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1
As usual, Merlin is nowhere to be found.
But for once, Arthur is in too good of a mood to care. His cloak whooshes behind him as he paces the castle steps. He squints out at the gate, and finally, there they are—three horses approaching at a canter. He stills, straightens, a smile climbing his face as they draw near.
His cousin rides the mare in the center, big white smile unmistakable even after all these years. Uther’s brother’s son. A guard flanks him on either side. Arthur grins as Benedict swings down and pulls him into a hug. “Little cousin turned king!” he exclaims merrily, clapping Arthur’s back. “Who would’ve thought?”
“It’s good to see you, Benedict,” says Arthur, grasping his forearm. “It’s been far too long.” Their eyes trip over each other, eager to fill in the blanks left by years spent apart.
Arthur hasn’t seen his cousin in well over a decade, since they were teenagers, when his father was alive and well and the thought of becoming king himself was just that—a thought. Inescapable, yes, but intangible. Benedict’s own father died a long time ago. Arthur hardly remembers him, but he remembers his cousin, who came to stay at the castle for many summers after. They’d been best friends for a time. Arthur had reveled in having a family, let alone a boy his age to play and spar and bicker with. Someone who understood the pressures of being raised with a royal name. Not to the same extent, of course—Benedict was a duke, would always be a duke—but all the same, the bond they shared was closer than any other Arthur had when he was young.
The man before him bears resemblance to the boy he remembers. Benedict is tall and lithe where he was lanky before, hair a shiny chestnut brown, eyes grey and crinkled with that brilliant smile. Arthur wonders what Benedict sees, looking at him. He remembers being a teenager all too well—he was loud, rude, confident the world was built for him and him alone. Little cousin turned king, indeed.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here,” Arthur says in a moment of candor. “Though I wish you were able to stay for longer. I’ve missed you, cousin.”
“And I you, Arthur,” Benedict says warmly. His face grows serious. “I was so sorry to hear about Uther.”
Arthur nods. It’s been several years since his father passed, but he still struggles to know what to say when people bring him up.
Benedict’s gaze shifts to a spot behind Arthur’s shoulder. “Well hello there.”
Arthur turns to see that Merlin has materialized behind him. He smiles at Benedict, bowing his head, and gives Arthur a sheepish look with a little shrug. Arthur rolls his eyes.
“What’s your name then?” Benedict asks.
“Merlin, my lord.”
Benedict hums, running his eyes over Merlin. “Just Ben will do,” he says, a smile growing on his face. Arthur glances back, expecting to see something embarrassing like a stain marking Merlin’s tunic or that he’s put his trousers on backwards, but he finds nothing apparent.
He turns back to his cousin, who hasn’t looked away from Merlin once. “I must say, cousin, I didn’t know you had such good taste.” Benedict finally looks at Arthur, grin morphing into something cheeky.
Arthur blinks. “In regards to what?”
Benedict glances at Merlin, then back to Arthur. It takes a few seconds, but Arthur realizes what he means at the same time Merlin does, judging by the wheezing sound behind him. “What—you—” he stutters, feeling his face grow hot. “Merlin is my manservant!”
Benedict raises his eyebrows, looking as though this information has piqued his interest. “Ah.” He’s back to ogling Merlin, eyes bright, and Arthur suddenly wishes Merlin hadn’t shown up after all. Better yet, he’d be happy to sink into the ground at this very moment, never again to reappear. “Never did think you were one for men. He’s quite attractive, though, isn’t he? Don’t you get distracted?”
“Merlin?” Arthur gawps. He can’t resist turning to look at the man in question. Merlin fixes his gaze wide-eyed at the ground. His hands are looped behind his back, and Arthur can tell they’re clenched from the way his chest strains against his shirt. He looks as though he would very much like to sink into the ground, as well.
Benedict laughs. “Inferior taste after all—now that’s the Arthur I remember.”
Arthur scoffs, cracking a smile, and the moment is gone, though he still would prefer for that encounter to never have happened. “Come, let me show you around the castle. Some things have changed since you last visited.”
Benedict smiles his assent, and Arthur brushes past Merlin, hoping he’ll take the hint and go make himself useful elsewhere, but then Benedict pauses on the stairs. “You’ll come with, won’t you, Merlin?”
