merlin redacts, voice tight with fear as he nervously eyes Lancelot’s sword, menacingly heavy on the coverlet between them.
Lancelot follows his glance, his eyes landing upon his weapon. Merlin quickly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and makes to stand up. “Well, good night then, I’ll take the mattress outside-“
Lancelot grabs his wrist. “Hold on,” he says. “Stay.” Merlin obeys, dropping back down with all the grace of a wooden puppet.
He’s wondering if he’s about to get his throat sliced open, and he’s ruminating upon how annoyed Gaius will be when he discovers he has to clean up the gore left behind, when-achingly slow, and so, so deliberate-Lancelot’s thumb rubs into Merlin’s wrist, his other hand coming to rest on Merlin’s knee. It pauses only for a moment before dragging north, calloused fingers catching on the fabric covering Merlin’s outer-then inner-thigh.
“…oh,” he breathes, peering down at his lap where Lancelot cups his groin.
“Body warmth is body warmth,” Lancelot explains, his voice pitched so alluringly, it’s any wonder Merlin’s waited this long. “I’m not discriminating when it comes to whom I share my bed with.”
“Oh,” Merlin repeats, feeling a bit like an idiot. When it’s evident he’s got nothing else to contribute, Lancelot tugs on Merlin’s wrist, pulling him off-balance.
With a mortified yelp, Merlin topples into Lancelot like a basket of laundry and he’s thinking this was all a very bad idea when a wet suck suddenly pinches the side of his neck and Merlin starts to think that this is, in fact, a very good idea. His body can only agree with enthusiasm as Lancelot’s sure, determined hands start to peel his clothes off.
Before long, Merlin’s shivering in the evening air and it all seems a bit unfair, seeing as Lancelot is still fully dressed but for the loosening of his britches, where a hard column of skin peeks out between crossed laces. But then Lancelot leans down, pressing into Merlin’s body with his own, and Merlin dazedly supposes that clothing is overrated.
-----
They jerk each other off, Lancelot quick and sure with hands and mouth everywhere, while Merlin is nervous but eager. He tries to remember what feels good on himself-small twist at the tip, harder on the way up, and Lancelot responds approvingly-his hips buck when he comes, and he desperately fucks Merlin’s tight hand even as he spills onto him. Keeps fucking even as his dick grows too sensitive, and Merlin doesn’t think to let up, distracted as he is by the sight of another man’s fluids spilling over him.
He’s fairly shocked when Lancelot ducks down and traces a tongue up the twitching span of Merlin’s belly, dipping into the mess of come before lapping it up. A high-pitched noise escapes from Merlin’s throat, and he’s not ashamed to admit it because Good Lord, Lancelot’s licking up his own come. Cleans up quickly, too, pausing only the briefest of moments when he’s gathered the come on his tongue to let Merlin see it, thick and stringed, before it’s swallowed down.
It doesn’t take long for Merlin to get off (for obvious reasons). When it’s all over, the pair of them sticky with sweat and too tired to care, they sleep back-to-back on Merlin’s small mattress.
It’s a tight space and they roll into each other throughout the night. Each time Lancelot sleepily jockeys for more room with light knocks of his shoulder, Merlin strangely thinks of Arthur.
-----
Merlin wonders if he’ll feel any different now. Lancelot is…well, he’s a man, for starters, and he’s Merlin’s first partner in anything beyond clumsy kisses.
He wonders if this is the part where he’s supposed to fall in love, or whatever it is girls chitter about; he waits for his heart to soften to clay, waits for the lutes to start playing in his ears at the sight of Lancelot’s silhouette in the doorway. It doesn’t happen, though, and for that Merlin’s grateful.
No, there’s nothing weird or complex between him and Lancelot. Things are easy and friendly until the very end, and when Lancelot leaves Merlin is sorry to see him go.
High up in the western tower of the castle, Merlin is thinking as such. He gazes out at the land before him, daydreaming of idle things long after Lancelot has disappeared from view. He doesn’t know how long he’s up there, but when the sound of heavy, clomping boots gives him pause, the sun is much lower in the sky.
He knows it’s Arthur. Merlin’s had months and months to attune himself to Arthur’s every movement, has learned to anticipate every need and whim (of which there are many). Yes, there is no doubt that the coming visitor is the prince, for his footfalls are even and strong and supreme in confidence.
Also, it’s pretty plain that it’s Arthur when he emerges from the tower to bark, “Merlin.”
A month ago, Merlin might have been startled by the sharp tone of voice, but at this point it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Merlin merely cocks his ear, barely lifting his head from the sconce of his arms.
Arthur sighs noisily and surges forward to the sound of metallic clinks and hard squeaks of leather. Merlin straightens up and turns around.
“My Lord?” He keeps his voice deferential for fear of provoking Arthur, who always seems to be in a foul mood these days.
