Fic | Merlin/Arthur | Declaration
Merlin | Merlin/Arthur | R
Merlin says, "Arthur, I'm a warlock," suddenly and without preamble, and then sort of squeaks, or maybe it is only a very loud swallow, and Arthur thinks, he didn't mean to say that.
Then he replays the words in his head and feels himself freeze into place - the fork midway to his mouth, and all. Absurdly, the first thought that springs to his mind is when he took his sword to Merlin's throat, in those tense days of the black knight: a warning, yes, but also (as much as Arthur wouldn't admit it out loud) a manifestation of the disappointment for Merlin's lack of faith in him. And Arthur wonders about the sort of warlocks that let frustrated princes threaten them with their swords and do nothing in retaliation.
He wants to say, your sense of humour is as subpar as your skill as a servant, or isn't that getting old by now, and besides, it's not like there's anyone you have to save from execution this time, or I suppose you engage in discussions with dragons on your free time, too. But without turning around to see Merlin's expression he can still hear the anguished gulp echoing in his mind and, in any case, he usually quite enjoys Merlin's jokes.
Still, he can't quite wrap his head around it. Warlocks don't spend their days polishing someone's chainmail and sweeping their chambers. That's just not done. Could it be that Merlin is as abysmal a sorcerer as he is a servant?
"Arthur, please... please say something."
He supposes it's a testament to his trust in Merlin that he doesn't jump even though, instead of hearing the voice from the other end of the room, where Merlin, prior to his seemingly unintentional declaration, had been doing Merlinesque, un-servantly things (not sorting out his wardrobe as much as absent-mindedly colour-coding it), he hears it from right behind him. Merlin's voice sounds strained, so strained, and Arthur can't fathom what he fears he will do. Attack him? Take him to his father?
Arthur supposes that finally lowering the fork to his mostly empty dinner plate is a start. The next would be... answering Merlin.
"I almost took your head off once."
Well, that could seem like a non sequitur, Arthur thinks, and still can't quite make himself turn around to face his… friend. Servant. Warlock.
...Gods.
"What? No, you didn't. What are you talking about? Did you hear what I said?"
Merlin sounds baffled, but less like he might, at any moment, keel over from nervous tension. Suddenly Arthur wants to see him, needs to see the expressive, familiar face to lose the feeling of dream-like absurdity.
He thinks Merlin flinches at his movement, twisting around on his seat, and a fleeting anger heats his blood for the first time during the suddenly bizarre conversation. If he can trust Merlin through and after a statement like the one he has just been hit with, the least Merlin could do is grant him the same trust in return.
But trust can't be commanded. Arthur knows this. And before he can start wondering where he has gone wrong, he remembers several careless remarks, about sorcerers and their dishonesty, about magic-users and the danger they present… and still he wants to shout, that's different, you're you and I've already seen you try to die for me too many times.
He looks into Merlin's dark blue eyes. Merlin seems to be trembling. Very slightly.
"The night before I was to fight the black knight. I almost took your head off."
He sees the recollection in Merlin's eyes, and less than a second later, the dismissal.
"No, Arthur, you really didn't." Arthur thinks there is an invisible roll of eyes in that tone of voice. "There was, what, a foot between that blade and my throat? I do see the control you keep over your sword arm, if not your temper, my lord."
And right then, in one instance out of a hundred, there is no mockery in the title, not even of the friendly kind.
"So, if I had really tried to hurt you... you would've stopped me. With your magic." Even Arthur himself doesn't believe it, yet something makes him ask. And again he realises the extent of his trust in Merlin, and doesn't (want to) remember a time he could count on no one but himself.
It seems that Merlin sees right through him because, rather than indignant, his expression is understanding.
"I might have forcefully stepped on your toe, sire."
The fear is disappearing from those blue eyes, replaced by warmth and relief as Merlin sees that there is, apparently, nothing he could say or be or do that would turn Arthur away from him. It makes Arthur nervous, this hold that this peasant boy holds over the crown prince - except, that's not who Merlin is, is it? Has never been. Merlin is something more, something with no rules and no limitations, and again Arthur wonders what Merlin is doing in Camelot and how long Arthur has before he loses him, and whether Merlin will leave as he arrived, in a flash, without forewarning. But how can he ask? How can he ask, without revealing a vulnerability that only exists for Merlin to take advantage of, were he so inclined?
