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"What's that?"
Arthur snatches the handwritten card from Merlin’s hand.
"Lord Farstorm’s gift to me."
"A bottle of wine?"
"Yes."
"A singular bottle of wine?"
Arthur exhales, exasperated. "The kingdom of Nemeth is renowned for its vinous pedigree. Legend has it that an ancestral vine bears grapes with mesmerizing properties once every decade. This bottle, Merlin, is extraordinarily rare."
Merlin eyes the bottle with newfound curiosity, reaching for the label—only to have his hand swatted away.
"So don't. Touch it." Arthur’s warning is laced with authority.
Merlin rolls his eyes. "If I can’t touch it, how am I supposed to serve it with your dinner, sire?"
"You're not."
"I'm not?"
"You're the clumsiest person in all five kingdoms."
Merlin gasps, indignant. "I am not—" He whirls around, knocking over a chair, which crashes into a metal bucket filled with murky water in a resounding CLANG! The contents slosh onto the floor, soaking the carpet—and their feet.
Merlin clenches his jaw, hating himself, and refusing to look at Arthur. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the king’s smug satisfaction radiating off him.
"I'll…" He trails off, mortified.
"Clean that?"
"Right."
As Merlin kneels to mop up the mess, Arthur has the audacity to snort before heading to the changing station. The second his back is turned, Merlin makes funny faces at him.
"I can see you in the window’s reflection, Merlin."
The servant scoffs, throwing hands in the air.
Later that night, out of sheer spite, he seizes his chance—while Arthur is distracted, he sneaks a sip of the so-called 'precious' forbidden wine. Then another. And by the time Arthur is nearly done eating, Merlin has managed to down half a cup without him noticing. The wine does taste different from anything he’s ever had before—sweeter, richer, heavier on his tongue, complex in a way he can’t quite place.
Arthur sighs as he finishes the last bite of his meal. "This day was endless." He exhales, which is unlike him, then adds, "I’m glad it’s over. And that you're here with me."
Merlin frowns from where he is standing. He must have misheard.
"Come again?"
Arthur looks up. "I said I’m glad."
"That…?"
"You’re here with me."
Arthur blinks at him, his own round blue eyes betraying his surprise—like he hadn't meant to say it any more than Merlin expected to hear it.
"You are?" Merlin insists.
"Yes. Those quiet moments with you are always the highlight of my day."
Merlin’s head buzzes, face burning. Something is definitely not right.
Arthur suddenly coughs, pushing back from the table. "Sorry—I don’t know why I said that. Must be the wine. I should probably go to bed."
"This early?"
"Yes. You’re dismissed."
Merlin hesitates, eyes tracing the broad shoulders wrapped in Arthur’s favorite red shirt, the golden locks catching the candlelight, the elegant slope of his aquiline nose, before dying on the soft, slightly pink skin of his cheekbones.
"What are you waiting for?" Arthur grunts, startling Merlin so badly his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.
"N-nothing. I was just admiring you."
Oh gods. Did he just—?
Panic floods his veins. He scrambles into action, darting around the room as if movement alone can erase what he just said. "Oh dear, would you look at the time?" he practically shouts, snatching the empty tray off the table. "It is still very early, but I was dismissed, so I am just going to—"
"Merlin? What was that?"
"I honestly don’t know, but I will see you tomorrow morning, sire!"
"I hope so."
"OKAY. Goodnight!" Merlin blurts out, then all but throws himself out the door.
He barely makes it into the hallway before the weight of the moment crashes down on him, thoughts racing faster than he can keep up. Arthur’s words replay in his head, clear yet bewildering—Those quiet moments with you are always the highlight of my day. What did that mean? Was it true?
And gods, what about his own slip-up? The words that had just fallen out of his mouth?
He stops mid-stride, pressing his back against the cool stone wall, one hand running through his hair while the other grips the tray like a lifeline. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe Arthur didn’t mean it the way Merlin thought. Maybe he was just tired. They both were.
A bitter chuckle escapes him. Of course. That’s all it was.
Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.
*
"Morning, Merlin," Gaius greets as the sorcerer descends the stairs the next morning.
"Morning," Merlin answers back.
"Sleep well?" The old man asks distractedly, still absorbed in his book at the table. Merlin joins him and helps himself to some porridge.
Merlin wants to say ‘Good, and you?’ as usual but hears himself say instead: "Not really. The bed isn’t comfortable enough for that."
Gaius hooks an eyebrow, and the sorcerer stares blankly at him.
"Sorry, what I meant was" — 'Good, and you?' — "I never sleep well when I’m here."
Merlin shovels porridge into his mouth, trying to stop himself from saying anything else.
"Are you drunk?" Gaius asks, eyeing him closely.
"G-No," Merlin’s answer is muffled by the porridge.
"Ill? Feverish?"
Merlin shakes his head 'no', swallowing down his mouthful. Though still wary, Gaius seems to relax enough to go back to reading his book in silence. It's only when Merlin's almost done with his breakfast that the old man speaks again:
"Can you clean the leech jar today?"
"No," — 'I have some chores Arthur wants me to do and my schedule is full, sorry' — "I really don't want to."
Merlin stands up at once, panic creeping in, as Gaius scolds him, his tone stern:
"Merlin!"
"I’m off," — 'big day ahead of me!' — "this is awkward, and I don’t want to stay here, sorry."
"Where are you off to?"
"Tending to the king," that's it, that's the end of the sentence, please stop talking, Merlin, "but really, anywhere else but here!"
Embarrassed beyond repair, Merlin grabs his jacket while mentally slapping himself. He hurries down the hallway toward the kitchen, feeling more and more confused.
What’s wrong with me? Last night, with Arthur—and now Gaius? What’s with this strange... impulse?
Okay, Merlin. Shake it off. Shake it off.
"The king's breakfast." The cook shoves a tray filled with eggs, bread, jam, and fruits into Merlin’s arms. "Get on with it."
"Hello to you too, you sour-faced goat," Merlin mutters under his breath. "If your cooking is as pleasant as your personality, the king’s in for a treat."
"What did you just say?" The cook turns around, her face red, eyes narrowing with challenge on top of sweaty cheeks.