It appears today is no different. Arthur angrily quips, “Lancelot is gone, Merlin. Stop pining and get back downstairs-I need you to ready my steed for Friday’s hunt.”
“Yes, of course.” Merlin keeps his eyes politely lowered, manoeuvring around Arthur as best he can, but it’s difficult…or rather, Arthur’s making it difficult. Merlin takes a step to the left, and Arthur quickly blocks him with his arm. Same goes for the other side. A silly, stupid dance ensues between the two of them, until finally Merlin feels his patience drop away like a sack of stones.
He jerks his head up and snaps, “Excuse me.” His tone is insolent and it’s likely to get him tossed out of Camelot on his arse like he should’ve the day he and Arthur met, but honestly? Merlin is kind of over this.
A trapped look comes over Arthur’s face as he appears to realize what he’d been doing, small frown accompanying it. Normally Merlin would seek to smooth the crease from Arthur’s brow, but instead he just wants to punch his teeth straight.
Arthur doesn’t deserve sympathy right now. He’s acting like a spoilt child-irrational and haughty. Has been for weeks and with absolutely no discernable reason.
When it doesn’t look like Arthur’s going to say anything, his face remaining conflicted, Merlin makes to get past Arthur but he’s rebuffed once more as Arthur automatically stops him with a hand.
“What are you doing?” Merlin asks in exasperation.
Arthur tenses noticeably and says sharply, “I have no need to explain my actions to you.”
“Okay…” Merlin replies, not bothering to understand what Arthur is even talking about. His hands go up in surrender as he says, “Sure. Fine. Just let me by already, I’ve got your mount to prepare.”
“I’m not moving.” Arthur crosses his arms like he’s trying to be intimidating. Merlin feels his annoyance rise even further.
“WHY NOT?”
“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO,” Arthur matches.
He’s glaring into Merlin’s face, uncomfortably close. Their boots are touching at the tips and when Merlin tries to step back, his heel hits against the low, crenellated wall of the tower. Merlin makes one last ditch effort to sidestep the prince but as expected, he’s shut down by the fall of Arthur’s arms which bracket him in.
Diplomacy it is, then. “Arthur. Sire. Forgive me for saying so-“ Merlin pointedly ignores Arthur’s raised eyebrows. “-but you’re being unreasonable. Whatever it is that’s got you all…” In a tizzy? Acting like a little bitch? “…upset. Whatever it is, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re taking it out on me.”
Arthur blinks at him wordlessly.
“You’ve been doing it for weeks,” Merlin tries, but still no reaction. Finally, giving up all pretence, Merlin says point-blank: “Stop blaming me for your problems.”
It does the trick. A little too well, perhaps-Arthur lifts a hand from the stone wall behind them and tangles it into Merlin’s shirt, jerking him forward so he can properly sneer, “God, Merlin. You’ve got to be the dimmest creature that ever walked these castle walls. You’ve got no idea about anything.“ He’s talking low and threateningly, voice nearly lost to the sound of whipping flags that lash about nearby. Merlin hears him though, hears just fine as Arthur enunciates: “I can blame you for my problems, and trust me, I do because they’re entirely your fault.”
“What did I DO? If I’m such a problem, why don’t you just sack me and get it over with?”
The words fly out of his mouth before Merlin even realizes what he’s saying, and if he could snatch them back he would. He feels Arthur flinch-they’re close enough that Merlin can feel everything, can feel the stiffening of Arthur’s arms against his own and hear Arthur’s curt intake of breath.
Before he can apologize, though, Arthur shoves forward and Merlin has to bend backwards over the low wall just to keep their faces apart.
“You have no idea, do you?” Arthur repeats.
He leans into Merlin with the weight of his body and Merlin gasps lightly, his spine scraping against stone, his head turning to look…
…which turns out to be a very bad idea. “Fuck,” Merlin swears.
Between the crenellations of the tower, the ground looks miles away. The castle’s drawbridge is but a small wafer from these heights, the people tiny as ants. Arthur’s body is a heavy upon his and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut to wonder how he ever got into this mess at all.
Next
Characters: Arthur/Merlin, slight Arthur/OMC and Merlin/Lancelot
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 5,539 (out of 13,383)
Notes: Oh man...I had SO MUCH HELP on this story. mini_moue was my lightning-fast proofer, dark_reaction gave this story the swift kick in the butt that it needed, and oxoniensis was amazingly sweet to look this over on such short notice and still have such extensive concrit. So, THANK YOU GUYS. This story was major suckage before they chipped in with their amazing brains. Other than that...gosh, this story took me about SIX MONTHS to write but it's finally here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Summary: Merlin accidentally walks in on one of Prince Arthur's...indiscretions.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
One afternoon, some weekday-a normal day replete in all its mundane fetch-and-clean glory-Merlin sees something he wasn’t meant to see.