How can he ask, without making Merlin feel guilty, as if he owed it to Arthur to remain at his side instead of being great somewhere else, somewhere safe?
"Arthur... uh. Are you really okay with this?"
With Merlin not actually needing him for anything, Arthur's brain supplies. With Merlin having the option of up and leaving any moment he so desires. With the fact that Merlin would literally be better off away from Arthur, away from his father's brutal laws.
He doesn't want to lie to Merlin. Doesn't want to begrudge him what is obviously a part of him, a gift, used so selflessly that it makes Arthur want to laugh in amazement, puzzle pieces falling into place as countless inexplicable incidents from his time with Merlin bombard his mind, suddenly showing themselves in a whole new light.
Something in particular that bothered him for a long time is suddenly explained. "That first fight? That was you, wasn't it?"
Merlin's guilty grin is affirmation enough. Arthur knew he could never be that clumsy! And even knowing that Merlin has used his magic against him, however indirectly, cannot stir up any anger, anything except a hollow throb in his chest as he acknowledges that Merlin, apart from Morgana, is the only one who has ever challenged him. And even Morgana has never made him as eager to rise to the challenge; hasn't had his blood boiling in fury and exasperation and want and hope, all in equal measure.
No, all that is only Merlin's doing. And soon he will be gone.
"So. What are your plans, then? Heavens know you have only survived in Camelot this long on pure dumb luck. I won't inform anyone of your departure, naturally - it should be easy enough to convince father that your mental state has finally deteriorated alarmingly enough that you were forced to return to Ealdor to convalesce..."
Arthur's monologue, which he hopes isn't quite as transparent in its attempted casualness as it sounds like to his own ears, trails off as he watches the small smile fall from Merlin's face.
"What? Why are you… I'm not going anywhere. Are you sending me away? Is that it? You may not take me to the pyre, but you still won't shelter a magic-user in the court?"
Merlin's voice has been steadily rising, and without thinking Arthur leaps up from his seat and presses his hand on Merlin's mouth. He is about to berate Merlin for his lack of caution, or his damned lack of common sense, for that matter - but Merlin's eyes, inches from his own, are dark and feverish, and his lips under Arthur's palm are trembling. All of Merlin feels brittle, fragile, and Arthur doesn't know how he's supposed to let Merlin go when he so obviously needs a protector, a minder.
Internally Arthur shakes himself. "You idiot! Lower your voice before you bring half the castle running."
Releasing Merlin (and how did his other hand end up on Merlin's waist?) Arthur steps back again, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to miss the warmth of skin, the brief contact seeming to have left a peculiar tingle on his palm.
"I'm not sending you anywhere. But surely even you are aware of the fact that Camelot is hardly the best place for you! Why you have stayed as long as you have, I've no idea--"
"Because my place is by your side."
Run that by me again?
"And, well, the dragon said..."
Oh. Dear. Gods. Above.
Arthur clears his throat. Pauses. "The dragon?"
"The one under the castle. He was kind of giving me advice, occasionally, when he felt like it, or when I was able to get through the riddles to the information - well, I never really did, actually… Anyway, he said I was supposed to protect you, that we had this destiny sort of thing together, and even though it turned out that he's only after his own gain, well, no one can deny that you definitely need someone to keep an eye on you with a skill set apart from swords and daggers and all... that."
"Excuse me? You're the one who needs to be saved from himself! You actually announced your warlockness to the whole court!"
Merlin's indulgent expression is saying something like, trust you to get fixated on the bit that suggests you're not all-powerful.
"Yes, well, my point was, I'm meant to be here. With you."
And if those words don't bring a weird, warm, completely un-princely feeling in Arthur's chest... He clears his throat again, hoping Merlin hasn't caught the momentary sentimental lapse. Judging by the fond smile on the sorcerer's face, it's a vain hope.
Sorcerer. It still boggles the mind.
"Show me?"
Merlin smiles wider, apparently pleased with his curiosity.
Then his eyes glow gold, and Arthur forgets how to breathe.