"I said" — ‘nothing!’ Merlin yearns to say but finds the words tumbling out against his will, horrified: "Hello to you too, you sour-faced goat. If your cooking is as pleasant as your personality, the king’s in for a treat."
Before she can grab one of the big ladles hanging from the ceiling, Merlin ducks out of the kitchen, his footsteps quickening in the hallway. Oh gods, what’s happening? That's not good. Not good at all. It seems like, somehow, he feels... compelled to tell the truth. Once is an occurrence. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is suspicious. But four times?
He halts in front of Arthur's door. What if...? He shakes his head, trying to clear the clutter in his mind. Whatever it is, he’s got to keep it together and focus. He can do this.
Merlin enters the king’s chambers, sets the breakfast on the table, and yanks the heavy drapes open in a loud swoosh. He hears Arthur’s usual growl behind him, turning Merlin's lips into a half-smirk.
"Rise and shine!"
Another sound of protest is muffled into expensive pillows. When Merlin finally turns to face the king’s slumbering form, his breath catches at the sight of strong sun-kissed back muscles tangled with white cotton sheets. Suppressing a shiver, Merlin approaches the bed and leans closer, fingers itching to card through the mess of Arthur's honey-colored hair. He manages to shake the king’s shoulder instead.
"Arthur."
"Mmh..."
Merlin shakes him harder, trying to ignore the warmth spreading under his palm as it comes into contact with Arthur’s skin.
"Arthur, come on."
"No."
"No?"
"Don’wannnawake up..."
"You don’t wan—UGH! Come on, you big turnip, you have to!"
Merlin gives a frustrated grunt, shifting Arthur onto his side and attempting to drag him toward the edge of the bed. But Arthur’s body is stiff as stone, heavier than Merlin’s used to, deliberately resisting.
"You're such a baby!" Merlin huffs in frustration as Arthur manages to wriggle free and pull the covers back over himself. "You have kingly duties all morning and afternoon, do you really want to be late?"
"Fivemoreminutes..."
"Oh, that's it."
He rolls up both sleeves and dives in, launching an attack on the king’s armpits with violent tickles. For a few seconds, Arthur is unresponsive, but soon enough, he starts wriggling like a worm trying to escape. Not good enough. Merlin hops on the bed and straddles the king’s lap, now aiming for his flanks. Arthur bursts out into nervous giggles, laughter spilling out like rays of sunshine breaking through the morning clouds. Merlin can’t help but snort.
"Cut it out!" Arthur protests, his words barely discernible between laughs.
"Are you up yet?"
Arthur spins beneath him, trying to grab Merlin's hands, but the servant is too quick and won’t go down without a fight.
"Are you?" Merlin insists, determined.
In a flash, Arthur grabs Merlin’s hips, flipping him off and pinning him to the mattress. Merlin’s breath catches as the king's (wonderful) weight presses down on him, trapping him in place, and before he can tickle him again, Arthur takes both of his wrists and immobilizes them near his ears for good measure.
His king is on top of him. Gods, Arthur's on top of me.
Merlin's gaze roams over Arthur's heaving chest, his tensed-up biceps, the space between his shoulder and neck where he is dying to sink his teeth in, the pulse point he could trace with his tongue up to the strong jawline and perfect chin. That's when he meets hooded blue irises under wild blond locks. The servant's stare keeps on flickering between the king’s eyes and his full, pink lips, drawn into a pout. He feels an inexplicable pull, a dangerous urge to— Shit. This is a very dangerous line of thoughts, especially when the king is sitting... there. Merlin surges forward, trying to escape, but Arthur’s grip is ironclad, and he limps back down, frustrated and rolling his eyes.
"I’m letting you win," he argues through clenched teeth because he is, even though magic is never an option.
Arthur snickers, tightening his hold. "Is that so?"
"You're very strong, though."
The king flashes a crooked, beautiful grin, making Merlin's insides flutter even he didn't mean to say it. Cursing himself, he quickly adds: "And an arrogant arse."
Arthur blows on his face as retaliation.
"And a lazy daisy," Merlin piles on.
"Merlin," Arthur warns.
"And a royal slob. Have you looked around this place? I’ve only been gone twelve hours."
"All right, your turn."
Before he can wonder for what, Arthur is tickling all over his body, eliciting screams of laughter bubbling up from his chest. Any attempt to stop him is in vain. Arthur is relentless, his fingers darting with expert precision to every ticklish spot Merlin didn’t even know he had.
"Yield!" Arthur demands as Merlin writhes beneath him, gasping for air between uncontrollable cackles.
"N-Never!" Merlin chokes out, trying to twist away, but Arthur only doubles his efforts.
Tears of mirth prick at Merlin’s eyes as he flails, but Arthur is both fast and strong, still pinning him effortlessly.
"'Letting me win', huh?" Arthur teases.
"Fine! Fine! Mercy!" Merlin finally pleads, breathless, and Arthur finally relents.
Catching his breath, Merlin both loves and hates the smug glint in the king's eyes. Arthur smells of salty sweat and fresh, tousled sheets—overpowering, intoxicating. The air between them feels charged, yet somehow fragile and delicate, and Merlin doesn’t dare break the moment. He surrenders to the silence, staring into Arthur’s ocean eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. There's undeniable thick tension between them, something he cannot explain, something coiling in Merlin's gut, threatening to snap if indulged. Something that seems to bring their faces agonizingly slowly closer. Merlin's brain melts away, erasing all thoughts, when he feels Arthur's warm palm sliding up his forearm against the bed and pressing down on his own hand to intertwine their fingers as if they always belonged there. Merlin's other hand rises, of its own volition, to rest on Arthur’s collarbone, his thumb tracing the skin there, kneading it lightly.
He never wants this moment to end.
"Gods, you're beautiful," Arthur sighs.
Merlin's cheeks flush, his heart racing as he watches Arthur’s eyes widen fivefold, his face going from shock to flustered panic in an instant. He jolts away from him and the bed.
"I mean, you’re beautiful! I mean—sorry, you’re beautiful! No, I mean, you’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on!" Arthur stammers, fumbling over his words, his hands flying to his mouth as if trying to keep them in.