Moreover, it’s something he wishes he hadn’t seen: Prince Arthur’s pale, bare arse.
There’s more, of course. If that were the whole of it-a simple case of accidental nudity-Merlin would hardly be bothered. He dresses the man, after all. He gets glimpses of Arthur’s skin and blond hair in all sorts of sensitive areas on almost a daily basis. No, seeing Arthur’s naked bum is no big deal…it’s what that bum was doing. Or rather, who it was doing.
That particular afternoon, Merlin softly nudges open the door of Arthur’s private chambers with the back of his shoulder. He’s laden down with an armful of towels and equipment, bucket handle clamped firmly in his teeth to steady the entire, teetering monstrosity. When he finally turns around he’s immediately confronted with the following scene: the bare arse of Camelot’s very own Prince Arthur Pendragon pounds frenetically into the (equally bare) arse of another young man.
What is he…? Oh.
Arthur gets a couple of thrusts in, partner squirming beneath him and Merlin watching with wide eyes before he snaps out of it-he splutters out the handle of the bucket (nearly dumping the entirety of its scalding contents all over himself) and his feet scramble an about-turn.
Merlin flees, practically airborne. He tosses his things aside, catapults across the courtyard and dashes upstairs to bolt himself shut behind the solid door of his bedroom.
Inside, the stillness of the unkempt room slowly infects him with its air of nonchalance and normalcy. Merlin allows himself to relax as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, though it doesn’t stop him vowing never again to enter Arthur’s chambers without first knocking. Funny, he’s been reprimanded often enough for such transgression-perhaps Arthur ought to have been caught with his britches down earlier, if it would encourage Merlin to be a little more discreet.
On the other hand-Merlin winces, vividly recalling the scene-no one should ever have to undergo such trauma. One victim (one glimpse) was more than enough.
-----
Unfortunately, if ‘once is more than enough’, then what’s ten, twenty times? Fifty times?
Merlin heaves a great sigh and flops onto his bed, unceremoniously dropping his open book of magic upon his face. Magic, indeed, Merlin thinks sourly, breathing musty ink from the useless pages. What good is it if it can’t stop you from re-living such a disturbing moment? Merlin grunts discontentedly and closes his eyes.
It shouldn’t really be as awful as he’s making it to be. On that day, when he’d nudged open the door, Merlin hadn’t even seen all that much. He was too busy balancing everything in his arms.
It was the scent in the air that really tipped him off. Clean sweat and deep musk. Only then did Merlin think to pay attention, and only then did he see it: two or three yards away, Arthur moving in unmistakable undulations against an unmistakably male body.
The skin of Arthur’s back was golden, the broad stroke of it glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun that lazily filtered through the open window. Every muscle, every sinew of Arthur’s body was raised in stark relief as he mercilessly worked the body beneath him, and as Merlin stood there, dumbfounded, a strange notion had suddenly leapt forth. He fucks like he fights.
Even now, days later in the privacy of his own room, Merlin cannot dispel the notion: Arthur fucks like he fights. It’s as true today as it was last week, that Arthur indeed throws himself into every activity with the same single-mindedness as he does when duelling. On offence, Prince Arthur drives forth with reckless abandon but when the situation begs caution, he coils up, tense and dangerous.
Despite the fact that Merlin caught only a fleeting view of the prince’s tryst, it in no way discredits his theory. Arthur’s quick jab into the body below resembled one of his easy insults, the long draw out like the holding of breath before an opponent’s blow. Few seconds though they were, they’d felt interminable-slow-motion, almost, as if Merlin had blinked and halted time himself. Who knows, maybe he had. Lord, but if Merlin could invoke his magic once again and banish the scene from his consciousness! He’s positively sick of it, of seeing Arthur lasciviously screwing some faceless stranger every time his eyes fall shut-
“Merlin!”
Jumping at the sound of his name, Merlin jerks upright. His book slips off his face with a thud on the ground beside him.
“Are you in there?” Gaius’ voice, though muffled through the door, sounds closer now. A firm knock follows. “You’re being called upon, Merlin. What are you doing home, anyway? The prince has been petulant all week, says you’ve been shirking your duties. He wants you in his chambers, now. ”
A deep flush makes its way to Merlin’s face. He can feel it there, warm and unbidden, but for what reason? He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, after all-it should be the prince who feels mortified!
Merlin steels himself and unlocks the door. Before him stands Gaius, exasperated but bemused. “You’ve got ink on your cheeks,” he dryly remarks. “Is there something I should know about you and that book?”
Merlin mutters something under his breath, but Gaius simply looks at him with that quirked eyebrow so he quickly trails off. “Never mind,” he says hastily. “I’ll be going, now.”
“You do that.”
Merlin is so eager to escape Gaius’ all-knowing gaze, he momentarily forgets his dread of confronting Arthur. Sprucing up quickly and efficiently, he heads downstairs.
