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The water envelops him instantly. The immersion shocks his eyes wide and the cold steals the breath from his lungs, water seeping through to his skin. Arthur tenses and then thrashes, the weight of his chainmail already pulling him down, his limbs slow to move, floating like a dream as he tries to kick upwards again.
A stream of bubbles escapes from his nose, tickling his face, and Arthur's lungs begin to burn. He opens his eyes, squinting through the murky depths and trying to establish where the surface is, sense of direction tangled and wavering. As he kicks hopefully towards the weak light, he begins to panic — already he can no longer feel his fingers properly. Adrenaline flushes his veins, lighting a fire within him as though before a battle, but there is nothing more to fight than the unfeeling embrace of the water, dragging him down and turning his limbs to lead.
Even as he swims, his attention wanders and he finds himself remembering summers as a young boy, he and Morgana diving from greater and greater heights, shedding the salt-sweat of the thick heat as the water had sucked them in, cold and greedy.
The burn in his lungs is unbearable, and he pulses with the need to breathe, his whole body screaming for it until there's nothing else. Arthur's head spins, and the light begins to dim — for a moment he has the absurd thought that the lake is bottomless, and he's sunk beyond the reach of the sun. Then spots dance before his eyes and he realizes with a sense of doom that it's worse; he is going to pass out, and he won't be able to stop his body from taking in deep lungfuls of water.
Of all the ways Arthur has imagined his end, drowning has never been one of them.
Despite this, he refuses to be resigned. Gathering one last burst of energy, Arthur thrashes himself upwards again, praying that this time it will be enough, desperate for air and sun and life. His outreached hand is met by another, and then he's being hauled upwards, and Arthur only has seconds to register anything other than the flare of hope in his chest before his sense of everything fades.
When he comes to, it's with a coughing spurt, heaving brackish water onto the muddy ground. Merlin is over him, gripping his shoulder tightly — Arthur is dimly aware that he is shirtless, and that with the cold autumn air on his wet skin he should be shaking. But his body is focussed on gulping lungfuls of air, eyes watering and chest spasming as he manages to breathe.
"You idiot," Merlin is saying— half-sobbing, really, voice muffled by the water in Arthur's ears. "You stupid, stupid idiot, do you realize you could have— Why did you have to go and jump in the damn water in your chainmail— I- I'm going to be the one drying and oiling it so it doesn't rust, you know; you're always so much work."
Arthur wants to point out that he hadn't jumped so much as been flung haphazardly by one giant paw, but he still can't do much more than take shaky, phlegmatic breaths and stare up at the way Merlin's face is crinkled in worry, dark hair flat against his head and eyes red with the lakewater, making him look close to tears.
This isn't by any means the first time Merlin has saved Arthur's life, but somehow it seems very immediate.
"Can you walk?" Merlin asks, still sounding miserable. "You're freezing. A girl in my village fell in an iced-over pond once, and she died even though I— even after they fished her out. You have to get warm— there are blankets in the saddlebags, and I can start a fire, if I can find something to—"
Taking a hold of Merlin's sodden neckscarf, Arthur tugs him down until their lips met, effectively shutting him up.
Merlin gasps, and Arthur takes advantage of his open mouth to lick into it, too-hot against his cold skin, kissing him needily as the adrenaline still courses through his blood. Merlin does not immediately pull back, and when he does it is a long moment before he opens his eyes and looks down at Arthur as though he isn't bedraggled and blue-lipped and wet — as though Arthur is everything he's ever wanted. Then he wrenches his eyes away.
"You need to get dry," he says, voice sounding deeper than usual, and painfully weary. "And warm."
Arthur pushes up onto his elbows; even that sends pain firing through his lungs. He isn't sure what has come over him except that he is hard in his breeches, thrilled by his brush with death in a way that never seems to strike him after fights, and he wants to kiss Merlin again, wants him warm and inviting to chase away the cold he can feel nibbling his bones. "Right," Arthur says, voice nothing more than a rasp after all that coughing. A thought occurs to him, belatedly. "What happened to the creature?"
"You killed it," says Merlin, still blank. Arthur grins, letting that knowledge, too, fire through him. It gives him the strength to get to his feet, holding himself away from Merlin, sure he can do this without help.
After two steps his knees buckle and Merlin is there, close and supportive, straining to keep Arthur upright. They stumble away from the lake like that, their panting ragged in the unnaturally silent forest, and even this chaste touch is making Arthur ache.
When they reach the clearing and the horses, Merlin leaves Arthur bent double with coughing as he rushes around. "I didn't pack a dry change," he says, throwing a thick rug over Arthur's shoulders. "We'll have to leave your clothes by the fire."
"This blanket smells like horse," complains Arthur, hugging it closer, scratchy around his bare shoulder-blades.
Merlin rolls his eyes and looks away. "It's all there is."
By all rights the fire should be meagre, but Merlin does have a particular gift for coaxing even the greenest, wettest wood to light and he's soon got Arthur wrapped snug before a veritable bonfire.
"You're wet too," Arthur points out with chattering teeth; he can feel the cold now, the pain of it rather than just a numbness where the cold should be, and he supposes that's a good sign.
Merlin plucks at his breeches, sodden and obviously uncomfortable, rasping over his thighs when he walks. "There's only one blanket," he says. It's more grumpy than noble and self-sacrificing, but either way it's annoying as hell.
"Come here," Arthur says imperiously, and when Merlin drags his feet over: "Strip."
This gets Arthur a disbelieving snort, so Arthur opens the furl of his blanket to the chill air and steps forward to cocoon Merlin in it, shivering violently at the feel of the wet material against his bare skin. He wraps his arms entirely around Merlin's shoulders, presses his nose to the damp crook of his neck. Merlin stands very still. Arthur can't tell whether the tremor running through him is simple cold or something more. He holds him close, as patient as he is when hunting, watching a deer scent the air.