Merlin props himself up on his forearms, blinking in confusion.
"Arthur, is everything all right?"
"No," Arthur mumbles through his hands, growing more alarmed by the second.
Merlin blinks at him as a realization dawns on him. Could it be?
"Harvest festival, two years ago," the warlock challenges, "were you the one who puked all over the knights’ belongings behind the windmill?"
He can hear Arthur's answers in his mind, unchanged ever since he first asked: 'Don't be daft, Merlin!', 'Of course not, Merlin!' or 'If you ever so much as insinuate this again, I'll throw you to the stocks for a week, Merlin!'. The servant had spent the rest of the festival cleaning up the mess, missing out on all the fun. Arthur always looked shifty anytime Merlin brought it up.
"Yes, it was me," Arthur answers begrudgingly, mortified.
Merlin springs to his feet, strides forward, and jabs a finger at Arthur. "I knew it!"
"Wait," Arthur pauses, brows furrowing, "you know what's happening to me."
'No, I don’t' — "Yes, I do."
Arthur’s catching on, and Merlin can feel the panic rising. This is bad. Very bad.
"What is it, then?"
'No clue!' — "You can't help but tell the truth."
Maybe if Merlin bites hard enough, he can get rid of his tongue and prevent the worst from happening.
"How do you know?" Arthur steps closer, his eyes narrowing, studying him, making Merlin instinctively back up.
"B-Because..."
Don’t say it.
"Because i-it..."
Don’t say it!
"...It’s happening to me too!"
Arthur’s face splits into a mischievous grin. Merlin knows exactly what’s he's going to ask next.
"LALALALALALALALALALALA!" Merlin screams, clamping his hands over his ears as he paces frantically around the room.
Arthur chases after him. "MER—"
"LALALALALALALALALALALA!" Merlin continues, his arms flailing wildly.
Arthur finally grabs hold of him, pushing his arms aside. "MERLIN, CALM DOWN! OKAY, I WON’T ASK ABOUT THE GOAT!"
Merlin freezes, hesitant, but then sighs. He will take what he can get.
"Promise?" he asks, his voice a little more hopeful than he intended.
"I swear."
A few seconds pass while Merlin is examining his shoes timidly.
"You mean it?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow, his voice dry. "I’m not exactly in a position to not mean it right now, Merlin."
Merlin grimaces. "Right."
"Idiot," Arthur scoffs.
This causes Merlin to slap his bicep with a "Hey!" of protest.
"Ow! What?"
"Well, now I know you mean it!" Merlin huffs, scandalized.
"So what? You threw three insults at me before I tickled you earlier!"
"More like general truths..." Merlin mumbles, owning Arthur's knock on the back of his head this time.
"Focus, we need to sort this out. We feel the compulsion since last night, don't we?"
"Correct."
"What did we both take?"
Merlin pauses to think before chancing:
"I... stole a grape?"
Arthur shakes his head.
"The food was tested, none of the people reported to have the compulsion to tell the truth."
"Hm..."
Arthur leans forward, narrowing his eyes. "Merlin."
The servant remains silent, face flushing and avoiding Arthur’s gaze.
"Merlin, what did you do?"
Merlin tries to fight it. He really does. Because he still has his pride and he wants to hold onto it a while longer. But the compulsion unwinds his mouth and push the words out: "I... drank some of your wine."
"You—? Fucking hell."
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose while Merlin wants to disappear into the stone wall and not having his eyes keep on drifting to Arthur's very much still naked chest.
"You. Total. Buffoon. I specifically asked you to not touch the wine! Are you incapable of following simple orders or do you pride yourself to being an utterly incompetent and useless servant?"
'Prat.' — "The latter."
Arthur releases a humorless chuckle, as if to say 'Gods, you're fucking priceless.' Merlin worries his bottom lip between his teeth.
"So you think the wine acted as some sort of... truth potion?"
"Maybe..."
Merlin can't help but think back on Arthur's revelations, heart speeding up in his chest: 'Those quiet moments with you are always the highlight of my day', 'Gods, you're beautiful', 'You’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on'. His gaze drops, drawn once more to Arthur’s chest—the steady rise and fall of muscle beneath smooth skin. Every breath Arthur takes seems to deepen the heat pooling in Merlin’s core. He slips a finger between his throat and neckerchief in an attempt to loosen it. Is it suddenly hot in here?
“We should go to Gaius,” Merlin states, though the words feel distant, like a hollow suggestion he doesn’t truly intend to follow.
The air crackles with delectable tension again. The servant gulps. Every beat of his heart echoes the same unspoken truth: even though they absolutely should, heading to the court physician's quarters is the last thing Merlin wants to do right now. The world outside seems to blur, leaving only the space between them, shrinking with every passing second. His fingertips graze Arthur’s abs, tracing slow, swirling patterns that leave Merlin captivated by the goosebumps that rise under his touch. Arthur draws in a sharp breath.
“What are you doing?” Arthur’s voice is low and rough.
'Seducing you' — "Seducing you."
His gaze tracks the subtle bob of Arthur’s Adam’s apple before he leans in, his nose skimming the curve of his collarbone. The sound of the king’s soft sigh, so close to his ear, sends a shiver down his spine. Merlin bites his lip, desire sparking through him—wanting, no, needing to hear more sounds like this from Arthur. Heat radiates from the king's skin as Merlin trails a slow, deliberate path upward. He inhales deeply, drawing in the heady mix of soap, sweat, and musk—each note distinctly, overwhelmingly Arthur. The scent wraps around him, dizzying. Reaching Arthur's jaw, then ear, Merlin comes closer and whispers there:
"So I'm the most gorgeous man you've ever laid eyes on?"
There’s a beat—just long enough for Merlin to hear Arthur’s harsh, uneven breathing as he struggles against the inescapable truth. Merlin smirks. Slowly, he reaches for Arthur’s warm, dangling palm, guiding it to rest against his own chest as a gentle encouragement.
"Y-Yes," Arthur finally admits.
Merlin hums, the sound soft yet triumphant, filled with pride. Arthur’s admission is like a spark igniting something long buried, something Merlin had guarded fiercely for years. The pride in his hum isn’t just about being acknowledged as handsome; it’s about being seen—truly, vulnerably seen—by the one person he never thought would.