There is a fork gracefully twirling in the air somewhere beside their heads, but Arthur can't tear his eyes away from Merlin's, from drinking in the way his face is transformed, free and elated like Arthur has never seen Merlin before, and Arthur knows then and there that this is what magic is about, not about war and revenge, but amusing tricks and easy elegance and joy that rises from stretching yourself to become one with the elements.
"What does it feel like?"
The fork levitates back to the plate. Merlin's eyes are inquisitive.
"Magic. What does doing magic feel like?"
For a moment Merlin contemplates, as if searching the limits of his vocabulary. Then he grins, and takes Arthur's hand, their fingers interlocking easily as if this is the natural position for their hands to seek.
And when Merlin's eyes flash in the next moment, every inch of Arthur's skin is suddenly breaking out in goose bumps, his eyes falling shut and his whole frame shivering, and distantly he thinks he hears a muted intake of breath.
It's a form of power, definitely, different from how Arthur feels when he's fighting with his sword, but not totally unlike the feeling of victory, satisfaction, ambition, cresting pleasure. Arthur can't put any of it in words, but he thinks gold is the only appropriate colour for Merlin, for this restless, exhilarated energy that could probably break a mountain into pieces when concentrated.
The flow of power cuts suddenly, and Arthur realises he is light-headed from a sudden, aching arousal.
Merlin is blinking and breathing hard, and Arthur gets the feeling Merlin has the tendency to explore his magic through the trial and error method - he should probably be grateful Merlin hasn't accidentally turned them into anything unnatural with his thoughtless, unpractised sharing of his magic.
...Sharing of his magic.
If Arthur had any lingering doubts about whether Merlin trusts him or not, well, they have been, quite simply, annihilated. He feels privileged and still a bit dizzy and suddenly he wonders, greedily, that since Merlin has gifted him with his friendship and his trust and his magic, is there anything he would not give Arthur?
"That... Oh God, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I didn't really know what I was doing," Merlin is babbling, nervous again, no doubt calculating the severity of the punishment for inflicting the crown prince with a magical hard-on. "That was so weird, though, it's almost like… like my magic liked feeling you."
Sudden, intense heat flushes through Arthur. The naivety in Merlin's tone is killing him, and he is torn between preserving that innocence and demanding more, more, more.
"It's okay," he rasps, because it's not like he's going to throw Merlin in the stocks for inducing something Arthur suffers every night because of the Merlin in his dreams anyway; and sometimes during the day if Merlin bring his breakfast with his hair still wildly up in tufts, or if he bends over while picking up after Arthur in his chambers, or when Arthur is training his knights and happens to glance to the sidelines to see Merlin smiling at him with pride and with a sort of possessive edge to his stare.
And then he's second-guessing his earlier estimate of Merlin's innocence, because, when hearing his words, Merlin's eyes first light up and darken in the next moment, and his eyes sweep Arthur over from his lips to his groin, and a positively lewd smirk graces his lips.
"Yes, my magic really liked feeling you..." Arthur almost can't hear the words, and doesn't think they're intended for him, anyway - and then the train of thought is lost as Merlin gently pushes him back into the chair.
And unceremoniously drops to his knees in front of Arthur.
Arthur suspects he might make an involuntary noise of some sort when Merlin's long fingers hitch up his shirt and he shuffles, on his knees, to press his stomach tightly to Arthur's groin. Before Arthur has fully processed the turn the situation has taken, Merlin has his shirt bunched up over his collarbones and he is licking and nipping at Arthur's nipples in the subtlest, most wonderful torture Arthur has ever imagined. Merlin's stomach keeps rubbing at his cock through his breeches and he's sure that if he comes from just this Merlin will always look at him with laughter in his eyes.
Arthur grabs Merlin's wrists before his body can convince him that surrendering good; ego bad, and stands up, tugging Merlin with him. As Merlin opens his mouth to no doubt petulantly demand that he be allowed to return to his one-sided teasing Arthur leans forward, their lips fitting together the way their fingers did, before, and Arthur would rather spend an eternity just pressing their mouths together and breathing in Merlin than enjoying a dozen amazing climaxes if it meant he couldn't touch Merlin, couldn't strive to make him fly apart and work to brand his touch into Merlin's skin so that he would always crave only Arthur's hands on him.