-----
By the time Merlin’s back at the scene of the crime, the nauseating feeling of dread has returned. Outside Arthur’s bedchamber, he shifts his weight from foot to foot in acute discomfort and it’s only when he hears a muffled crash from within (followed by bellowed expletives) that he announces his presence with two nervous raps of his fist. The scuffle quiets, followed by Arthur’s heavy footfalls that echo like an ominous countdown.
The door snatches open, the breeze of it whispering over Merlin’s face.
“Good Lord, Merlin, what have you been doing all day? I’ve got a good mind to sack you again, you’ve been absolute rubbish lately.”
“I, erm-“
“Have you seen the state of my room? I suppose you couldn’t have, considering how I haven’t seen the likes of your idiotic arse gracing my doorway in the past five days. ” Arthur pulls back just enough to let Merlin squeeze by, then doggedly follows him inside. “What, afraid I’ve got the pox, or something? You’ve got no excuse skiving off, I’m fit as a fiddle-“
Merlin quickly interjects, “No, it’s nothing like that. I know you’re fit.” Arthur halts his tirade long enough to raise both his eyebrows, and Merlin feels the blood drain from his face. “I mean-I know you’re, erm. Healthy. I’m the one who’s been unwell lately, is what I’m trying to say.” The air swells with Arthur’s profound scepticism, so Merlin quickly produces a cough-an appropriately pitiful one, he’s hoping.
Luckily, Arthur’s never been all that perceptive, and he isn’t about to begin now. He simply gives Merlin a lordly once-over before sighing, as if very put upon, “I suppose you do look a bit peaked.”
“Right,” Merlin swallows. “But I’m better now. So…you called for me?”
Arthur looks vaguely relieved to assume his usual state of haughtiness (sympathy doesn’t sit well with him). In a commanding voice, he starts, “I did call for you. There’s everything to do. You can start with my armour; it’s in a sorry state, needs a good polish. Both suits. Then there’s my sword, obviously, and all my secondary weapons…”
Merlin quickly loses interest in Arthur’s monologue. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so he allows his attention to wander off, watching Arthur pace the room as he imperiously ticks off items on each finger.
It’s strange…Arthur looks no different than any other day, but suddenly Merlin perceives a colour to him-a vibrancy, of sorts, that manifests itself through Arthur’s carriage (straight-backed), through his eyes (clear), his mouth (expressive, and rosy)…
Merlin’s pleasant thoughts are rudely interrupted when Arthur huffily slaps him on the cheek in two quick successions.
“Oy,” Arthur says. “The prince. Is speaking. To you.” As an afterthought, he smirks and adds, “Dimwit. You do realize, you’ve just agreed to being put in the stocks wearing Morgana’s knickers and stays?”
“What? I did not.”
“You did too,” Arthur insists.
Merlin gives him a half-lidded glare, saying, “There’s no need get snippy, my Lord. ” Then before Arthur can sneak in one last insult, Merlin grabs the empty hamper next to him, balances it awkwardly against his hip, and begins tracking across the room, gathering Arthur’s dirty clothes where they lie in piles on the floor or draped across furniture.
He’s about ten feet from the doorway, swiping for a pair of hose ridiculously stuck in the chandelier, when Arthur turns around to add, “Oh, and don’t forget the bed sheets.”
Merlin swallows hard.
-----
One week later, Merlin snuffs it. It happens like this: poisoned wine, down the chute!
That isn’t the part Merlin’s concerned with, however. What he’s interested in is how he comes back to life. Something about Arthur and some flower, some antidote-Gwen brings up jail cells and plates of food…Merlin’s still rather fuzzy on all of it. He’s been dead, after all.
Luckily, it was only a temporary state. His fever broke a few hours earlier and Merlin is downstairs now, keeping Gwen company as she does some mending by torchlight.
Merlin looks at her with a sidelong glance, then subtly rolls into her with his shoulder. “So…you kissed me.”
Gwen, the little darling, unsuccessfully tries to hide behind her hair. “Come on, Merlin, don’t pretend you didn’t know already. It isn’t cute.”
“On the contrary,” Merlin grins. “I’d like to think I’m very cute.”
Gwen’s voice quickly takes on a sharp edge. “I’m serious, don’t be coy. It’s mean, and I’d like to think you’re better than that.”
Merlin’s serious-he doesn’t know what she’s on about. “Gwen, I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
Gwen turns evasive again, needling into Morgana’s old dress robe with renewed fervour. Merlin isn’t letting her off the hook so easily though; his stare outlasts her patience and before long, Gwen heaves a great sigh and says, “You don’t have to pretend around me. I know about you. About Arthur.”
