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Merlin leaned forward, all his weight on Arthur’s wrists, pinning his hands beside his head. How many times had he watched Arthur show recruits how to break all number of holds, how to fight for their lives if ever knocked prone? He waited for Arthur to buck, to twist his hips, for knees and elbows—but Merlin had never really needed magic to put Arthur in his place. Arthur just stared up at him with those wide sky-blue eyes, parted pink mouth.
“Surprised?” Merlin mocked.
Arthur’s tongue flickered out to wet his lips. “Surprised you could move that fast when you’re such a layabout.”
Five minutes ago, Merlin had been asleep, peaceful and innocent. Four minutes ago, Merlin had been awoken by a ball of fabric lobbed at his face and a smarmy voice shouting in his ear:
“What, Merlin, I’m meant to trust you with my things when you barely bother taking care of your own?”
Merlin hoped things were going as counter to Arthur’s hopes and expectations of his morning as they were Merlin’s.
He ran his neckerchief (okay, yes, that he’d thrown on the floor yesterday rather than put away) through his fingers, considering. Then he balled it up and stuffed it in Arthur’s mouth over his choked protests.
Fingers digging into Arthur’s cheek, Merlin gave his head a condescending little shake, then let him go. He was there, shivering between Merlin’s thighs, docile as a kitten, blushing like an ingenue. Merlin could do nothing honestly except indulge himself on the feast he’d been provided.
“So what was it you needed that couldn’t wait for breakfast?” he asked casually, tilting his head.
Jaw working, Arthur tried to spit the gag out, to answer, but Merlin grabbed him again and held him still.
“What’s that, sire? I can’t hear you.”
A muffled complaint was all Arthur could manage, likely some variation on you insolent cur. Something simmered low in Merlin’s belly: something ravenous, new. Something a little like magic, which had been leashed and forbidden far too long—which, just like his magic, burned for Arthur alone.
Merlin swallowed down all the wetness pooling in his mouth and said, “Go to your chambers. I’ll deal with you later.”
With a final pat to his cheek, Merlin dismounted and turned his back to the bed, pretending to busy himself at his cabinet. It took several seconds to hear the shifting of bedclothes and straw; Merlin waited with held breath and fumbling fingers for Arthur to shake off his fugue and fury to take its place—but it never came. Just soft, unsteady footsteps across the floorboards, and--
Merlin whirled around. “Arthur!”
“Huh?”
“Mouth.”
Arthur paused, fingers hovering over his mouth; then clumsy he plucked the bit of fabric free, wet with his spit, and clenched it in his fist.
A surge of possessiveness crashed over Merlin and nearly pulled him under. How could he let Arthur walk all the way across the castle like this? How could he let other people see him, talk to him, touch him? Better to keep him here, pin him to the bed, keep him safe, keep—
Merlin shook his head to clear it and refocused on Arthur, swaying slightly where he stood.
“Good,” Merlin said hoarsely. The word made Arthur sway again. “Go, I’ll see you soon.”
As soon as Arthur was gone, Merlin sprung into action, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste out the door. Though some might argue it was literally his job to know these things, Merlin didn’t actually know what Arthur had to do today, what duties he might be shyly shirking at Merlin’s command, and the thought was better than any drink and went straight to Merlin’s head.
Of course, Arthur had always been a brat, but from the first shockingly-innocent kiss they’d shared—Arthur had kissed him mid-sentence one night by the warmth of their campfire, then bowed his head like he was waiting for the executioner’s axe—Merlin’s suspicions only grew that all it would take was a firm hand to own Arthur completely, even if he didn’t know it himself. The reality was better than any of Merlin’s wildest dreams could possibly have been.
Thus he was overly conscious the vast cosmos of small stresses that could ruin his paradise. Arthur was coltish in love, with all due respect to the colt, and to the mare; really, he ought to have been some other kind of baby animal with none of the mammalian limitations of milk and blood. If he had been born with scales and sharp teeth and strong legs, his coldblooded upbringing might have been enough, and he would not react to the notion of love like it was some sort of allergy, or at least not want it so badly he made himself sick on it again and again and again.
So attentive to the solemn responsibility he’d taken on with Arthur’s heart, Merlin knew that if he took too long in getting back to him, all those tender parts of Arthur he’d touched this morning would scab over and trap the foulness within. He’d get to thinking without Merlin there to do it for him, and all sorts of ideas would conspire to dash him on the rocks: thinking he’d embarrassed himself, thinking about things warriors did not want and princes could not have, and that would be the end of everything precious or good in the world.
Merlin fairly attacked the kitchens for a breakfast plate of bread and fruit, nothing too heavy or that couldn’t be eaten cold. Anyone who saw him rushing around would assume this was any other day, and Merlin was running late to attend the prince, and by now Merlin should be sick to death of secrecy, but this secret was so precious, so finely formed, so vital, that it exhilarated him to finally put all that practice to decent use.
He flitted past maids and guardsmen and courtiers and none of them knew he’d already mastered Arthur and all before the terce bell. Sir Leon did give him a bit of a funny look, but the less Leon knew, the better.