Arthur's hands slide down Merlin's back, and when they come to rest on his ass Merlin sort of bucks against him and his hands twist in Arthur's red shirt. Arthur feels one pulse between them and he can't wait anymore; Merlin weights nothing at all as Arthur lifts him up, and his legs lock on Arthur's waist like a vice.
The bed is only a few steps away and by the time they fall onto it Arthur sees that Merlin's eyes are bright gold again and suddenly their clothes are… gone. Arthur would jeer at the desperation if he wasn't panting so harshly and if the thought of separating his mouth from Merlin's for the unbearably long time it would take to speak didn't cause a physical agony, and if the vanishing clothes spell wasn't so bloody handy.
Merlin's body is hot and satiny soft against his, and he wants to keep doing just this until the distant future, just the brushing of skin on skin and the rocking of their angles and contours into each other. Merlin's thighs grip his sides and there's a frantic quality to the gasps and mewls falling from Merlin's lips, and Arthur can't think, can't literally think of anything but this body under his, this wonderful man who has given Arthur everything, every reason he has for looking forward with anticipation instead of only the heavy burden of duty.
Arthur's thumb traces the vein on Merlin's leaking cock and Merlin's fingers scrape along his back, and suddenly it's too much, the moment resembling pure happiness more than any other during his whole life, and when Arthur's cock slides against Merlin's once more he buries his face in Merlin's neck and comes, his damp lips shaping only one word against the pale throat, Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.
He hears Merlin struggle for breath; his arms and legs tighten around Arthur and when he starts coming, every graze and jerk against Arthur's own over-sensitised cock make him shudder and gasp.
It takes a long time to come down, Arthur thinks. They keep pressing open-mouthed kisses to each other's shoulders, temples, throats, eyelids, corners of mouths. It feels like a vow, a sealing of something - a beginning of a journey, a trinity of danger and purpose and emotion.
"I'm sorry I took so long to tell you."
Arthur doesn't say he's sorry, too. Instead, he kisses Merlin lazily, cradling the back of his head in his palm, and knows that Merlin hears all those things he still can't say.
Merlin says, "Arthur, I'm a warlock," suddenly and without preamble, and then sort of squeaks, or maybe it is only a very loud swallow, and Arthur thinks, he didn't mean to say that.
Then he replays the words in his head and feels himself freeze into place - the fork midway to his mouth, and all. Absurdly, the first thought that springs to his mind is when he took his sword to Merlin's throat, in those tense days of the black knight: a warning, yes, but also (as much as Arthur wouldn't admit it out loud) a manifestation of the disappointment for Merlin's lack of faith in him. And Arthur wonders about the sort of warlocks that let frustrated princes threaten them with their swords and do nothing in retaliation.
He wants to say, your sense of humour is as subpar as your skill as a servant, or isn't that getting old by now, and besides, it's not like there's anyone you have to save from execution this time, or I suppose you engage in discussions with dragons on your free time, too. But without turning around to see Merlin's expression he can still hear the anguished gulp echoing in his mind and, in any case, he usually quite enjoys Merlin's jokes.
Still, he can't quite wrap his head around it. Warlocks don't spend their days polishing someone's chainmail and sweeping their chambers. That's just not done. Could it be that Merlin is as abysmal a sorcerer as he is a servant?
"Arthur, please... please say something."
He supposes it's a testament to his trust in Merlin that he doesn't jump even though, instead of hearing the voice from the other end of the room, where Merlin, prior to his seemingly unintentional declaration, had been doing Merlinesque, un-servantly things (not sorting out his wardrobe as much as absent-mindedly colour-coding it), he hears it from right behind him. Merlin's voice sounds strained, so strained, and Arthur can't fathom what he fears he will do. Attack him? Take him to his father?
Arthur supposes that finally lowering the fork to his mostly empty dinner plate is a start. The next would be... answering Merlin.
"I almost took your head off once."
Well, that could seem like a non sequitur, Arthur thinks, and still can't quite make himself turn around to face his… friend. Servant. Warlock.
...Gods.
"What? No, you didn't. What are you talking about? Did you hear what I said?"