If Merlin were confused before he’s completely lost now. “We’re talking about Arthur, now? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“I heard you, Merlin-“ Gwen picks up momentum, her words tumbling like rain, “You were delirious, I know, but the things you said…you were calling his name out, for God’s sake. I know you don’t want anyone to know, though, so I won’t say a word.” She eyes their surroundings, sending wary looks at the lone guards and courtyard stragglers. “I won’t tell a soul. But in the meantime, don’t lead me on. It isn’t fair.”
Merlin stares at Gwen, at the way her hair curls around her delicate jaw…and inwardly shrugs. He still has no idea what she’s talking about.
-----
Gwen watches Merlin’s face trample over with wide-eyed bewilderment, looking like Morgana used to when she got caught watching boys take a pee-totally red-handed, that is. Gwen hurriedly pulls him into a motherly embrace, cooing, “Don’t fret, Merlin. I won’t deny I find it strange and, well, a little unpalatable, but you’re my friend. I won’t turn my back on you, and neither would Arthur if he ever found out. He did save your life; that counts for something, right?”
“He-“ Merlin woodenly sits up. “He what?”
“Oh, I suppose you can’t have known-you have been feverish. Arthur saved your life. Quite dashingly, too, I might add. Who knows, maybe the prince feels the same way as you do.” She smiles conspiratorially. “There have been rumours, after all. About the prince and his…well, his liberal proclivities.”
“You mean…” Merlin squints at Gwen in a way that might have been endearing, had she still been fond of him. Which she’s not, of course. “…liberal proclivities, as in politics? Or like, liberal morals.”
Gwen frowns. Is he having her on? “What I mean is,” she says deadpanned, “people say that Arthur sleeps with men.” Here, Merlin’s eyes grow huge and Gwen takes the opportunity to roll her own skyward. “Honestly, Merlin. I can’t tell if you’re feigning or not, sometimes.”
“I don’t feign ignorance, if that’s what you’re getting at!” Merlin scoffs. “Can I help it if everyone in Camelot goes around talking in riddles? Where I come from, an apple’s just an apple.”
“Well, in the big city, an apple means temptation. Or a vessel for poison.” Gwen deftly ties a knot at the hem of Morgana’s old robe and snaps the thread off. It’s about time she got back, so she gathers her kit together and rises, throwing one last look over her shoulder to cheekily add, “Or as you well know, fodder for the stocks.”
The jibe is lost, however, for Merlin’s attention is miles away, his brows knitted together in concentration. It is only when Gwen’s stepped off the lower staircase that he rises with her.
“Gwen, you said…” Merlin avoids her gaze, looking uncharacteristically shy, so Gwen cocks her head in encouragement. Finally, he ventures, “You said Arthur saved my life. What did you mean by that? I only saw you and Gaius by my bedside when the fever broke.”
Gwen crosses her arms, Morgana’s robe folded in between, and explains, “After you slipped into fever, Arthur rode out into the forest to find the antidote. It was very brave; Gaius mentioned a dangerous beast that dwells there, but Arthur hardly batted an eyelash.”
Merlin balks. “He could’ve got himself killed.”
“But you would’ve died,” Gwen reasons. “You should’ve seen him-Arthur was so worried. He’ll kill me if he knew I told you, but he was. Even went against his father’s orders to ride out. And for all his mettle, he’s spending the night in the dungeons.”
“The dungeons?” Merlin repeats incredulously, and Gwen simply nods.
Merlin is clearly upset, but the anger is soon replaced with embarrassment. He scratches behind his head (making his hair stick up in the back), then softly says, “I ought to thank him, shouldn’t I?”
Gwen bites her lip and watches Merlin’s face as his eyes turn soft. Oh, how her heart beats for this beautiful boy! “You should,” she gently replies. “I think he’d like that.”
Merlin just crosses his arms over his knees and rests his chin on top, too preoccupied to give a proper response. Gwen sighs, fastens her cloak round her shoulders and takes off, leaving Merlin behind to sort through his thoughts in solitude.
-----
The next evening, Merlin gets ambushed at home.
He’s sitting in the front room, swaddled in itchy blankets and busy making faces at the foul-tasting concoction Gaius brewed for him, when someone appears in the doorway.
It’s Arthur. He lets himself in (he would). Swaggers in, really, waiting until he’s over Merlin’s shoulder to announce loudly, “Still alive, then?”
Merlin jolts in his chair, fumbling his cup. “Um, yeah. Just about,” he blurts, spinning around and getting a face full of His Highness’ midriff. Merlin quickly reels back and tips his gaze up, when Arthur-good God, now that’s just distracting-rests a hand on the back of his chair and leans forward expectantly.
It takes Merlin a beat too long, but eventually he catches on and stutters out something that resembles a thanks for saving my life. It doesn’t come out the way he wants, though; he can’t think straight when the prince is looking at him like that-all caring and fondness-especially in light of what he’s learned (and what he’s seen) of Arthur during the week.
