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It never happens as long as there’s still light.
Even in the middle of the night, when Arthur comes back from a feast almost drunk (almost, almost, because he can never let himself go completely), furious still about a disagreement with his father, he’ll cast a quick look at the window. He’ll notice the soft moonlight hitting the bed in the uppermost corner, and what he’ll do is this: he’ll fuck Merlin on all fours, on purpose, the bastard, because he knows it gives Merlin no range for movement, knows he can’t turn his head far enough to do anything, while Arthur uses his mouth to bite, to mark the backs of Merlin’s shoulders. (Though never where anyone can see, except that one time, that one time when Arthur forgot himself and then spent two days in fear of anyone finding out about them. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t touch Merlin, either, snapping about his too lose shirts, and honestly, where are those neckerchiefs when you need them? Merlin never tells him he’d wanted the world to see, because Arthur was right, of course, he was right, just – never let anyone tell him that, OK?)
No, it only happens on nights when the sky is overcast, or the moon is merciful. Merlin will wake up, hips or ribs still bruised from where Arthur held him down earlier (not that this is the way it always goes, no; Merlin has greedy hands and vicious, possessive teeth that Arthur will complain about at length after; after he’s arched and gasped and closed his eyes so very tight, trying to pretend that it doesn’t matter, that Merlin can’t read him like a book), to the feeling of Arthur’s hair tickling his chest.
Sometimes, he’ll try to squirm away, sleepy, before he becomes aware of the movement of a warm mouth over one of his nipples. He stills; he always does, even though his stomach squeezes in an uncomfortable way.
The first few times it happened, he didn’t know what to do. Where he might have joked, or squawked or protested in the middle of the day, the darkness seemed to paralyse his tongue, until he just managed to swallow a few times, dry and uncomfortable, the sound of his smacking covered by Arthur’s own. He lay there rigidly still, pretending to sleep even though Arthur couldn’t possibly be fooled. Arthur’s mouth was ridiculously soft against Merlin’s skin (Merlin knew this, but he was never so aware of it as he was in this situation), his tongue lapping at Merlin’s nipple in a lazy, haphazard rhythm that only made sense to him, until he fell asleep again, Merlin staring at the canopy.
Only the third time it happened did Merlin notice: how Arthur only did this when Merlin’s back stung where the skin touched the sheets; skin that had suffered as Arthur tried to erase his own anger or frustration.
Merlin breathed, then, a long, strengthening inhale that made Arthur’s mouth falter against his chest (it tickled, God), before placing a hand on Arthur’s neck. It missed and landed somewhere on that strange non-place at the top of Arthur’s back, where Merlin could feel the jut of Arthur’s spine before it arched into his neck, and held awkwardly. Arthur made an odd sound somewhere deep in his chest, and sucked on Merlin’s nipple, hard, pressing closer still, and something painful tightened at the base of Merlin’s throat. He didn’t shiver. His hand started stroking Arthur’s back soothingly; it took him half a minute to notice he was doing it. Arthur’s mouth stilled a little later, his breath evening out where it fanned over Merlin’s wet skin.
*
Merlin thought it was weird. It made him uncomfortable that there was something about Arthur he didn’t understand, something that wasn’t Arthur’s love for hunting, for fighting, or his ridiculously overblown sense of honour. Those things might not make sense to Merlin, but Arthur wouldn’t make sense anymore if these weren’t part of him. This, though, this – he couldn’t fit it into any part of Arthur, Arthur whom he’d thought he knew so well.
One day, when he was washing Arthur’s socks (he was sort of used to the smell by now, and crinkled his nose only a little), there was woman sitting in the corner of the room, feeding a baby. Merlin stared, stared at the way the child’s eyes were closed in concentration, soft mouth closed around the tip of her breast, suckling greedily, while the woman supported its neck. He thought of Arthur’s mother, of the woman he’d never known, thought of the way Merlin himself used to curl up in his mother’s lap, hugging her tight, and he thought: maybe, this.
He stood in his room that night, half-naked, cold air whispering gooseflesh onto his skin, and closed his hand over his own chest. He could feel the hardened nub poking in the middle of his palm, but otherwise, it was flat. He had some kind of mental breakdown, he later reasoned, in which he tried to find a spell to inflate his chest, and somewhere, frantically at the back of his mind, searched for a spell that might even give him milk. (He never, ever mentioned this to anyone, and the mere thought that Arthur might find out still sends his stomach reeling and makes him hide his face under the bedclothes, where Arthur sometimes pushes him down, until Merlin’s nose nudges Arthur’s hip and it doesn’t matter that he can barely breathe beneath the sheets.)
He didn’t find a spell. It didn’t make him feel like a better person that he’d tried.