Merlin had started to edge away, but he freezes, eyes flicking between Arthur and Benedict. “If you wish,” he says after a moment, sounding hesitant, and Arthur has no choice but to resume up the stairs as Merlin falls into step behind them.
2
This is how Arthur is subjected to his cousin’s shameless flirting—flirting—with Merlin—for the next hour or so.
Benedict is full of a surprising amount of energy after such a long ride. He flits about excitedly, examining everything Arthur points out, attentive and appropriately curious.
”Didn’t this door used to have a big, golden knocker shaped like a lion?” he says as they enter the throne room. “Yes—it did, I remember—you chipped your tooth on it! You were so scared of it afterward your father had it removed.” He grins back at Merlin, as if he’s in on the joke.
Merlin, for his part, hangs back, makes himself scarce for a change. But despite his reluctance, Benedict won’t let up, won’t just ignore him, and Arthur is obliged to continue his tour with the two of them at his back, making such enlightening conversation as:
In the throne room—“Been here in Camelot long, Merlin?”; “Quite some time now, yes, my lord”; “Ben! I told you!”; “Right—sorry”; “No need to apologize, just want to be sure you know my name”—Arthur can practically hear the wink—
In the great hall—“Will you be dining with us tonight, Merlin?”; “Er—I’ll be keeping your cups full”; “I’m sure you will”—
In the armory—“Any good with a sword, Merlin?” to which Merlin responds not with a quick insult in a lightly indignant tone, as he would to Arthur, but a flustered noise that rather flusters Arthur himself, who can’t help but shoot a flat “He’s absolutely useless” over his shoulder—
In the guest bedchambers, at last—“And where would one find your bedchambers, Merlin?”; “I—stay in a room in the physician’s quarters”; “A scientist, eh? Smart man”; to which Merlin replies “A bit,” sounding almost too chuffed for Arthur’s liking.
Arthur finally dismisses Merlin in no uncertain terms, tells Benedict he’ll have a servant—his own servant—to see to anything he may need, assures him he’s looking forward to meeting for supper at sundown, and gets the bloody hell out of there.
He finds Merlin lurking outside his chambers the next corridor down, and feels strangely annoyed to see him. Merlin waits for him because he works for him, of course, but the annoying bit is that part of Arthur wishes Merlin was there just—waiting for him.
He looks up as Arthur approaches, says immediately upon seeing him, “I didn’t do anything!” The earnest proclamation surprises a laugh out of Arthur.
“I didn’t say you did,” he says as Merlin pushes the door shut behind them. He heaves a sigh, relieved to be alone in his own room, none of the pretense which has thus far coloured the day remaining.
“Benedict has always been a flirt,” he continues, rubbing his shoulder. It’s true—his mind easily conjures images of a young Benedict handing out flowers to girls they passed in town; cornering the stablehands in the barn until they broke down laughing at something he said. He has a knack for charming everyone around him.
Merlin darts about snatching up loose articles of clothing. “Though it’s quite hard to understand why he’s targeted you,” Arthur muses.
Merlin gives him an unimpressed look, purses his lips in a way that suggests Arthur’s wrong and he knows it and Merlin knows he knows it. He abandons his laundry mission in favor of crossing his arms and leaning against the ledge of the windowsill. He says nothing, gazing at Arthur, face inscrutable but annoying all the less.
Arthur clears his throat. “Draw me a bath before the council meets, would you? And I want the red shirt with the collar for tonight.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Merlin intones with a small smirk, looking like he’s won something.
3
Benedict wears a shimmering material to his welcome banquet, which fascinates Arthur, though he’d never admit it. He makes a surprisingly heartfelt toast, and Arthur does, too, and for the rest of the night he feels warm and content to be eating good food and drinking good mead with his family and friends surrounding him.
They have a fire breather from Mercia, a knife thrower covered in tattoos, a quite talented singer accompanied by a small stringed instrument. They drink wine, then mead, then Arthur hears Benedict say something to Merlin about moonshine, and from there on out he’s quite fuzzy with drink, laughing and lounging and shouting across the room.