The prince doesn’t seem to notice Merlin’s inner turmoil, however; he simply jeers at him with the usual amusement, but he does so in low, intimate tones that seem out of place on the normally detached prince. The transformation is complete when Arthur grins disarmingly at him, broad smile belying the soft look in his eyes.
There seems to be some more exchange of words-Merlin can’t be expected to remember. He’s still in recovery of mortal peril, after all. No one should be expected to muster up coherence in such a state. But before Merlin can get himself up to speed, Arthur’s turned to leave with long, confident strides that give Merlin a narrow time frame in which he steels himself, and calls:
“Arthur-”
At the sound of his name, Arthur stops and lifts his head in query. The low sun is directly behind him, hair struck with gold and blinding for it. Arthur’s expression is shadowed and inscrutable.
Merlin clamps his hands into fists for fortitude, then says, simply, “Thank you.”
There’s a lengthy pause. Merlin’s breath sticks in his throat as he waits for Arthur to (finally) respond, “You too...” He wavers on the edge of decision, and maybe it’s because Merlin wills him to continue, that he does. Arthur says, in a warm voice devoid of its usual mockery: “Get some rest.”
Arthur leaves the room and shuts the door, orange light closing behind him.
-----
The next day, however, is just another day. As is the one after that, and the one after that. The sun doesn’t stop traversing the sky and the moon doesn’t stop chasing it.
Similarly, Arthur doesn’t stop being the Crown Prince, and Merlin doesn’t stop being his servant. Which is fine and all, but after the poisoning incident he sort of hoped that something between them would change.
It’s a vindictively bright Monday morning. Still in bed and mostly asleep, Merlin musters up the energy to chuckle at his own expense.
He’ll admit it; the notion that he and Arthur could ever be real friends is a bit laughable. Nobility will always be something to be revered, and peasants like himself will always be the ones to do it. There is no blurring of boundaries, not in Uther’s Camelot.
In fact, since that day Arthur’s shown nothing but cold aloofness as dictated by propriety; Merlin hardly even sees Arthur anymore, who’s become as rare as a bird of paradise. Instead, Merlin spends the days completing long, odious tasks while other times, more simply, Arthur passes him over to Gaius on the grounds that the physician has more need of him-which is totally ridiculous, because normally Arthur couldn’t give a rat’s arse about who needs Merlin.
I’m not lending you my manservant, he used to say, when asked by various castle officials. Go and find one of your own. They’re quite handy, actually, when they’re not being totally incompetent. Merlin would look affronted (as he was usually right there when Arthur insulted him), and Arthur would fix his eyes forward but the sly, secretive smile that invariably crept out was always for him, and him alone.
It’s been two full weeks with none of the old jocularity and now, at the start of what promises to be a third week of dull, humourless duty, all Merlin wants to do is bury his head under his pillow and hide from the world. So he does; flops over onto his stomach and throws the lumpy thing over his head. Once properly shielded, Merlin grumbles his first word of the day, “Ugh.”
…because ‘ugh’ is how his day’s schedule looks. ‘Ugh’ is what how his days have been. And ‘ugh’ is how it’s going to stay unless Merlin gets the chance to save Arthur from another life-threatening situation and thus garner some eye contact, at least.
Merlin sighs, then slowly removes the pillow from his head. There’s nothing to be done for it. Perhaps he’ll stir up some trouble with Gwen later, if only to quell the boredom.
-----
It takes less than hour for Merlin to eat his words.
He’s out by the edge of the forest gathering penny buns and horse mushrooms for lunch when, with irony so palpable Merlin might never complain of boredom again, he’s suddenly bum-rushed by an enormous, winged beast. That might have been the end of it-nearly is-but Merlin manages to escape with his life intact.
It isn’t due to any heroics on his part, however. Hardly. All Merlin contributed was to fall on his arse long enough for the beast to rear up, exposing its breast in invitation for a killing blow when miraculously, that blow materializes.
Well, of sorts. What would be a killing blow turns out to be more of a deterrent than anything, at the hand of someone with wild hair and a shitty sword that splinters on impact, but Merlin’s not going to complain now (or EVER AGAIN). He hasn’t got time, anyway-too busy dragging said someone back to the castle before the man’s wounds bleed out and he dies on Merlin’s shoulder without ever accepting a heartfelt thanks from a young, still-alive warlock.
-----
The man’s name is Lancelot, and Merlin takes an interest in him immediately. The whole part where he saved Merlin’s life may or may not have something to do with it, but Merlin thinks he would’ve come to the same conclusion on his own, as Lancelot’s a likeable guy.
Across the room, Gaius staunches Lancelot’s still-bleeding wound with a clean cloth though his patient is totally out of it, weak with blood loss. All he can do is groan, sweat a bit, then groan some more in a low, gravelly rasp, only to turn his head and bare a long-did Merlin mention sweaty?-swath of gleaming neck.