"Do you ever..." he pauses to slowly—very slowly—drag Arthur's hand down his chest, over his loud tumbling heart, his ribs, then his stomach through the fabric of his own tunic, almost hissing at the sensation, then continues: "think about me?"
"Merlin..." Arthur warns, but it’s weak. His fingers curl into the fabric, flexing as though torn between holding on and letting go.
"Because I do," Merlin interrupts, voice low, weighted with longing.
Arthur’s breath stutters, and a moan breaks free when Merlin leans in to capture his earlobe between his lips, nibbling on it before adding:
"Every. Night."
Arthur swears through clenched teeth, and Merlin can feel the stubble shift beneath his mouth he deliberately slides along the seam of his jaw. He feels the weight of the king's gaze on him as he levels his face to his, eyes closed, and presses their foreheads together. His skin tingles wherever it doesn't touch Arthur. His empty hand rises to the king's neck and caresses it in a featherlight touch, subtly urging Arthur's face closer. Merlin wets his lips in anticipation, threads his nails through the hair at Arthur's nape, and guides Arthur's hand to his own hip.
"Arthur, tell me to stop," Merlin murmurs.
Arthur's chest heaves as he shudders, his hand still resting on Merlin's hip, but now gripping tighter. The servant lifts his eyelids and sees Arthur's gaze flicker between Merlin's lips and his eyes, torn, as if he can’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
"Tell me to stop," Merlin repeats, his voice barely a breath, the question hanging between them like a thread on the verge of snapping. He feels the tremor in Arthur's fingers, the barely-contained tension in his frame.
Arthur’s pulse quickens against Merlin’s touch, but his lips part in silent defiance, the weight of the unspoken answer heavy in the air. He leans in, closing the already small space left between them, his breath mingling with Merlin's as their lips brush lightly, teasingly—just enough to make Merlin question his sanity.
"I don’t think I can," Arthur whispers, the words a confession, and before Merlin can process them, Arthur’s mouth presses down onto his.
The motions are first tentative, soft, simple brushes of Arthur's warm wonderful full lips against his own, summoning goosebumps all over his body, and stirring the building fire in the pit of his stomach, and it's just perfect. Merlin marvels in it, drowns in it, lets himself get pulled into the contact, gasping at Arthur's hand sliding from his shoulders to his jaw, bringing him closer.
Yes, yes, yes.
Merlin grabs more firmly Arthur's back, flushing their bodies together, and groaning when he feels the king's hardening length against his own. It makes him go mad, now pressing his lips more urgently against Arthur's, the kiss being the only sound echoing in the room along their hasty breathing. The skin between Arthur's shoulder blades is delectably hot beneath his palm. Merlin is so overwhelmed with happiness he could burst right there and then. But then he swipes his tongue against Arthur's bottom lip, eliciting a deep moan that reverberates through him, and Merlin is lost to the sensation of wanting, of Arthur—of them, finally, in this way. He does it again, and Arthur's lips part, letting Merlin's tongue dart between them, lapping in the warmth of his mouth, shuddering at the wetness of his tongue dancing with his in delightful agony.
Gods.
He could die—right here, right now—and do so in utter, overwhelming bliss.
Merlin fists a hand in Arthur’s ridiculously soft hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp, while placing a knee between his thighs to add more friction. The king breaks away with a loud, desperate moan, then immediately lowers his head, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin beneath Merlin’s ear. The sensation wrenches a breathless groan from him.
"You drive me fucking insane," Arthur grits out, rolling his hips more firmly against Merlin’s.
Merlin huffs a laugh, breathless. "You're one to talk, Arthur Constantly-Half-Naked Pendragon."
"I am not constantly half naked," Arthur argues between kisses, voice full of mock offense. "You’re just a big prude, always wearing too many layers." He tugs at Merlin’s neckerchief to lap at him there. "Case in point."
Merlin wastes no time untying the damn thing himself, tossing it aside to grant Arthur better access. He barely gets the chance to breathe before Arthur's teeth graze his exposed skin, and the moan that escapes him is downright depraved. Merlin clutches at Arthur’s waist, grounding himself as he grinds against him, chasing more of that intoxicating friction. And then—Gods—Arthur starts sucking on his neck, rendering Merlin’s mind entirely incoherent. His breath stutters, fingers tightening in Arthur’s hair as he rocks his hips in a desperate rhythm. Even through the barriers of their clothing, dragging his aching cock against Arthur’s thigh—Arthur’s—is the hottest thing Merlin has ever felt. Heat coils deep in his stomach, burning him up from the inside out. He can’t believe this is happening.
"Fuck, Arthur," he pants.
Arthur’s answering grin against his throat is pure sin. "Gladly."
Merlin's heart stutters—his cock somehow growing impossibly harder. Swearing under his breath, Merlin abruptly tugs on Arthur's hair to slot their mouths together again, wiggling out of his jacket which slumps on the floor in seconds with Arthur's help.
More.
The king's hands are slightly cold when they pull up Merlin's tunic to skim over his navel region. The servants grunts at the inconvenience of momentarily interrupting the kiss to get rid of the annoying garnement, but then when his tongue laps hotly against Arthur's again, their bare chests are pressed together and Merlin sighs at the warm skin-to-skin contact.
More.
Merlin halts their motion to unknot Arthur's breeches. He’s done this a thousand times, but undressing the king like this—hurriedly, eyes closed, with the promise of something utterly intimate—is new and thrilling. Too thrilling, apparently, because excitement gets in the way of actually doing it properly, and, suddenly, Arthur’s lacings are the most annoying thing in existence. Merlin frowns as Arthur chuckles against his lips, steadying his fumbling hands with soothing rolls of his thumbs onto his skin before undoing the knots himself.
“Clumsiest person in all five kingdoms,” Arthur mutters, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek.
The gesture is so tender and affectionate—so foreign in the midst of what was a heated, desperate pre-coital snogging session—that his heart swells inside his chest, almost painfully. And suddenly, he feels everything all at once. Every ounce of adoration, admiration, care, devotion—love he ever felt towards this man standing before him, smiling, looking at him with that same quiet fondness like he has been for years.