When his cup goes empty and stays that way for several minutes, he squints over to see Benedict half-risen from his chair, leaning into Merlin, who stands at his shoulder, to speak into his ear.
”Merlin,” Arthur snaps.
Merlin ducks over, bows his head to say to Arthur, “Think you’ve had enough for now, yeah?” and Arthur makes a disgruntled sound but leaves it, because Merlin is right, as he sometimes ends up being, and maybe he has had enough, for now.
He enjoys the man swallowing a sword for a bit, then jests in disagreement with Percival over the details of a game of dice lost long ago. Then he notices Benedict is gone from his chair, and wonders if he’s gotten up to dance with someone or another, except he’s actually back by the wall behind Arthur, next to the servants’ door to the kitchens, with Merlin tucked in front of him. He watches his cousin touch Merlin’s wrist as he talks, and hears himself say “Oi,” softly, and feels very drunk.
Merlin flicks a look over his shoulder, and he doesn’t look disturbed, looks amused if anything. He catches Arthur’s eye and says a word to Benedict, then strides over in several long steps.
“My lord?” he says loudly over the lively music.
Arthur stares at him, becomes paranoid that he may be frowning, makes an effort to change his face. Merlin laughs, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You look right gone, Arthur.”
Merlin waits as he bids everyone goodnight, waits as he claps Benedict a hug and cuffs Gwaine round the head for a cheeky comment, then he walks close to Arthur all the way to his chambers, slowly, matching Arthur’s lumbering pace.
Arthur ends up in his bed one way or another, and lies sprawled watching Merlin gather his boots, straighten the drapes. But just as he’s close to sleep, Merlin moves quietly to the door, and Arthur props himself up, slurs, “Where’re you going?”
Merlin swivels his head, raises his eyebrows. “To bed? It’s early in the morning, Arthur.”
Arthur hums, yawns. He remembers a time a year or so ago, when he and Merlin ended up having to spend the night in the woods after a particularly taxing hunt a day’s ride east of the castle. They’d nestled shoulder to shoulder in the crunchy leaves under the cover of a large old tree stump. Arthur had woken slowly and foggily the next morning when it was barely light out, nuzzling his head into what he thought was the warmth of his pillow, but then he’d remembered he was not, in fact, in his bed, and opened his eyes to realize his head was pillowed against Merlin’s chest, nosing into the crease of his armpit. Merlin’s eyes were close above him, wide and very blue in the clear air of the morning. Arthur had jerked back, chastised Merlin for not waking him, rolled over and onto his feet, the moment forgotten.
The memory comes to his tired mind unbidden. He thinks how if he were to wake to Merlin curled up against him like that, like some pathetic kitten, he’d shove him off with a scolding yelp. But Merlin had been still and awake under him, had let Arthur stay.
He yawns again, and passes out.
4
The next day, they rise late in the morning for a ride. Arthur takes Llamrei, asks Benedict if he hunts, which he does, of course, but not as much in recent years, and he’d be happy just to ride out to the fields, he says. So they do, fast at first then slower so they can talk, remembering a time when Uther attempted a well-intentioned but poorly executed picnic for them for Benedict’s tenth year, just around this very spot. Merlin clops along behind them on Hengroen, who Arthur let him take because the tetchy stallion likes him better than he likes Arthur, anyway.
They dismount in a knoll rolling up beyond the lower town, let the horses graze as they stretch out in a sunny patch of grass. Arthur gets distracted by an odd set of animal prints, follows along the trail for a bit before becoming disinterested and wandering back. Benedict is laughing at something Merlin said, brimming his hand over his brow to look up past the sun at him.
“Stop making a fool of yourself, Merlin,” Arthur snipes, collapsing down to lie beside his cousin.
Merlin scoffs. “Really, Arthur,” Benedict chides, “I’m sure you can see I’m enjoying his company.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Go rein the horses, will you?”
But, Benedict, again: “Those horses are well happy as they are. Will you not allow your servant a brief moment of repose?” He props up on his elbows, picking up a voice as he goes on, Merlin sniggering behind him, “Is this the Camelot they sing of—just, true of heart, a place for one and all? Are you not the infamous King Arthur? Who speaks of these values, though does he act in accordance with them, I myself have yet to witness—”
“Alright, alright!” laughs Arthur, shoving him. “Good god, you don’t shut up when you get going, do you? I see what you and Merlin have got in common after all.”