Merlin sounds baffled, but less like he might, at any moment, keel over from nervous tension. Suddenly Arthur wants to see him, needs to see the expressive, familiar face to lose the feeling of dream-like absurdity.
He thinks Merlin flinches at his movement, twisting around on his seat, and a fleeting anger heats his blood for the first time during the suddenly bizarre conversation. If he can trust Merlin through and after a statement like the one he has just been hit with, the least Merlin could do is grant him the same trust in return.
But trust can't be commanded. Arthur knows this. And before he can start wondering where he has gone wrong, he remembers several careless remarks, about sorcerers and their dishonesty, about magic-users and the danger they present… and still he wants to shout, that's different, you're you and I've already seen you try to die for me too many times.
He looks into Merlin's dark blue eyes. Merlin seems to be trembling. Very slightly.
"The night before I was to fight the black knight. I almost took your head off."
He sees the recollection in Merlin's eyes, and less than a second later, the dismissal.
"No, Arthur, you really didn't." Arthur thinks there is an invisible roll of eyes in that tone of voice. "There was, what, a foot between that blade and my throat? I do see the control you keep over your sword arm, if not your temper, my lord."
And right then, in one instance out of a hundred, there is no mockery in the title, not even of the friendly kind.
"So, if I had really tried to hurt you... you would've stopped me. With your magic." Even Arthur himself doesn't believe it, yet something makes him ask. And again he realises the extent of his trust in Merlin, and doesn't (want to) remember a time he could count on no one but himself.
It seems that Merlin sees right through him because, rather than indignant, his expression is understanding.
"I might have forcefully stepped on your toe, sire."
The fear is disappearing from those blue eyes, replaced by warmth and relief as Merlin sees that there is, apparently, nothing he could say or be or do that would turn Arthur away from him. It makes Arthur nervous, this hold that this peasant boy holds over the crown prince - except, that's not who Merlin is, is it? Has never been. Merlin is something more, something with no rules and no limitations, and again Arthur wonders what Merlin is doing in Camelot and how long Arthur has before he loses him, and whether Merlin will leave as he arrived, in a flash, without forewarning. But how can he ask? How can he ask, without revealing a vulnerability that only exists for Merlin to take advantage of, were he so inclined?
How can he ask, without making Merlin feel guilty, as if he owed it to Arthur to remain at his side instead of being great somewhere else, somewhere safe?
"Arthur... uh. Are you really okay with this?"
With Merlin not actually needing him for anything, Arthur's brain supplies. With Merlin having the option of up and leaving any moment he so desires. With the fact that Merlin would literally be better off away from Arthur, away from his father's brutal laws.
He doesn't want to lie to Merlin. Doesn't want to begrudge him what is obviously a part of him, a gift, used so selflessly that it makes Arthur want to laugh in amazement, puzzle pieces falling into place as countless inexplicable incidents from his time with Merlin bombard his mind, suddenly showing themselves in a whole new light.
Something in particular that bothered him for a long time is suddenly explained. "That first fight? That was you, wasn't it?"
Merlin's guilty grin is affirmation enough. Arthur knew he could never be that clumsy! And even knowing that Merlin has used his magic against him, however indirectly, cannot stir up any anger, anything except a hollow throb in his chest as he acknowledges that Merlin, apart from Morgana, is the only one who has ever challenged him. And even Morgana has never made him as eager to rise to the challenge; hasn't had his blood boiling in fury and exasperation and want and hope, all in equal measure.
No, all that is only Merlin's doing. And soon he will be gone.
"So. What are your plans, then? Heavens know you have only survived in Camelot this long on pure dumb luck. I won't inform anyone of your departure, naturally - it should be easy enough to convince father that your mental state has finally deteriorated alarmingly enough that you were forced to return to Ealdor to convalesce..."
Arthur's monologue, which he hopes isn't quite as transparent in its attempted casualness as it sounds like to his own ears, trails off as he watches the small smile fall from Merlin's face.
"What? Why are you… I'm not going anywhere. Are you sending me away? Is that it? You may not take me to the pyre, but you still won't shelter a magic-user in the court?"