Merlin pours all of it into a slow, chaste press of his lips to Arthur’s, the kiss tender, almost hesitant. And when he pulls back to search Arthur’s face, he sees the flicker of surprise in his expression. Arthur could mock him for the stinging tears gathering in Merlin's eyes and blurring his vision—but he doesn’t. His teasing smile is gone, replaced by something quieter, something unreadable. The tension in the room has shifted, and Merlin bites his lower lip, worry creeping in. Because of course—of course—he’s managed to ruin the moment he’s been waiting for since the day he first met Arthur. But then, the king grabs Merlin's jaw and bring their foreheads together, breathing in deeply.
"Merlin..."
Merlin's entire body shudders. He swallows hard, unable to stop the words from spilling out:
"Arthur, I—"
"I know."
Oh.
This is it. This is the moment Arthur draws back, says this was a mistake, that they shouldn't, that they got carried away, that they should stop and never speak of it again. Merlin braces himself, waiting for the moment his heart shatters into a million pieces.
But it doesn't come.
Instead, Arthur's fingers find the lacings of Merlin’s breeches, undoing them with deliberate ease. Merlin's breath catches, mind reeling, left completely puzzled. Even more so when Arthur slowly kisses him, warm mouth moving against his, tongue swiping on his bottom lip and meeting wetly his own, caressing and hugging it in mindful motions before retrieving back to allow teeth to sink onto his lip, tugging slightly at it, making Merlin feel dizzy.
"I love you too, you idiot," Arthur whispers, his fingers slipping beneath Merlin’s smallclothes to encircle him, eliciting a gasp out of him.
Merlin pulls back, searching Arthur's dark blue eyes, desperate to find the truth in them. And he does—undeniable intent, hushed promises, and longing. To have his feelings mirrored, to be laid bare before each other like this—it’s almost too much. A sob threatens to rise in his throat, but he swallows it down, nodding for Arthur to continue before sealing their mouths together again.
Arthur’s grip moves, tentative at first, dragging along his length, and Merlin shudders, thoughts unraveling into pure sensation as a deep moan escapes him. His hands roam, finding the small of Arthur’s back, then skimming down to the seam of his breeches. He’s rewarded with the solid heat of Arthur’s still-hard cock beneath his palm. Arthur’s breath hitches.
Merlin doesn’t wait. He tugs the last of Arthur’s clothing down his strong thighs, stripping himself just as hastily, until nothing remains between them.
And then finally—finally—he presses their bodies from head to toe together, cocks flushed against one another in satisfied sigh.
Yes.
He gathers the precum beading at the tip, spreading it between them, the added wet friction making them both whimper in pleasure.
"Merlin..."
Merlin tightens his grip, stroking them together in slow, deliberate pulls, reveling in the slick heat and the way Arthur shudders against him. They groan in unison, lost in the rhythm of each other.
"Merlin."
Arthur's voice is rough, almost desperate, and it sends a thrill down Merlin’s spine. He continues the motions, trailing kisses along the side of Arthur’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw—down to the junction of his neck and collarbone. It feels too fucking good to stop. He doesn’t want to stop.
"Merlin, take me to bed."
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Arthur’s hand, he tugs him toward the four-poster, kicking off his shoes along the way. The moment they reach the bed, Merlin shoves him onto the mattress without ceremony.
Arthur doesn’t look away, and neither does Merlin. Their gazes remain locked as Arthur shifts back, spreading his legs just enough to make room, his eyes dark with hunger and intent.
He's beautiful.
Merlin's eyes roam over him, drinking in golden skin stretched over muscles honed by years of training. His mouth waters at the sight of Arthur’s hard length, knowing that he—and only he—has caused it. The realization settles deep in his chest, warm and consuming.
Climbing onto the bed, Merlin trails his tongue down Arthur’s breastbone, following the defined line of his stomach to his pelvis. Arthur’s breath turns ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Merlin looks up as he teases the side of Arthur's cock with the tip of his tongue before engulfing him fully, sinking down in one smooth motion.
Arthur moans loudly, his lips parting in awe, and Merlin watches every flicker of expression cross his face—hunger, disbelief, pleasure—all of it making his own cock throb with excitement. He bobs his head, lapping eagerly while pressing a firm hand against Arthur’s chest, keeping him pinned to the bed. His eyes flutter closed as he savors the silky glide of skin inside his mouth, his free hand slipping lower to palm at Arthur’s balls.
"Shit," Arthur hissed, his voice wrecked between the sinful slurping sounds.
Merlin hollows his cheeks, sucking with focused intensity, changing his rhythm just to hear more of those beautiful, breathless sounds. He delights in the way Arthur’s fingers tangle into his hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer.
"Merlin, if you keep this up, I..."
Merlin pauses just long enough to coat his middle finger with saliva, then presses it against the tight ring of muscle at Arthur’s entrance. He sinks lower, sucking at the base of his length, letting the weight of it rest against his cheek.
"Fuck."
"Love your cock," Merlin murmurs against his skin before sliding his finger inside, his own head spinning at the delicious heat that surrounds his digit. He licks a slow path up Arthur's length, taking his time, savoring every reaction.
"Gods, Merlin..."
Arthur gasps as Merlin pushes deeper, coaxing him open with steady, deliberate strokes. When Arthur starts rocking onto him, Merlin can't help but bite at the dip of his stomach—muffling his own moan as he feels his cock damping the sheets under him—before slipping in a second finger, stretching him wider. The intrusion causes Arthur's body to twitch—so pliant, so responsive that Merlin's cock aches for him.
"Do you have—?" Merlin asks hurriedly.
"Top drawer," Arthur cuts in, breathless.
Merlin doesn’t think—he just acts. While still lavishing attention on Arthur’s cock, he flicks his fingers toward the nightstand, summoning the vial of oil to his open palm. Arthur jolts beneath him, his entire body tensing for a split second before a violent shiver runs through him.
"Shit, Merlin, do that again."
Merlin lets go of his cock with a filthy pop, his lips red and slick. His fingers remain buried inside Arthur, still moving, still stretching.