Merlin doesn’t sit, drifts back over to the horses after all, with Benedict calling after him. Arthur settles, tipping his chin into the breeze.
“Quite clever, isn’t he?” Benedict muses.
“I suppose.” Arthur frowns. “What unfavorable tales has he been feeding you about me, then?”
Benedict laughs. “I ribbed him all last night, couldn’t get a single bad word out of him. That man worships you, Arthur.”
Arthur blinks, surprised. Merlin thrives on making fun of Arthur.
“Really—there’s something about him,” Benedict continues. He pauses. “Enigmatic. Well, and easy on the eyes.”
“Yes, I’ve got that bit already.”
Benedict turns to gaze curiously at him. “Does it bother you? I didn’t think it was.”
“Does what bother me?”
He gives Arthur a shrewd look. “Don’t be dull.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” says Arthur, because what else can he say—what else would he say? It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.
5
Except it bothers him on the ride back, and it bothers him once again through supper, and then Benedict loudly insists he see where the common people drink, stirring up cries of agreement from the knights, and that’s how Arthur finds himself at the Rising Sun for the first time in what must be at least three years—the first time since becoming king, certainly.
Arthur buys a round for every patron of the tavern, as is his custom, which sets a cheerful mood throughout the place. Leon shows up with Percival, then Elyan with Gwen and Lancelot, and then Gwaine appears with Merlin in tow, and Arthur is back once more to that feeling happy and drinking good mead bit. It’s not a luxury he gets to enjoy as often as he used to, and it doesn’t get old, this feeling—this loosening, this merrymaking.
Benedict turns out to be very bad at poker, but deceivingly good at rummy. Merlin wins a clean streak of dice like he always does, the lucky rat. Someone forces some fruit into his hands, and he’s pressured into juggling for the crowd, four then five, two oranges and a plum and a pear and a yellow apple. Merlin laughs, face flushed, as the tavern cheers, flicks his wrists effortlessly to catch behind his back and under his leg and every which way you can think of, and Arthur whoops along with them, delights at the shocked look on Benedict’s face.
“I’m telling you, this one’s a catch,” Benedict cracks to Guinevere, and this time, Arthur makes a point to drown him out, to move his attention elsewhere, because here, in the glowing torchlight surrounded by his friends, he doesn’t mean to find a reason to feel bothered.
6
If he dreams of Merlin that night, a shadow stroked across the bartop, with a dark faceless figure draped alongside him, licking whispers into his ear, dribbling alcohol into his open mouth, onto his tongue, down his throat—
—well, then that’s got nothing to do with anything at all.
7
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Arthur doesn’t sleep all that well that night.
He doesn’t have time to reflect on it, with a council meeting first thing in the morning. Then he’s promised to train with Benedict, who will be leaving the next day, and who seemingly does not suffer from the effects of a morning after drinking far too much alcohol. He doesn’t wish to interrupt Arthur’s normal training schedule, he says, but he’d love to join, see his knights in action, and wouldn’t mind sparring with Arthur a bit himself, perhaps—the good old days, and all that.
Arthur stretches at the edge of the training fields while his men mingle. He’s dressed for a lighter practice in just a shirt and trousers, so it’s easy to pull his heels back to stretch his calves, rotate his arms in wide circles. His shoulder catches and starts to throb, a chronic pain that’s plagued him since he was once clipped by an arrow there.
“Ah—Merlin, could you—”
Merlin sets down the sword he’s polishing and steps over to rub Arthur’s shoulder, the curve where it meets his neck. “Always acts up when you roll it out like that,” he scolds. He’s right, but he’s also able to do this thing where he presses just so and the pain disappears, just like that, which is exactly what he does now.
“That’s why I keep you around,” Arthur reminds him, shaking his arm out. He feels Merlin’s eyes on him as he folds over to touch his toes. “What?”
“I always forget you’re so flexible.” Arthur straightens and cracks his neck loudly, because he knows Merlin hates it, and sure enough, Merlin recoils. “Gross.”