Merlin swallows hard as he feels his blood pool down somewhere south of appropriate. There may be such a thing as too likeable, Merlin thinks. God, the recent discovery of the “liberal proclivities’ of Camelot’s men must be affecting Merlin in the head. He spares a muttered curse for the culprit (Arthur) and then another for Arthur’s rediscovered superiority complex…then leaves the room before something embarrassing happens in front of (moaning, panting) Lancelot and (know-it-all) Gaius.
-----
Unfortunately, nothing prevents something embarrassing from happening to Merlin the following night.
“Have you ever-“ Merlin chokes on his words, eyes widening in dismay as the rest of his sentence barrels on without him, “-been with a man before?”
The question lingers in the air, taking its time to circle about the room before sheepishly returning to Merlin in the form of a hot blush that he feels creeping up his cheeks.
“Never mind. It was a joke. Ha ha,” Merlin redacts, voice tight with fear as he nervously eyes Lancelot’s sword, menacingly heavy on the coverlet between them.
Lancelot follows his glance, his eyes landing upon his weapon. Merlin quickly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and makes to stand up. “Well, good night then, I’ll take the mattress outside-“
Lancelot grabs his wrist. “Hold on,” he says. “Stay.” Merlin obeys, dropping back down with all the grace of a wooden puppet.
He’s wondering if he’s about to get his throat sliced open, and he’s ruminating upon how annoyed Gaius will be when he discovers he has to clean up the gore left behind, when-achingly slow, and so, so deliberate-Lancelot’s thumb rubs into Merlin’s wrist, his other hand coming to rest on Merlin’s knee. It pauses only for a moment before dragging north, calloused fingers catching on the fabric covering Merlin’s outer-then inner-thigh.
“…oh,” he breathes, peering down at his lap where Lancelot cups his groin.
“Body warmth is body warmth,” Lancelot explains, his voice pitched so alluringly, it’s any wonder Merlin’s waited this long. “I’m not discriminating when it comes to whom I share my bed with.”
“Oh,” Merlin repeats, feeling a bit like an idiot. When it’s evident he’s got nothing else to contribute, Lancelot tugs on Merlin’s wrist, pulling him off-balance.
With a mortified yelp, Merlin topples into Lancelot like a basket of laundry and he’s thinking this was all a very bad idea when a wet suck suddenly pinches the side of his neck and Merlin starts to think that this is, in fact, a very good idea. His body can only agree with enthusiasm as Lancelot’s sure, determined hands start to peel his clothes off.
Before long, Merlin’s shivering in the evening air and it all seems a bit unfair, seeing as Lancelot is still fully dressed but for the loosening of his britches, where a hard column of skin peeks out between crossed laces. But then Lancelot leans down, pressing into Merlin’s body with his own, and Merlin dazedly supposes that clothing is overrated.
-----
They jerk each other off, Lancelot quick and sure with hands and mouth everywhere, while Merlin is nervous but eager. He tries to remember what feels good on himself-small twist at the tip, harder on the way up, and Lancelot responds approvingly-his hips buck when he comes, and he desperately fucks Merlin’s tight hand even as he spills onto him. Keeps fucking even as his dick grows too sensitive, and Merlin doesn’t think to let up, distracted as he is by the sight of another man’s fluids spilling over him.
He’s fairly shocked when Lancelot ducks down and traces a tongue up the twitching span of Merlin’s belly, dipping into the mess of come before lapping it up. A high-pitched noise escapes from Merlin’s throat, and he’s not ashamed to admit it because Good Lord, Lancelot’s licking up his own come. Cleans up quickly, too, pausing only the briefest of moments when he’s gathered the come on his tongue to let Merlin see it, thick and stringed, before it’s swallowed down.
It doesn’t take long for Merlin to get off (for obvious reasons). When it’s all over, the pair of them sticky with sweat and too tired to care, they sleep back-to-back on Merlin’s small mattress.
It’s a tight space and they roll into each other throughout the night. Each time Lancelot sleepily jockeys for more room with light knocks of his shoulder, Merlin strangely thinks of Arthur.
-----
Merlin wonders if he’ll feel any different now. Lancelot is…well, he’s a man, for starters, and he’s Merlin’s first partner in anything beyond clumsy kisses.
He wonders if this is the part where he’s supposed to fall in love, or whatever it is girls chitter about; he waits for his heart to soften to clay, waits for the lutes to start playing in his ears at the sight of Lancelot’s silhouette in the doorway. It doesn’t happen, though, and for that Merlin’s grateful.
No, there’s nothing weird or complex between him and Lancelot. Things are easy and friendly until the very end, and when Lancelot leaves Merlin is sorry to see him go.
High up in the western tower of the castle, Merlin is thinking as such. He gazes out at the land before him, daydreaming of idle things long after Lancelot has disappeared from view. He doesn’t know how long he’s up there, but when the sound of heavy, clomping boots gives him pause, the sun is much lower in the sky.