"Do what?" he asks hoarsely.
Arthur grabs the vial, tosses it across the room, then surges forward, gripping the back of Merlin's neck and pulling him close until their breaths mingle.
"Use magic again," Arthur commands, his eyes dark with something unreadable.
Merlin freezes. Every muscle in his body locks tight, his breath catching in his throat.
'Magic? I don't have magic.' — "I have magic."
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
His heart slams against his ribs, a deafening drumbeat in his ears. His mind spins, frantic, clawing for a way out, for a way to fix this before it all crumbles. He physically can’t lie. Nor can he take it back. And now, the one person who matters most in the world to him—his king, his friend, his everything—knows.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. What should he do? Or say? Maybe beg? Tear his body off Arthur? Run away? Or—
Arthur’s fingers tighten around his wrist, dragging his hand—very much still inside him—deeper. A ragged groan leaves Arthur as he rolls his hips to meet the thrust of Merlin’s fingers, shamelessly chasing after his own pleasure.
"Don't stop."
Merlin’s breath shudders out of him. Arthur knows. He knows. And yet, he’s still here. He can hardly believe this is happening—the way Arthur is still moving against him, still seeking his touch, still wanting him after what he just confessed. Then Arthur kisses him, fierce and urgent, as if nothing has changed. As if this—Merlin, magic and all—is something he desperately needs.
"Vial," Arthur rasps against his lips.
"Wait… does this—does this turn you on?"
Arthur hums, still moving onto Merlin’s fingers. "Why don’t you go ahead and find out?"
Merlin stares into Arthur’s eyes, searching for fear, anger, hesitation, or doubt. He finds none. So, he obeys and, eyes still locked with Arthur's, summons the vial again with the hushed incantation rolling on his tongue: 'Tóspringe'.
Arthur shudders violently. Moans.
Merlin watches in stunned amazement as Arthur bites down hard on his bottom lip, eyes dark with raw hunger, then ravishes his mouth with his tongue in a very wet and perfectly messy kiss.
"Fuck me."
Merlin’s brain stutters to a stop. Out of all the countless ways he’d imagined Arthur's reaction upon discovering his magic over the years, this was never one of them. And it takes the fucking cake.
"Please, fuck me."
Arthur takes the vial from him, pulls the cork out with his teeth, and pours oil into his palm. His movements are deliberate, his gaze never leaving Merlin’s as he strokes the cool slickness onto his cock, making Merlin gasp. Then, Arthur pushes Merlin back until he’s sitting in the middle of the bed. Merlin barely has time to register what’s happening before Arthur straddles him, thighs bracketing his hips, positioning himself until the blunt head of Merlin’s cock presses against his entrance. And, suddenly, Arthur stills.
"Oh gods, Merlin, please tell me you still want to do this."
Merlin swallows hard, his hands gripping Arthur’s waist as his brain tries to catch up with reality. Does he still want this? The sheer absurdity of the question hits him so hard it extracts a chuckle out of him. Arthur is here, flushed and wrecked, slick fingers still wrapped around Merlin’s cock, asking—no, begging—him to fuck him. And he’s looking at him—truly looking—with something so raw and open it makes Merlin’s chest ache.
"Gods, yes," Merlin chokes out, his fingers tightening where they rest against Arthur’s hip bones. "Yes."
Arthur exhales sharply, relief flashing across his face before hunger overtakes it once more. He shifts his hips, angling himself just right, and slowly—so achingly slowly—sinks down.
Merlin's pulse is thundering in his veins. His fingers dig into Arthur's thighs as the heat of him envelops him, impossibly tight, impossibly good. Arthur’s mouth parts on a sharp gasp, his body taut with tension as he takes him in inch by inch.
"Fuck." The word rips from Merlin’s throat, guttural. He can feel everything—the way Arthur's body's adapting to him, the tremors in his muscles, the way he’s holding onto Merlin’s shoulders like a lifeline.
Arthur doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing down, his breath coming in shallow pants. Until, finally, he’s fully seated, thighs trembling against Merlin’s hips, his chest heaving. He sways slightly, overwhelmed, adjusting, grounding himself, while Merlin is barely holding it together—his entire body thrumming with the effort it takes not to move.
"Your eyes," Arthur mutters, his voice wrecked, his hands sliding up to tangle in Merlin’s strands, "they turn gold whenever you use magic, d'you know that?"
Merlin groans, because his cock is fully buried in Arthur's warmth and he didn't just fucking say that. A grin tugs at the corner of his lips as he meets Arthur's gaze.
"Yeah?" He asks before focusing on the pull of his magic around them again and murmuring: "Forebearnan."
All the candles in the room around them light up simultaneously. His brain turns to mush when he feels Arthur's insides clench around him in response, hips involuntary rocking forward, spreading a lightning-bolt-like sensation all over Merlin's nerves.
"Shit," Arthur hisses, yanking hard on Merlin’s hair. "You feel—gods—you feel so fucking good."
Merlin's head falls forward, his forehead pressing against Arthur’s warm chest as his hands grip the butt cheeks he is splitting open—fingers digging in the flesh so hard that he knows there will be bruises tomorrow.
"Arthur," he lets out, voice thick with reverence. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of Arthur’s throat, unable to stop himself, unable to do anything but feel. "You’re—" He swallows hard. "You’re perfect."
Arthur grunts, like a purr to praise, then he tentatively lifts himself up, slowly releasing the sweet pressure from Merlin’s cock in a glorious glide, before dropping back down in loud wet noise that made Merlin roll his eyes all the way to the back of his skull, knocking the breath out of his lungs.
"Don't stop don't stop don't stop...” Merlin pleads as Arthur impales himself on his length once more.
Merlin presses his fingers against where he disappears inside him, so turned on by the motion that he feels like he's about to faint. Arthur’s moans intensify, louder and deeper, as he finds a slow, punishing rhythm, his hips grinding against Merlin’s with each careful thrust. The sorcerer’s hands roam, gripping Arthur’s waist, his back, his shoulders, his throat, his nails scraping his skin, swaying his own hips up to meet Arthur's thrusts.
"Fuck, yes Merlin, just like that," Arthur breathes, his voice rough, his body slick with heat as it presses against Merlin’s.