Merlin's voice has been steadily rising, and without thinking Arthur leaps up from his seat and presses his hand on Merlin's mouth. He is about to berate Merlin for his lack of caution, or his damned lack of common sense, for that matter - but Merlin's eyes, inches from his own, are dark and feverish, and his lips under Arthur's palm are trembling. All of Merlin feels brittle, fragile, and Arthur doesn't know how he's supposed to let Merlin go when he so obviously needs a protector, a minder.
Internally Arthur shakes himself. "You idiot! Lower your voice before you bring half the castle running."
Releasing Merlin (and how did his other hand end up on Merlin's waist?) Arthur steps back again, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to miss the warmth of skin, the brief contact seeming to have left a peculiar tingle on his palm.
"I'm not sending you anywhere. But surely even you are aware of the fact that Camelot is hardly the best place for you! Why you have stayed as long as you have, I've no idea--"
"Because my place is by your side."
Run that by me again?
"And, well, the dragon said..."
Oh. Dear. Gods. Above.
Arthur clears his throat. Pauses. "The dragon?"
"The one under the castle. He was kind of giving me advice, occasionally, when he felt like it, or when I was able to get through the riddles to the information - well, I never really did, actually… Anyway, he said I was supposed to protect you, that we had this destiny sort of thing together, and even though it turned out that he's only after his own gain, well, no one can deny that you definitely need someone to keep an eye on you with a skill set apart from swords and daggers and all... that."
"Excuse me? You're the one who needs to be saved from himself! You actually announced your warlockness to the whole court!"
Merlin's indulgent expression is saying something like, trust you to get fixated on the bit that suggests you're not all-powerful.
"Yes, well, my point was, I'm meant to be here. With you."
And if those words don't bring a weird, warm, completely un-princely feeling in Arthur's chest... He clears his throat again, hoping Merlin hasn't caught the momentary sentimental lapse. Judging by the fond smile on the sorcerer's face, it's a vain hope.
Sorcerer. It still boggles the mind.
"Show me?"
Merlin smiles wider, apparently pleased with his curiosity.
Then his eyes glow gold, and Arthur forgets how to breathe.
There is a fork gracefully twirling in the air somewhere beside their heads, but Arthur can't tear his eyes away from Merlin's, from drinking in the way his face is transformed, free and elated like Arthur has never seen Merlin before, and Arthur knows then and there that this is what magic is about, not about war and revenge, but amusing tricks and easy elegance and joy that rises from stretching yourself to become one with the elements.
"What does it feel like?"
The fork levitates back to the plate. Merlin's eyes are inquisitive.
"Magic. What does doing magic feel like?"
For a moment Merlin contemplates, as if searching the limits of his vocabulary. Then he grins, and takes Arthur's hand, their fingers interlocking easily as if this is the natural position for their hands to seek.
And when Merlin's eyes flash in the next moment, every inch of Arthur's skin is suddenly breaking out in goose bumps, his eyes falling shut and his whole frame shivering, and distantly he thinks he hears a muted intake of breath.
It's a form of power, definitely, different from how Arthur feels when he's fighting with his sword, but not totally unlike the feeling of victory, satisfaction, ambition, cresting pleasure. Arthur can't put any of it in words, but he thinks gold is the only appropriate colour for Merlin, for this restless, exhilarated energy that could probably break a mountain into pieces when concentrated.
The flow of power cuts suddenly, and Arthur realises he is light-headed from a sudden, aching arousal.
Merlin is blinking and breathing hard, and Arthur gets the feeling Merlin has the tendency to explore his magic through the trial and error method - he should probably be grateful Merlin hasn't accidentally turned them into anything unnatural with his thoughtless, unpractised sharing of his magic.
...Sharing of his magic.
If Arthur had any lingering doubts about whether Merlin trusts him or not, well, they have been, quite simply, annihilated. He feels privileged and still a bit dizzy and suddenly he wonders, greedily, that since Merlin has gifted him with his friendship and his trust and his magic, is there anything he would not give Arthur?
"That... Oh God, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I didn't really know what I was doing," Merlin is babbling, nervous again, no doubt calculating the severity of the punishment for inflicting the crown prince with a magical hard-on. "That was so weird, though, it's almost like… like my magic liked feeling you."