Not with Arthur curled against him, warm and relaxed in a way he never otherwise was (he hadn’t found a spell for breasts, no, but he had found one for seeing in the dark, and he looked at Arthur’s face, so peaceful and open and in the moment), alternately sucking and lapping at Merlin’s chest, lapping and sucking over and over again, unrushed, until Merlin’s right nipple stung with the endless, repeated friction, oversensitive and aching in a way that was only reflected in the painful throb of his cock, rigid and leaking beneath the weight of the covers.
He focused on the calm motion of his hand along Arthur’s warm, warm spine, pretended his fingers didn’t shake, not with the need to curl around his prick, nor the need to pinch his other nipple viciously, to find some kind of balance. (He’d never even known he could get any pleasure from this. As far as Merlin was concerned, the two little nubs had always just been sitting there on his chest, useless for anything but chafing if it was too cold, and he would have gladly done without them, thanks, if he didn’t think he would look bizarre without them.)
His other hand was fisted in the sheets; he was trying to dig his nails into his own palm, trying not to move or gasp or twitch, squeezed his eyes shut, and thought desperately that here, in the dark, Arthur was probably imagining his mother, a soothing, innocent, loving presence, and Merlin felt like a despicable human being.
*
The next time Arthur pinned Merlin beneath him, fucked him like Merlin could absolve him of all crime, he waited until Arthur had fallen asleep, temporarily, then chased the clouds away from the moon.
He didn’t feel any less guilty when he woke up to Arthur’s tired, tense face.
*
It couldn’t last, of course, and several months after they’d begun this, the moment came, the moment Merlin had nightmares about and that made his stomach want to crawl out of his throat – in the middle of the night, at some ungodly hour, while Merlin breathed painfully; Arthur’s hand fanned out too far, and caught the edge of Merlin’s cock. Merlin couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his throat, a greedy kind of pleasure pooling in his belly, pushed his nipple unthinkingly closer against Arthur’s mouth, and hated himself, deeply.
He’d thought his main fear was that Arthur would loathe him, kick him out of his bed, never meet his eyes with anything like understanding again; but as it turned out, all he could think of was how he’d ruined Arthur’s source of comfort, how Arthur would never allow himself to be this relaxed again.
The body against him had stilled and Merlin waited for Arthur to push him away, waited, waited and couldn’t bring himself to look at Arthur’s face. Then, Arthur’s hand closed around Merlin’s cock, and started tugging at it in an erratic rhythm that matched Arthur’s tongue, where it was stroking Merlin’s skin again, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The sound that escaped Merlin’s mouth was perhaps not entirely human, and he felt the deep flush of embarrassment warm his cheeks, but it didn’t stop him from coming no more than a moment later, arching helplessly off the bed, Arthur humming briefly against his chest. A sticky hand wiped itself on his thigh, Merlin still shaking beneath it, Arthur never even breaking his stride. Merlin was panting loudly into the room when he finally saw a frown form on Arthur’s face, and his heart turned cold for a moment, but then Arthur reached behind him and tugged irritably on Merlin’s wrist, where his hand lay still and unmoving.
Merlin resumed his slow rub over Arthur’s back, the motion feeling warm and lazy in a way it never had before, and the frown melted right off Arthur’s face, replaced by contentment and peace. Merlin’s heartbeat rang loudly in his own ears, Arthur falling asleep some time after it had returned to its normal rhythm.
*
Merlin thinks he’ll never stop feeling guilty, but as it turns out, everything becomes easier with time. Arthur seems to have absolutely no compunctions about pawing Merlin’s groin while he seeks his own form of relief, and Merlin feels like an idiot, because Arthur can’t possibly be imagining that he’s jerking off his mum. After, Merlin’s body sinks into the mattress, limbs lazy and warm, and he tugs Arthur closer to him still, unselfconscious, revelling in the way they fit together, in all the places their skin touches, in the way Arthur’s breathing slots his chest against Merlin’s.
One day, he drapes a leg over Arthur’s, hooking him close; Arthur doesn’t protest. When Merlin doesn’t, the time after that, Arthur curls a hand around Merlin’s knee, and does it for him.
*
There’s even a moment where they almost talk about it, when Merlin complains on a chilly morning how his nipple is sore (‘Merlin, I’d hate to have to go and ask Morgana for a frock just because my manservant turned into a girl’), no really, it’s strange because it’s just one of them. (Merlin frowns, trying to look his stupidest, which always puts Arthur in a good mood.) Arthur gives him a quelling look, but laps a leisurely path from one side of his chest to the other the next time it happens, and Merlin comes and comes and comes with Arthur’s hand around his cock.
*
(Because Arthur’s Arthur, he somehow always manages to avoid putting his limbs in the way of Merlin’s come, so that he has no problem disentangling himself in the morning, while Merlin always ends up stuck to the sheets in the most painful ways, because he doesn’t dare move and disturb Arthur after they’re finished.)