Merlin feels the sweat bead on his chest, his pulse racing in his ears, lost in the feel of Arthur—Arthur on top of him, Arthur surrounding him, the sensation of being fully inside him. A flutter builds deep in the pit of his stomach, the pressure threatening to consume him all too soon.
Not yet. Please, not yet.
It feels so fucking good to have Arthur like this, moving above him with that perfect rhythm, each slow, deliberate thrust sending a pulse of heat through Merlin’s chest and straight to his core. The way Arthur rides him with such precision, his body taut and graceful, leaves Merlin gasping, desperate to hold onto the feeling forever. He doesn't want any of this to end—not yet, not ever. The intensity of it is overwhelming, the way Arthur feels so perfectly attuned to him, every movement driving him mad with pleasure, every inch of skin brushing against him like a secret he never wants to uncover.
"I—won't last long," Merlin pants through greeted teeth, his voice thick with need.
Arthur lets out a breathless laugh, his fingers threading deeper into Merlin’s hair as he pulls him into a bruising kiss. "Then fuck me," he murmurs against his lips. "Please."
Something snaps inside Merlin. His hands tighten on Arthur's waist, and the next time Arthur lifts himself up, Merlin thrusts up to meet him properly.
Arthur cries out, the sound raw and desperate, torn from his throat. Merlin follows with another thrust, faster, harder, and Arthur shatters—his head falling back, mouth open in a silent cry, his entire body trembling above him.
Merlin watches, enraptured, unable to look away. He finds a rhythm, thrusting deeper, drinking in every sound that escapes Arthur’s lips. Arthur clings to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, his hips rolling down to meet each movement. He’s so fucking gorgeous like this—flushed, undone, magic crackling in the air between them, lighting up the edges of Merlin’s vision like wildfire.
"More," Arthur demands, voice rough, desperate. "Merlin, I—"
Merlin shifts, grips him tighter, and fucks—deep, hard, unrelenting.
With this new angle, he strokes a particular part within him that has Arthur shout his name, eyes squeezed shut, body shaking apart in his arms. Merlin can feel the heat curling in his own gut, the edge of release coiling tighter, sharper. He’s lost, undone, wrecked by the way Arthur is taking him, by the way Arthur wants him—by the way Arthur knows and still wants him.
"Arthur," he gasps, forehead pressed against his shoulder, biting the skin there, hips snapping up desperately. "I—I can't—"
Arthur reaches quickly for his cock between them to jerk it off at the same pace Merlin is fucking him. Then, he is grabbing his face with his other hand to messily twirl their tongues together in a clash of teeth, jaw and lips, before growling: "Come inside me."
Fuck.
Merlin thrusts three last times—burrying himself to the hilt, shuddering—before he spills his load deep inside, moaning loudly into Arthur’s mouth as white pleasure crashes through him like a wave, overpowering, and rendering his mind completely blank in perfect delicious bliss.
He's barely aware of Arthur following him down the precipice seconds later, whole body seizing, his release coating both of them as he gasps Merlin’s name like a prayer, milking his oversensitive length until the last drop.
They collapse together, shaking, panting, clinging to each other as the aftershocks roll through them.
For a long time, neither of them moves. Their bodies are tangled, slick with sweat, catching their breath, hearts thunderings against one another, Merlin's softening length still inside Arthur.
Merlin's eyes flutter open to stare at the ceiling of the four-poster bed, vision blurry with tears of pleasure, and he can't refrain the delirious laugther of sheer happiness bubbling in his chest from springing out of him. He hears Arthur’s body tremble against him, joining in, starting with soft, breathy bursts near his ear, before the sound deepens, vibrating in his ribcage, and finally spilling into the room as full, beautiful laughter.
"You're turned on by my magic," Merlin breathes between chuckles, his voice light with disbelief. "All this time, I wondered how to tell you, how you’d react… I was always so afraid, and then—"
"Merlin…"
Merlin's laugh dies on Arthur's lips, forehead tickled by a blond fringe, as if summoned by a warm soft bitten mouth massaging his own, coaxing it open so their wet hot and slippery tongues meet and stroke slowly, lazily, against one another, making his head buzz again, and conveying his soaked arms to snake onto Arthur's large back to bring him somehow closer. Merlin wants to stay here forever—frozen in this moment, lost in the sensation of being with him.
"Merlin, I’ve known for a while," Arthur murmurs against his lips, their noses brushing together.
Merlin frowns, confused. "How long?"
"Years," Arthur nods.
"But... how? When?" Merlin stammers, his mind struggling to focus. "I—"
"Ever since you confessed in front of the entire council."
"That..." Merlin searches for the memory through his mind, an arduous task with his brain swimming in sex chemicals. He finds it with a five-seconds delay. "That was only a month after I started working for you."
"Mh-mmh," Arthur confirms, peppering kisses over his cheek.
"You took my defense in front of the council, said I was lying and an idiot," Merlin recalls.
Arthur smirks. "You are an idiot."
Merlin huffs, flipping them so that he's now on top of Arthur, settling between his legs. He can feel Arthur's body reacting beneath him, his own arousal stirring again inside him. Merlin leans down, nipping at Arthur's dimples just because he can.
"I didn't want to see you get killed, which you would have managed if I hadn't intervened," Arthur argues, grunting when Merlin bites onto his neck as retaliation.
"So, you believed me, then?"
Arthur shrugs. "I only had suspicions at first. But then you'd always miraculously be the last person standing whenever we'd get attacked by bandits. Always taking care of me with an attitude."
"An attitude?" Merlin raises an eyebrow, experimentally rolling his hips against Arthur's, his cock coated in cum producing a filthy squelching noise that has them stare at each other in awe.
"Yes," Arthur hisses, voice thick. "Like I was an ungrateful prat you'd just rescued."
"That’s exactly what you were," Merlin affirms, grinding down on him once more.
They shouldn’t be able to do this again so soon, but their bodies seem to be in perfect sync, as if they’ve been tuned to the same melody. Now that the urgency is gone, they're only left with satiated longing and shallow deliberate movements—each one of them indefinitely more intimate.