And then he was before Arthur’s chamber door. He’d moved as fast as he could, which despite what Arthur said was a good bit faster than most men when he was properly motivated, but he’d still been away from Arthur for almost half an hour, which was more than enough time for Arthur to tie himself into some ghastly knot.
So he braced himself and shouldered open the door, then stopped short. He and Arthur stared at each other as the door fell shut behind him with a solid thud.
Arthur sat on the side of the bed, a lost look in his eyes, Merlin’s neckerchief twisted in his hands. His clothes were askew, shirt untied, hair still ruffled from being rolled in Merlin’s bed once already this morning. A warm wave broke over Merlin, and some of his tension washed away. Oh, Arthur.
Not breaking their eye contact, Arthur stood and cleared his throat. “Merlin, I—”
“Ready to apologize?” Merlin interrupted, heart pounding in his throat. He put the tray firmly on the table.
“I—what?”
“Well, you were awfully rude this morning. Barging into my room, rubbing things in my face. You woke Gaius too, of course.”
Arthur reddened. “You barge into my room every single morning!”
“That’s not really the same thing, now is it?”
For the first time in their relationship, Arthur paused in their banter. A strange calculation flickered over his face; some tension went out of his shoulders. He shifted, cocked a hip and lifted his chin, all haughtiness.
“I am your prince, Merlin. I can go where I please, and it’s your job to—”
Merlin cut him off with a single sharp word and a flash of magic to still his tongue. Arthur’s eyes fluttered, half-lidded, dark with his need.
And Merlin was so fucking proud of him, and joyful, that he almost threw the whole game to the wind just to fuck him right there on the floor beside his bed, swallow him whole, devour him. How could he even play at punishment when Arthur was so brave and sweet, reaching a hand out for what he wanted and trusting Merlin to give it to him?
Maybe it wasn’t punishment at all, then. Maybe he was giving Arthur his reward. Fuck, it barely mattered anymore. He’d give Arthur everything and more.
He had come with a plan—one of a thousand plans he’d dreamt at the back of Arthur’s head during council sessions, banquets, and tournaments, half of them sweet, half of them vicious, each one more lascivious than the last—but he amended it now. There’d be plenty of other chances to tease and torment Arthur with his own discarded belt. Right now, Merlin would probably perish if he didn’t get his hands on him.
“Sit back down,” Merlin said. When Arthur dropped like a stone, Merlin knelt and removed his boots, setting them carefully aside. Arthur grunted, confused by this show of deference when Merlin was taking such command, and Merlin arched an eyebrow, scraping a nail across the ticklish inside of Arthur’s foot. He yelped and kicked on instinct, and Merlin laughed.
Standing, Merlin trailed his fingertips up Arthur’s calf, then his thigh.
“Turn over now.”
Slowly, Arthur obeyed. With only a few slight corrections, Merlin soon had him properly situated: bent at the waist, bent over the side of his bed.
Then Merlin reached around to the front of him and unbuckled his belt. At the same time, he dropped the magic keeping Arthur quiet.
Arthur didn’t say a word, not when Merlin tugged the belt away and his trousers slipped down around his ankles, not even when Merlin quietly commanded him to step out of his clothes and set them aside.
Perhaps for the best, Merlin stood still, gripped by a moment of doubt. This cowed version of Arthur: had Merlin already gone too far? Tripped some unseen wire in Arthur that shut off all the brashness and arrogance, never to return? But no: Arthur held himself so tightly he would certainly hurt himself worse than Merlin ever could, and not even for a good reason. But that’s why Merlin was here—to show him how to do it right—to take care of him.
“Arthur?”
A grunt.
“You’ve always been very confident you’d beat me in any contest of strength,” Merlin replied lightly. Fascinated with each tiny slip of skin he could see, he folded the hem of Arthur’s shirt up to his lower back. “Yet you let me pin you this morning, and here we are. Going to accuse me of cheating? Tricking you with magic?”
A groan: “Do you ever stop talking?”
Merlin laughed, a whoosh of giddy relief. “Whine like a child, get punished like a child,” he teased.
For a second, Arthur held his breath. For a second, it hung between them that in this very instant Merlin could still stop and they could both pretend this wasn’t what they wanted for a while longer until they danced up to the edge again: but then Merlin gleefully pushed them both over, and they fell.
With one hand, Merlin pressed between Arthur’s shoulders, steadying them both moreso than restraining anything. With the other, he gave him a firm spank. In tandem, they gasped: they both felt the sting, from Merlin’s hand to Arthur’s seat. Merlin stretched his fingers, marveling. Arthur’s thighs shifted ever-so-slightly looser. For the first few hits, Arthur couldn't hold still and Merlin didn't try, working with each twist and buck. He was half-hard, and when he chanced to knock Arthur's groin a little harder against the mattress, he learned Arthur was hard, too, when he finally made a noise, the melodic little gasp he always made when Merlin took hold of him.