*
They find a rhythm like that, until Merlin thinks there is no more awkwardness between them.
At least, he does until one day, he’s got Arthur right where he wants him, after they spent some time tussling in the sheets: beneath him, pushing up with a desperate rocking of his hips, gasps falling unheeded from his mouth, fingers digging into Merlin’s hips to try and drag him deeper inside, still. Come on, Merlin, you lazy –
Merlin lets his face fall against Arthur’s shoulder, mouthing the collarbone for a moment (oh, says Arthur), before biting down and sucking at the skin. Arthur tenses beneath him, his Merlin trying to be a reprimand but hitting closer to a moan. When Merlin pulls his mouth away, there’s a mark close to Arthur’s throat, and he smirks and says, ‘Don’t worry, sire, I’ve cleaned your jacket,’ in the most obnoxious tone possible. (This is the high-collared jacket that Merlin thinks Arthur looks so good in, and that should shield the bruise from view).
Merlin lives off his victory for a moment, Arthur trying and hopelessly failing to scowl beneath him, and he pushes in a little faster, tries to push up Arthur’s thighs a little higher, drunk on Arthur and the feeling of this; loving that they can be like this.
Then Arthur clamps his arm around Merlin’s back and pulls him close in an entirely uncomfortable way; Merlin’s about to protest, maybe even growl a little, except Arthur chooses that moment to close his mouth around Merlin’s nipple (something he still only ever does under the cover of darkness) and bites. It’s not fair, it’s cheating – Merlin shouts, can’t really help it, and when Arthur’s tongue comes out to soothe, after, he can feel the world tilting; he’d be worried about the world falling apart beneath him, if he weren’t too busy burying himself deeply inside Arthur, breathless, fingers numb where they grip the sheets. When Merlin finally regains a little sanity, he feels an uncomfortable blush spreading all over his body.
When he lifts his head to look at Arthur, he finds the stupid bloody prat smiling and looking unbearably smug, offering: ‘You owe me a blowjob’ and ‘I think now would be a good time, don’t you?’ urging Merlin down with his heels.
Merlin somehow finds it impossible to arrange his face into a glare, no matter how hard he tries, and settles for making Arthur beg, with his body if not with his mouth.
*
A month later, Arthur walks into the room with a face like a raincloud; his fights with his father seem to come more and more often, the barbs exchanged more vicious than ever. Merlin sometimes thinks they fight like children, but he is careful not to mention it. So much has happened between Arthur and himself since he arrived in Camelot, and they’ve struck a careful balance he is unwilling to disturb, especially when he thinks Arthur is right, if not in his methods.
He sleeps in Arthur’s room more often than not, now, which thankfully doesn’t have to be kept secret; people just don’t know that Merlin also sleeps in Arthur’s bed. Arthur’s tired, Merlin can tell, so he undresses him swiftly, and gets them into bed. Arthur’s arm lies warmly against Merlin’s, but that’s as far as he’ll go like this. Merlin curls their fingers together anyway, and Arthur squeezes his hand.
He’s still holding on to it, grip not quite relaxed, when Merlin wakes up again hours later. When he turns his head, Arthur seems to be looking at the sky, moonlight lending his eyes an eerie gleam. The blinds are heavy and creeky, and the one time Merlin managed to close them, it turned out they were too narrow to cover the entire window. The canopy, Arthur informed him on his second evening (because it hadn’t occurred to Merlin on the first), was not for closing, as it was just as likely to bring half the bed down on Arthur’s head as it was to block out the light. It had never seemed to bother Arthur.
Now, Merlin gently covers Arthur’s eyes with his free hand, murmurs, ‘Go to sleep.’ Arthur’s grip tightens painfully, but he keeps his eyes closed, even when Merlin extricates himself and busies himself with the heavy drapes. If Merlin mutters while he works, if he plunges them into darkness in record time, if everything stays safe and sound above their heads, Arthur never, ever mentions it, just throws his arm over Merlin, and holds on a little tighter, before his mouth starts drifting to its goal, soft and teasing over Merlin’s skin.
And if Merlin kisses the top of Arthur’s head while they lie together, they don’t mention it, either; in the morning, Merlin will pretend he just likes the softness of Arthur’s hair, and Arthur will pretend nothing happened at all. When Merlin will ask if he’s slept well, he’ll say ‘I probably would’ve if my bed hadn’t been infested by some bony woodland creature. You really should hunt that down, Merlin,’ or maybe ‘You snored’ (which is a blatant lie), or just ‘Have you cleaned my boots yet, Merlin?’ but not before his mouth twitches into a small, intimate smile that makes Merlin rub unthinkingly at his chest, a happy tingle covering his skin.