"Why didn’t you say anything?" Merlin asks, fingers threading through Arthur’s sweat-dampened hair, his forearms bracketing Arthur’s face.
Arthur’s hands slide up, resting on Merlin's shoulder blades as he pulls him closer. "I wanted you to tell me in your own time. I wanted you to trust me enough to share your secret when you were ready."
But I didn't.
"Arthur, I’m so sorry," Merlin exhales, gaze shifting away.
"Hey." Arthur brings his face back, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Don’t be. I understand. It took me a while to accept it—longer than I’d like to admit—but when I finally did, it was because I had time to process it. Your fears were justified. I tried to hint at you that I knew several times, but there always was this panic in your eyes, and you'd go into full-blown denial—with the most ridiculous explanations, might I add."
Merlin snorts. "Knocking yourself out isn't as ridiculous as it sounds."
Arthur grins back. "Of course you would think that."
Merlin rolls his hips—slow and deep, making Arthur gasp. "Careful, Your Majesty. There’s still a lot you don’t know about me."
Arthur bites his own bottom lip. "Like what?"
"I singlehandedly defeated a high priestess of the Old Religion."
Arthur's eyes grow glassy, unfocused—pupils wide, dark with want, his breath uneven. "What else?"
"I killed twenty-one armed men who wanted you dead in the woods—with only a thought," Merlin murmurs, sliding his cock all the way out before snapping his hips forward, filling Arthur to the hilt.
Arthur groans, shuddering. "Mmmmmmh. You said they might have died from food poisoning."
Merlin smirks, making sure to hit the deep spot that has Arthur roll his eyes back in the next thrust. "I called off the wyverns that were after us in the Fisher King's castle."
"How?" Arthur asks, sounding desperate.
The sorcerer leans in, and whispers in his ear the harsh ancient language of dragons: "Heđræc pecðian."
The king is properly moaning now, his body arching up, barely coherent enough to rasp out: "Is that Dragon Tongue?"
Merlin licks at his earlobe, reveling the tremors it elicits, then hums his approval, sliding out, and in again. "I'm the last Dragonlord."
Arthur digs his nails into Merlin’s back, head tipping back against the tousled sheets. "Shhhhhhit."
His legs wrap around his waist tightly, changing the angle as Merlin keeps on a relentless wonderfully slow pace.
"I can summon them—the dragons. They answer only to me. Could turn all of Camelot to ash with a single command." Merlin punctuates each sentence with a lazy drag of his hips, drawing a wrecked sound from Arthur's lips.
Merlin licks a hot stripe along Arthur's exposed throat, making it vibrate, before whispering: "But they won't. Because I won't let them."
"Fffffuck..." is all that spills out of Arthur's mouth, eyes sealed shut, hands grabbing Merlin's ass to urge him to go faster.
"You like it, don't you?" Merlin's thrusts become more erratic as his own pleasure comes coiling back in his gut, wrapping his cock and tightening his balls. Because Arthur looks properly disheveled, panting and moaning in unison with his hips, like in his wildest fantasies. And it's all because of him. "Knowing what I can do. How powerful I am."
Even without the truth potion, Merlin has no doubt Arthur would let out the same breathy answer—almost a whine: "Yes."
Merlin cants his hips harder, a shiver running down his neck, plunging in and out of the king's indecently wet and clenching warmth. Arthur is unraveling beneath him, his hands gripping, kneading, desperate to hold onto something solid even as he’s coming apart. Merlin watches him, enthralled, the golden glow of candlelight casting shadows over sweat-damp skin, over parted lips and flushed cheeks.
"It's all for you, Arthur. Only for you." Merlin leans down, brushing his nose along Arthur’s temple, letting his breath ghost over his ear. "I could burn the world for you," he murmurs, voice molten, thick with promise. "But I’d rather worship you instead."
Arthur’s breath hitches, a broken noise escaping his throat, desperate. "Then do it," he whispers, half a plea, half a command.
Merlin obeys.
His hips snap forward, the slow, teasing drag abandoned for something deeper, rougher. Arthur’s body welcomes him eagerly, thighs tightening around his waist, head pressing back into the mattress as pleasure overtakes him. The sounds they are making are obscene, just adding to Merlin's overwhelming sensations, every thrust driving him closer to the edge. Again.
Merlin presses his forehead into the crook of Arthur's neck, breathing in his scent, as he feels Arthur tangle his fingers around his dark curls. He drives into him faster, unwavering and unstoppable. Arthur cries out his name, moaning it like it's the only word he knows. And he's all heat, and sweat, and marvelous. And then, Arthur's body tenses beneath him, gasping in a silent shout of pleasure, coming untouched on his cock. And it's all it takes for Merlin's release to crash over him like a spell unleashed, spreading into every pore, every cell of his being, stealing his breath and the remains of his sanity. He fills Arthur with more of his spent, dripping on the sheet, spilling on his pelvis and on still-shimmering balls, and it's divine.
He collapses against Arthur’s chest, panting, skin damp and burning with the remnants of pleasure. Arthur’s arms wrap around him lazily, their bodies still tangled, still connected. Merlin feels the slow rise and fall of Arthur’s chest beneath him, steady and warm, grounding him in the aftermath. His head rests against the crook of Arthur’s neck, lips barely grazing sweat-damp skin, but he can still taste him—salt and heat and something that is unmistakably Arthur.
Arthur hums, a lazy, sated sound, fingers tracing idle patterns down the curve of Merlin’s spine. "We..." he murmurs, voice still rough from moaning Merlin’s name, "will be doing this again."
A grin split Merlin's face, as he shifts a bit to look at Arthur in the eyes. "Yeah?"
Arthur chuckles, breath rippling Merlin's chin, before nodding vehemently: "Oh yeah."
Merlin leans in to capture Arthur's mouth with his own, but finds it difficult to kiss when both of them are smiling like idiots. Giving up, he snorts and stares back into ocean blue irises. Arthur's. And he is so immeasurably happy, he feels the need to—
'I love you.' — "I love you."
Arthur exhales, hair messy, face red and covered in sweat, eyes filled with affection. "I love you too."
'No more lies.' — "No more lies."
"No more lies."