And then they went: steady, steady, mesmerized by his own rhythm, by the responsive bounce of Arthur’s body and the stutter-step of his breathing, Merlin went until his hand started to throb and Arthur stopped squirming. His body was heavy across the bedclothes, his arms loose beside his head. A fine layer of gooseflesh covered him, but he wasn’t cold. This was the sort of peace and power the devout always claimed you got by prayer.
“My brave knight,” Merlin murmured. “Strong and silent.”
Cupping Arthur’s cheek, Merlin leaned in close to take stock of him. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were very bright; he wasn’t drooling, but when he turned his head to kiss Merlin’s stinging palm, his lips were slick and needy.
“More,” he rasped. His lashes fluttered, but forced his eyes open again before Merlin could command him.
“What’s the magic word?” Merlin said.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Please.”
“That’s the one. Good boy.”
As hard is it was to go without touching Arthur even for a second, especially when he was shivering his way through those words, Merlin took a necessary step back. With one hand, he palmed himself through his trousers. With the other, he collected Arthur’s belt from the bed beside him. It was quality leather, fit for a prince. Merlin folded it over in his hand and kissed its supple edge.
“You’re really in no position to make requests or demands,” he said lazily, though his heart tripped double-time with anticipation, “But I think you’ve learned your lesson this morning, so I’m willing to give you a reward. Three, alright?”
He flexed his wrist. “I said: alright?”
“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur breathed. He shifted, turning his head to the other side to take some strain off his neck. His ass glowed a deep pink already, warmed all over from Merlin’s still-stinging hand, and for a second Merlin was completely enchanted. What did it feel like, that lingering throb, like a bruise or like a well-trained muscle? What was more, the heat or the pain? Which was it that kept Arthur so hard his hips twitched, needing to hump, but so perfectly good he stopped himself without being told?
Merlin wasn’t so restrained and didn’t have to be. He squeezed himself hard and took a couple of strokes, building the fire higher until Arthur shifted again, impatient.
Okay. Merlin took a deep breath, kissed the supple edge of the leather in his hand—then let it fly.
Smack.
His aim swung true, but soft: the belt slapped across the width of Arthur’s ass but didn’t raise a mark. Arthur’s hips jolted forward, and he let out a shaky breath.
Merlin firmed his grip. His toes curled in his boots, and he swung again, a little more strength behind his arm.
Smack.
Arthur’s ass jumped with the force of it; he let out a loud, wet gasp, and Merlin groaned in time. His cock throbbed, and all he wanted was to rub against Arthur’s burning skin until he came, marked him up in a different way, a deeper claim. But he still had one more gift to give.
Smack.
Finally, Arthur cried out, and Merlin knew it wasn’t from the pain, knowing all Arthur had experienced and how much he prided himself on endurance: it was release; it was satisfaction; it was:
“Thank you,” Arthur sobbed, “Thank you—“
Merlin threw the belt aside and threw himself at Arthur. He cupped his ass in both hands, crushed a kiss to one newly-welting mark, then kissed his way up, from the dip of his spine to the back of his shoulder to the nape of his neck, then he grabbed his hip and held him still while, with his other hand, the one still stinging, he stripped his cock until he came with a shout, all over Arthur’s thighs.
“Good. So fucking good,” he said, still catching his breath. Arthur was deep, deep in his head, eyelids fluttering, mouth slack around a wordless sound. “So fucking beautiful. Was that good?” he asked, knowing the answer was right in front of him but so greedy for more.
While Arthur sprawled there, Merlin drew back and admired his masterpiece from afar. And once he deemed Arthur recovered enough, he reached down, cupped one supple thigh, and sent a warm pulse of healing light right through Arthur’s body. He jumped like he never had when being spanked, a bitten-off wail leaping from his throat, and to Merlin’s elated surprise, he came hard untouched, just from the jolt of magic in his blood.
“Come here,” Merlin crooned, tugging at whatever part of Arthur he could reach until he’d scraped all of him up off the floor and into bed. He had actually bitten his lip rather savagely at the shock of his orgasm, and Merlin tutted as he swiped at the blood with his thumb. Another tiny spark of magic kissed the wound and closed it.
Merlin wrapped around him and hugged him tight, kissed his forehead and hid his smug grin in his hair. He’d known Arthur would respond beautifully to a little discipline, but this, peaceful in his arms, sleepy and sated, was so perfect he could hardly stand it. Slowly, Arthur stirred. His lips drifted across Merlin’s collarbone to the hollow of his throat, and Merlin was so overfull with fondness he could have purred.
At some point, Arthur mumbled something against Merlin’s chest, and Merlin had to nudge him away to get him to repeat it.
“What was that, darling?”
“Don’t heal me next time,” Arthur repeated sullenly, then burrowed back in against him.
Merlin laughed. He ruffled Arthur’s hair, kissed his temple, and said sweetly, “Aww, did I steal your souvenir?”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
“Maybe that was your actual punishment. You enjoyed the rest of it too much, after all.”
Arthur growled at him, which was definitely a serious threat from a hardened warrior, and not at all adorable or puppyish.
“Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll make sure you’re feeling it for a nice long while.” Unable to help himself, Merlin punctuated his promise with a hard pinch on the ass. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t wait to see whatever bratty thing Arthur would do next.