He snorts, motions for his sword, and bounds over to where Benedict is laughing with Elyan and Leon. They decide to keep it simple, just sparring and blocking, light on offense. Arthur toys with Gwaine for awhile, then Percival—both are skilled, but the former too sloppy, and the latter too predictable. He fights with one arm behind his back for awhile, just to show off a bit. Then he parries with Benedict, and is pleasantly surprised by how much of a challenge he proves to be. He’s light on his feet and hard to read, and although Arthur bests him eventually, he’s sweating by the time he does.
He pants as he hands his shield back off to Merlin, who says, “Well done—your footwork has really improved, you know.”
“Thought he had me there for a minute,” says Arthur, rolling his neck.
Merlin shakes his head. “He never stood a chance.”
Arthur swallows a small smile. “Benedict is an exceptional swordsman, Merlin.”
“He’s no you,” Merlin replies simply.
Arthur clasps his hands behind his head, stretches his arms up. Merlin is content to watch him, looking happy under the late morning sun. “Why d’you look at me like that?”
Merlin shrugs, still smiling, and gathers Arthur’s equipment. “Just take a compliment, will you?”
Benedict comes over and says something about failing to impress Merlin, something about earning his favor the next time, but Merlin just laughs as he would at Gwaine, and the exchange as a whole doesn’t bother Arthur so much in this moment.
8
They hold one last feast that night in Benedict’s honor. Arthur keeps Merlin in his chambers for longer than he needs to, after, when there’s really nothing more he needs from him, but Merlin doesn’t seem to mind. He makes himself comfortable at the table, though he dismisses Arthur’s offer of wine. Arthur pouts up at him through his fringe, and Merlin laughs.
“You look like a boy,” he says, soft smile playing on his lips.
Arthur scoffs. “You didn’t even know me when I was a boy.”
“I just meant young,” says Merlin, eyes considering. “Like you used to. Like the prince.”
“I’m just me,” he says, not sure what he means by it.
“You didn’t used to worry so much.”
“Yes, Merlin, I would say being king comes with a unique set of stressors.”
“You’re doing well, you know.”
“Then what are you going on about?” he snaps halfheartedly.
Merlin laughs, unbothered. “Your hair was so long—it’d curl around your ears, at your nape. Remember?” Arthur doesn’t reply, and Merlin goes on, “And this ring—never wore it before, but you don’t take it off now.”
He taps a nail on the thick band of steel around Arthur’s index finger, and Arthur frowns, not knowing what to do with the things Merlin is saying to him. Merlin does this sometimes, catches him off guard with his earnestness. He holds some sort of conviction regarding Arthur that Arthur is unable to make neither heads nor tails of, though he’s aware of its existence.
“Anyway,” says Merlin; he gets up to fiddle with the bedding, leaving Arthur unmoored. “It’s nice to see you happy. You’ve been especially irascible this week.”
Arthur watches him light the candles by his bed. “It’s been great to have Benedict here, but exhausting. Family, you know?”
Merlin gives a half shrug. “Not really. No siblings or cousins or anyone to speak of besides my mum.” He starts suddenly, as if remembering something, and turns to Arthur as his face brightens. “Oh! I’ve got something for you.” He reaches into his pocket, comes out with a large handful of peanuts.
“Where did you get those?” Arthur laughs, delighted. “No one sells them this time of year.”
Merlin grins, looking stupidly pleased. “Got some tricks up my sleeve, haven’t I?”
Arthur cups his hand under Merlin’s to accept them, squeezes his shoulder in thanks. He kicks back in his chair, tosses a few in his mouth. Merlin leaves the bedclothes to sit again. “How d’you even know these are my favorite?” He frowns. “What’s your favorite food, anyway?”
Merlin’s face goes dreamy. “Butternut squash soup. Gaius makes a good one, I’m a sucker for it.”
“Huh.” Arthur spits the shells onto a plate, considering this.
“Benedict leaves tomorrow, then?” asks Merlin.
Arthur huffs. “Don’t you mean Ben?” he says, making a stupid voice. “I suppose you’ll miss him, won’t you? Your handsome suitor?”
Merlin just laughs, gives him nothing. “He really is a good man. Hard to see the relation to you. Not at all entitled, or arrogant—not even blond—!”
