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“If you think,” Merlin begins hotly one humid afternoon, “that I’m going to drop trou and bend over your lap just because you command it —”
“It’s the traditional sentence for insolence,” says Arthur, reclining in his chair with his legs spread, as if he’s waiting for Merlin to jump to it. Merlin, instead, is compelled to commit disturbingly violent actions against Arthur’s person, and would describe in lurid detail his murderous desires to the prat — except said prat is well aware of and completely unperturbed by them.
Merlin glares for a bit. Arthur gazes back, cool as a cucumber, utterly impassive.
Camelot is a strange, upsetting place. No one would bend Merlin over their thighs back in Ealdor and give him a hiding for backchat. Not even his mum did that, not even when he was five and too curious about his magic for his own good.
“I’m not a child,” Merlin tries, in case they discipline poor innocent sprogs like this here, too.
“Sometimes you prove otherwise.”
“Arthur, it’s embarrassing! Pick another punishment!” Merlin casts about wildly for — yes. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the stocks. I owe Donnell and Marin a gab!”
He’s absurdly lucky that Arthur even allows him to protest like this, when other servants he knows have to bow their head and take whatever their master or mistress doles out. Absurdly lucky, yes, but Arthur shouldn’t have permitted Merlin that privilege if he didn’t mean Merlin to exercise it.
“Stop stalling.” Arthur heavily pats his right thigh. Bastard. Merlin flushes red. His hands inch towards the thin rope holding his breeches together.
“If I’d really wanted to embarrass you, I’d have done this in front of my father and all the court, you know. You did call me a cabbage head within earshot of them,” says Arthur, softly. But he appears to think it over before he sighs quietly. His shoulders sag a fraction of an inch, as if he gave up some uncertain hope that Merlin doesn’t recognise. “Very well. Stocks it is, until sundown. Get going.”
That gives Merlin pause. Some secret part of him shrivels up inside at Arthur’s surrender. As if, even when it is to Merlin’s detriment, Arthur should stand tall and proud and immovable. He finds himself bolstered to undress by the act.
Soon he stands in front of Arthur, awkwardly tugging his shirttails over his naked groin. His cock, even when tumescent, is on the smaller side, and while Arthur (probably) won’t mock him for it as he would have two years ago when Merlin was nothing to him, it’s best not to give him the chance.
“Twenty slaps,” says Arthur with dull-red cheeks, looking everywhere but at what Merlin’s trying to hide, “and you may retire for the rest of the day.”
“That’s nothing,” Merlin says despite himself, and Arthur’s eyes snap to his, suddenly blazing. Merlin juts his chin out. He said what he said, in the spirit he said it, and Arthur’s no fool.
“Forty,” Arthur snaps. Merlin grins.
This is how their game always goes, after all.
They’re barely at nineteen — Merlin’s counting out loud — when his knees begin to tremble with the strain of holding himself curved and high over Arthur’s legs, so that Arthur won’t discover how hard he’s become unless he wants to, unless he shifts his legs just the tiniest bit to the left.
They’re barely at nineteen — Arthur’s making Merlin count out loud — when, instead of striking his blotched-red, hurting arse (“Spotty,” Arthur had called it first, lying through his teeth), Arthur’s hand slides into the crease and strokes his taint. Merlin feels deft fingers pushing at his balls from behind and nearly cries from the relief.
“Merlin,” Arthur breathes, shaking like tree leaves in the wind his impassivity blew away on. Merlin arches his back, offers more of himself to his prince. This is the only excuse Arthur has to take anything. This is the only way he knows how, in the strange, upsetting place that is Camelot, where the prince may not love a man as he loves a woman.
“More,” Merlin slurs. Arthur aims a few arrhythmic smacks at random parts of Merlin’s arse and thighs for the sake of the game, and then his fingers sink back in between Merlin’s cheeks, rubbing over his hole. Oh God. Merlin forgot to bring over the salve they always use from Arthur’s bedside cupboard.
Arthur solves the problem — leans over him and spits and spits at his hole. The vulgarity of the actions matches that of the sounds, matches that of the way Arthur coaxes two fingers into Merlin so quick. Merlin sobs when Arthur circles the most sensitive spot inside him.
Two fingers turns to three, and Merlin is still trying to maintain the illusion that this is an unwanted spanking whilst rocking back to meet Arthur’s hand, wishing, wishing that Arthur’s fingers were his cock, were his mouth, his tongue. This is verging on unbearable now. Arthur is relentless in his fucking; he’s determined to have Merlin come this way, it seems, and Merlin is equally determined to have Arthur come first, and they’re at an impasse until —
“Here,” Arthur says, half-wild, dragging Merlin up and atop him so Merlin is straddling him now. He roughly palms Merlin’s cock with the hand he fucked Merlin with, as Merlin throws his arms around Arthur’s neck and cries with need into his shoulder. “Lovely little thing,” Arthur says. “I could fit it in my mouth easy.”
He has before, so well, for long minutes and hours behind this same locked door. Merlin dazedly draws away to be able to see Arthur fondling him, for the sight is more precious to him than anything, except Arthur himself.
“My impudent Merlin,” Arthur gasps, alternately squeezing and jerking Merlin. “Sully your prince with your spend. You want to, don’t you? Have your revenge on me.”
Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze; Arthur kisses him so sweetly, lovingly, as he obeys.