Sudden, intense heat flushes through Arthur. The naivety in Merlin's tone is killing him, and he is torn between preserving that innocence and demanding more, more, more.
"It's okay," he rasps, because it's not like he's going to throw Merlin in the stocks for inducing something Arthur suffers every night because of the Merlin in his dreams anyway; and sometimes during the day if Merlin bring his breakfast with his hair still wildly up in tufts, or if he bends over while picking up after Arthur in his chambers, or when Arthur is training his knights and happens to glance to the sidelines to see Merlin smiling at him with pride and with a sort of possessive edge to his stare.
And then he's second-guessing his earlier estimate of Merlin's innocence, because, when hearing his words, Merlin's eyes first light up and darken in the next moment, and his eyes sweep Arthur over from his lips to his groin, and a positively lewd smirk graces his lips.
"Yes, my magic really liked feeling you..." Arthur almost can't hear the words, and doesn't think they're intended for him, anyway - and then the train of thought is lost as Merlin gently pushes him back into the chair.
And unceremoniously drops to his knees in front of Arthur.
Arthur suspects he might make an involuntary noise of some sort when Merlin's long fingers hitch up his shirt and he shuffles, on his knees, to press his stomach tightly to Arthur's groin. Before Arthur has fully processed the turn the situation has taken, Merlin has his shirt bunched up over his collarbones and he is licking and nipping at Arthur's nipples in the subtlest, most wonderful torture Arthur has ever imagined. Merlin's stomach keeps rubbing at his cock through his breeches and he's sure that if he comes from just this Merlin will always look at him with laughter in his eyes.
Arthur grabs Merlin's wrists before his body can convince him that surrendering good; ego bad, and stands up, tugging Merlin with him. As Merlin opens his mouth to no doubt petulantly demand that he be allowed to return to his one-sided teasing Arthur leans forward, their lips fitting together the way their fingers did, before, and Arthur would rather spend an eternity just pressing their mouths together and breathing in Merlin than enjoying a dozen amazing climaxes if it meant he couldn't touch Merlin, couldn't strive to make him fly apart and work to brand his touch into Merlin's skin so that he would always crave only Arthur's hands on him.
Arthur's hands slide down Merlin's back, and when they come to rest on his ass Merlin sort of bucks against him and his hands twist in Arthur's red shirt. Arthur feels one pulse between them and he can't wait anymore; Merlin weights nothing at all as Arthur lifts him up, and his legs lock on Arthur's waist like a vice.
The bed is only a few steps away and by the time they fall onto it Arthur sees that Merlin's eyes are bright gold again and suddenly their clothes are… gone. Arthur would jeer at the desperation if he wasn't panting so harshly and if the thought of separating his mouth from Merlin's for the unbearably long time it would take to speak didn't cause a physical agony, and if the vanishing clothes spell wasn't so bloody handy.
Merlin's body is hot and satiny soft against his, and he wants to keep doing just this until the distant future, just the brushing of skin on skin and the rocking of their angles and contours into each other. Merlin's thighs grip his sides and there's a frantic quality to the gasps and mewls falling from Merlin's lips, and Arthur can't think, can't literally think of anything but this body under his, this wonderful man who has given Arthur everything, every reason he has for looking forward with anticipation instead of only the heavy burden of duty.
Arthur's thumb traces the vein on Merlin's leaking cock and Merlin's fingers scrape along his back, and suddenly it's too much, the moment resembling pure happiness more than any other during his whole life, and when Arthur's cock slides against Merlin's once more he buries his face in Merlin's neck and comes, his damp lips shaping only one word against the pale throat, Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.
He hears Merlin struggle for breath; his arms and legs tighten around Arthur and when he starts coming, every graze and jerk against Arthur's own over-sensitised cock make him shudder and gasp.
It takes a long time to come down, Arthur thinks. They keep pressing open-mouthed kisses to each other's shoulders, temples, throats, eyelids, corners of mouths. It feels like a vow, a sealing of something - a beginning of a journey, a trinity of danger and purpose and emotion.
"I'm sorry I took so long to tell you."
Arthur doesn't say he's sorry, too. Instead, he kisses Merlin lazily, cradling the back of his head in his palm, and knows that Merlin hears all those things he still can't say.