“Yes, yes,” Arthur relents, crunching more peanuts. He spares a glance at the window as the wind creaks it open; Merlin gets up to close it, moves to start a fire. He arranges the logs masterfully, catches the kindling on the first try. Then he turns, the flames casting him in an orange glow, and Arthur is reminded of his dream—Merlin laughing, drunk, someone’s hands on him—and he doesn’t mean to say it, but it comes out: “Do you mean to entertain his—desires?”
Merlin doesn’t answer right away. Arthur wonders whether he’s crossed a line, then wonders whether Merlin caught his meaning at all, but then Merlin gives him a look as though he’s humouring him. He says in a rather serious tone, “I have no eyes for that man, Arthur.”
“Ah,” says Arthur quietly, and changes the subject, though of course Merlin’s response begs the question: who does he have eyes for?
9
He sleeps better than night, no dreams to speak of, and wakes early, when the air is still and quiet. It’s a crisp day, sky white with the promise of rain.
Benedict’s departure turns out to be rather uneventful. Arthur sees him off at the castle steps, makes him promise to return to Camelot soon. Then he climbs to the battlements to watch him leave. Merlin is there already, and they stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out until the party disappears through the gates.
10
After the string of feasts and festivities, he’d been looking forward to eating alone in his room that night, but when Merlin slips into his chambers with supper, he doesn’t find himself very hungry. Something is playing on the edge of his mind, a thought that remains just out of reach. He feels edgy.
Merlin sets his platter down, comments on the rain that never came. His hair is damp, so dark it looks almost blue, as if he’d washed up just before fetching Arthur’s food. He moves to the wardrobe to hang clothing, making conversation with himself all the while.
Arthur is quiet, watching him. Irascible, Merlin had said—he loves to use big words that Arthur can only deduce the meaning of through context. So he has been: crabby, surly, a touch more irritable than normal.
It almost feels like—well.
Arthur is familiar with jealousy, as is any man. Yes, he is a king, and before that he was a prince; has always been given anything he might dream of wanting, sometimes before he can even think to want it.
But just like any other man, there are things he doesn’t have. Things he doesn’t dare let himself dream of wanting.
Arthur rises slowly, moves to stand behind Merlin. “I’ve been thinking,” he says suddenly, interrupting Merlin’s mindless prattle.
“Not too hard, I hope,” Merlin quips. He smoothes a shirt out on its hanger.
Arthur smiles, ignoring the nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “No, not too hard,” he says quietly.
He steps forward until the toes of his boots bump the back of Merlin’s. Merlin stills, turns his head so Arthur can see his profile. He looks so tall close in front of him like this. Arthur hesitates, lined up behind him, then presses forward slowly, so slowly, until his chest touches Merlin’s back. He waits a moment, but Merlin doesn’t move, just stands frozen with a pair of Arthur’s breeches in his hands. Before he can talk himself out of it, he hovers his hands, settles them lightly on Merlin’s hips.
Merlin ducks his head, pulls in a sharp breath. Arthur thinks to move, wonders if he’s made a huge mistake—perhaps he can play it off as a joke. But then Merlin drops the clothes he’s holding, relaxes against Arthur. He covers Arthur’s hands with his own, holding him in place. Arthur’s mind blinks and stutters, and he doesn’t know what he meant to do next, doesn’t do anything besides stand there, breathing in the clean scent of Merlin’s soap, feeling the heat of their bodies together.
Merlin threads their fingers, tilts his head back into Arthur’s neck, where he breathes for a moment. Then he looks up, dark eyes searching, and kisses him, mouth hot and searing like a brand.
Arthur reaches a hand to his cheek, pulling him closer, trying to get the angle better, until Merlin turns in his arms, kissing him slow and deep. He walks Arthur backward, and Arthur makes a muffled sound of surprise as the back of his legs hit a chair. Merlin swallows the sound, urges Arthur down gently into the chair, and tucks himself into his lap, folding his knees on either side, looming over him, holding his face, kissing him, kissing him all the while. It takes Arthur a moment to register he’s got Merlin straddled on his lap. He dips his hands under the man’s jacket, spreading them wide over his waist, sees that Merlin’s breeches are tented, then Merlin is nudging his mouth open again, unabashed, carding his fingers through his hair.