He knows it’s Arthur. Merlin’s had months and months to attune himself to Arthur’s every movement, has learned to anticipate every need and whim (of which there are many). Yes, there is no doubt that the coming visitor is the prince, for his footfalls are even and strong and supreme in confidence.
Also, it’s pretty plain that it’s Arthur when he emerges from the tower to bark, “Merlin.”
A month ago, Merlin might have been startled by the sharp tone of voice, but at this point it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Merlin merely cocks his ear, barely lifting his head from the sconce of his arms.
Arthur sighs noisily and surges forward to the sound of metallic clinks and hard squeaks of leather. Merlin straightens up and turns around.
“My Lord?” He keeps his voice deferential for fear of provoking Arthur, who always seems to be in a foul mood these days.
It appears today is no different. Arthur angrily quips, “Lancelot is gone, Merlin. Stop pining and get back downstairs-I need you to ready my steed for Friday’s hunt.”
“Yes, of course.” Merlin keeps his eyes politely lowered, manoeuvring around Arthur as best he can, but it’s difficult…or rather, Arthur’s making it difficult. Merlin takes a step to the left, and Arthur quickly blocks him with his arm. Same goes for the other side. A silly, stupid dance ensues between the two of them, until finally Merlin feels his patience drop away like a sack of stones.
He jerks his head up and snaps, “Excuse me.” His tone is insolent and it’s likely to get him tossed out of Camelot on his arse like he should’ve the day he and Arthur met, but honestly? Merlin is kind of over this.
A trapped look comes over Arthur’s face as he appears to realize what he’d been doing, small frown accompanying it. Normally Merlin would seek to smooth the crease from Arthur’s brow, but instead he just wants to punch his teeth straight.
Arthur doesn’t deserve sympathy right now. He’s acting like a spoilt child-irrational and haughty. Has been for weeks and with absolutely no discernable reason.
When it doesn’t look like Arthur’s going to say anything, his face remaining conflicted, Merlin makes to get past Arthur but he’s rebuffed once more as Arthur automatically stops him with a hand.
“What are you doing?” Merlin asks in exasperation.
Arthur tenses noticeably and says sharply, “I have no need to explain my actions to you.”
“Okay…” Merlin replies, not bothering to understand what Arthur is even talking about. His hands go up in surrender as he says, “Sure. Fine. Just let me by already, I’ve got your mount to prepare.”
“I’m not moving.” Arthur crosses his arms like he’s trying to be intimidating. Merlin feels his annoyance rise even further.
“WHY NOT?”
“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO,” Arthur matches.
He’s glaring into Merlin’s face, uncomfortably close. Their boots are touching at the tips and when Merlin tries to step back, his heel hits against the low, crenellated wall of the tower. Merlin makes one last ditch effort to sidestep the prince but as expected, he’s shut down by the fall of Arthur’s arms which bracket him in.
Diplomacy it is, then. “Arthur. Sire. Forgive me for saying so-“ Merlin pointedly ignores Arthur’s raised eyebrows. “-but you’re being unreasonable. Whatever it is that’s got you all…” In a tizzy? Acting like a little bitch? “…upset. Whatever it is, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re taking it out on me.”
Arthur blinks at him wordlessly.
“You’ve been doing it for weeks,” Merlin tries, but still no reaction. Finally, giving up all pretence, Merlin says point-blank: “Stop blaming me for your problems.”
It does the trick. A little too well, perhaps-Arthur lifts a hand from the stone wall behind them and tangles it into Merlin’s shirt, jerking him forward so he can properly sneer, “God, Merlin. You’ve got to be the dimmest creature that ever walked these castle walls. You’ve got no idea about anything.“ He’s talking low and threateningly, voice nearly lost to the sound of whipping flags that lash about nearby. Merlin hears him though, hears just fine as Arthur enunciates: “I can blame you for my problems, and trust me, I do because they’re entirely your fault.”
“What did I DO? If I’m such a problem, why don’t you just sack me and get it over with?”
The words fly out of his mouth before Merlin even realizes what he’s saying, and if he could snatch them back he would. He feels Arthur flinch-they’re close enough that Merlin can feel everything, can feel the stiffening of Arthur’s arms against his own and hear Arthur’s curt intake of breath.
Before he can apologize, though, Arthur shoves forward and Merlin has to bend backwards over the low wall just to keep their faces apart.
“You have no idea, do you?” Arthur repeats.
He leans into Merlin with the weight of his body and Merlin gasps lightly, his spine scraping against stone, his head turning to look…
…which turns out to be a very bad idea. “Fuck,” Merlin swears.
Between the crenellations of the tower, the ground looks miles away. The castle’s drawbridge is but a small wafer from these heights, the people tiny as ants. Arthur’s body is a heavy upon his and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut to wonder how he ever got into this mess at all.
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