“I thought you were jealous of me, stealing your cousin’s attention,” says Merlin, voice deep, when he pulls back for a breath.
“So did I,” Arthur admits, and captures his mouth again. Merlin is pliant in his hands as their kisses grow urgent, rocking into him steadily, humming at every touch. Arthur grips him tight, heady with it, urging them faster, sloppier.
Merlin pulls off gently, smooths a palm to Arthur’s chest where the laces of his shirt are open. “Easy, darling,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m not your darling,” Arthur objects feebly, nudging at his nose, trying to get back at his mouth.
“You are,” Merlin protests, “of course you are.” He rolls his hips down to meet Arthur’s, startling a gasp out of him. He’s hard, has been ever since Merlin came in with his hair wet like that. “My Arthur.” He presses wet kisses to Arthur’s jaw, his neck, speaks low into his ear. “My king.”
Arthur groans, slides his hands to cup Merlin’s arse, and Merlin obliges, crawling in closer, grinding down. Their erections rub through the fabric, Merlin laughing softly as an absolutely feral sound escapes Arthur’s mouth. He peels Arthur’s shirt off easily, plays his fingers through the wiry hair on his chest, and Arthur moves his hands under Merlin’s shirt, eager for more, more, marveling at the feel of Merlin’s back against his fingers, skin warm, muscles undulating.
Merlin rocks down again, tips his head back and makes a small ah sound at the friction, and Arthur clutches him, hips twitching up. He mouths at Merlin’s neck, licking a stripe down his collarbone, and Merlin moans softly. “God, Arthur. You really like this, don’t you?” He frames his face with his hands, sucks Arthur’s lower lip into his mouth as he rocks, each drag of their cocks against each other pulling a guttural noise from deep within Arthur. Their mouths are slick and messy, and Merlin smears his lips against Arthur’s cheek. “Would you like to move to the bed?” he says, voice husky.
Arthur shakes his head, humps up, panting. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want this to stop for even a second, and Merlin understands, drags his nails lightly on Arthur’s chest as he bears down. “No? You want me to ride you here, like this?”
Arthur shudders, then Merlin is moving faster against him, hitching quickly. The pressure is too much, almost painful, but it feels so good, his cock throbbing, and Merlin is on him, all over him, saying obscene things and kissing him and writhing like this is the only place in the world he wants to be.
He curses, grinds his forehead against Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin’s lips touch his ear, and he breathes, “Will you come like this for me, Arthur?” and Arthur whines, a hoarse “Merlin” all he’s able to bite out before he’s coming, snapping his hips up.
Merlin rides him through it, stroking his face and pulling at his hair and babbling endearments that would make Arthur blush if he weren’t otherwise occupied, then Arthur hears Merlin’s breath catch, feels him jerk, and then he’s twitching atop him, moaning long and low as he comes, until it’s impossible to tell where the wetness on Arthur’s trousers ends and Merlin’s begins.
“Dear god,” Arthur pants, reeling. “Christ, Merlin. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Merlin groans as the last waves passes through him. He slumps in Arthur’s arms, thunking his head onto his shoulder. His voice comes out throaty a moment later. “Just you, my lord.”
Arthur shivers, feels his cheeks grow hot. He can’t help but tease—“Your darling, am I?”
Merlin pulls back to look at him, eyes soft, and Arthur suddenly feels bad for trying to embarrass him, though Merlin doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. He looks languid and assured, which Arthur decides he likes, because isn’t that just Merlin anyway? Brazen; shameless.
“Perhaps,” Merlin says slowly, “you’ll stop being such a grump now.” He pauses, lets the proposal sink in. “How’s that for an idea?”
Arthur snorts, rubbing his thumbs in circles atop Merlin’s thighs. “Now that my cousin isn’t here to harass you, you mean?”
“Yes,” Merlin whispers, and kisses him deep. “I’m all yours, aren’t I? No need to be a spoilt brat.”
A warm feeling unfurls in Arthur’s belly. “I am your king,” he says matter-of-factly, because he just wants to hear him say it once more.
And he does—“My Arthur,” Merlin sighs into his skin, and Arthur smiles, and kisses him back.