"Arthur," Merlin says quietly, a little despairingly.
"I won't press anything," Arthur says, trying to sound diffident even though Merlin must be able to feel that Arthur is hard against his thigh, has been thrumming with a hot, sick need since he'd been dragged from the lake. "I wouldn't make you—"
"As if you could," Merlin mutters, amusement and fragility tangled in his voice.
"—But you're in need of warmth as much as I am."
With unwarranted care, Merlin brings his arms up, fingers digging into Arthur's shoulder-blades, and something like a sob wrenches through him, instantly stifled as Merlin presses his mouth closed and tight-lipped to the bone in Arthur's shoulder.
"Sorry," he says after a moment, voice a poor parody of casual. "Just, give me a moment."
"Are you crying, Merlin?" scoffs Arthur, but when there's no response bar the hitching of Merlin's chest Arthur's tone softens considerably. "Christ, you are, you big girl. Come on, I'm— not that bad, am I?"
Merlin pulls back to glare at him, and his eyes are even redder than they were, his hair drying in strange tufts.
"I'm not," he says fiercely. There's a stubborn look about him, mixed in with the sadness that sometimes burdens Merlin's gaze, and as though he's steeling himself he leans in and presses his mouth to Arthur's.
They kiss for a while, closed-mouthed, and Arthur wonders what Merlin's thinking but fears that if he pulls away to ask he won't have another chance to do this.
It's— consensual. Surely. It's not as though Merlin has ever been afraid to say no to him in any other area, ever, so Arthur doesn't feel as though he's taking advantage of his status. Merlin makes little gasping noises and he certainly seems to like touching Arthur and he definitely seems to like Arthur touching him— that is, he finishes, Arthur would notice if he wasn't, he's not that much of a bastard.
And yet! Even as they lie curled together, spent and breathing, Arthur gets the feeling like Merlin's heart just hadn't been in it.
"You were so still," Merlin whispers, the fire casting deep shadows over his face, in the line of his mouth. The light is beginning to fade, and while Arthur feels flushed and happy he knows they should move before the cold returns. "I thought I got there too late."
"You weren't." Arthur claps his shoulder and abandons the blanket unabashedly, goes to squirm back into his still-damp clothes. Merlin stares at the empty space where Arthur had lain for a long time before he, too, moves.
+
Arthur's boots aren't actually that dirty, when he calls Merlin to his chambers, but it's been the sort of day Arthur would usually work off through training or fucking, and he had promised his knights a day off. Then Merlin slopes in, looking hazy-eyed, as though his mind is elsewhere, and asks "Yeah?" with a slouchy little shrug.
"My boots," says Arthur, irrationally annoyed that Merlin isn't jumping at the mere possibility of a tumble. "Are filthy."
Merlin eyes the pair in question; Arthur has them on, feet propped up on the table. "They don't look that bad," he says with his nose wrinkling, and completely fails to so much as quaver under Arthur's glare.
"Look!" Arthur points to where the leather is scuffed and smudged. "Did you even polish these?"
Merlin at least has the grace to look a little abashed at that. "Er," he says, and when he tries to lie, it's written plain on his face. "Of course I did. You're just imagining stuff."
Arthur seethes. Merlin has always been insolent, and terrible at his job, but never to the point of neglecting his duties and outright lies, or surely Arthur would have noticed. "Merlin!" he snaps. He should have known better than to bed a servant; it is as his father always says: showing favour removes fear and leads to laziness. Obviously since Arthur is so utterly awful in bed, Merlin is just putting up with him so that Arthur will overlook his glaring deficiencies. Arthur gives a slow grin, the one he gets in his iciest of rages. "If you've already cleaned them, then you won't have any compunction about giving them a lick, will you?"
All of Merlin's attention trains on him at that. "What?"
"You heard me," says Arthur, satisfaction curling into his voice as he swings his legs off the table and stretches them forward. "You will get over here, and lick my boots. That is an order."
Merlin flushes; the colour spreads along the high wings of his cheekbones as his eyes go wide. Arthur has never seen him blush before; not the time Arthur had caught him running off with one of Morgana's dresses, not after dropping a wine jug in front of the entire assembled Court, not even the first time Arthur had stripped him down to skin and taken his time just looking. But now the blush is obvious.
For an instant Arthur hesitates, but then he scowls; all Merlin has to do is admit he hasn't cleaned the boots, and Arthur will relent. It's not like the threat of the stocks is even really a punishment anymore. It's hardly his fault that Merlin chooses to lie to him.
"Get on with it, then," he says, and Merlin — stubborn bastard that he is — takes a step forward, and then another. After a pause, his eyes meet Arthur's, dark with what must be anger, mouth pressed into a thin line. He kneels.
Arthur swallows thickly, not entirely sure he wants to look at what he's feeling straight on, but knowing it's tangled and heated and more than just the grumpiness of a long day. "If you don't hurry up, I'll have you clean the whole boot with your tongue," he says loudly, making Merlin duck forward, and adds, just to be cruel: "Or perhaps you'd enjoy that?"
There's a tiny little gasp, and Arthur can see the back of Merlin's neck's gone red as well. He watches in disbelief as Merlin dips further, shudders as he presses a close-mouthed kiss to the toe, then licks a long stripe up it, leaving a shining wet trail behind.
"That'll do, Merlin, Christ!" Arthur exclaims, suddenly a little panicked because he hadn't truly expected Merlin to do it and who knew where those boots had been?
Merlin looks up, and instead of fury there's something else in his gaze, and recognition catches in Arthur's breath as Merlin pushes his legs apart and kneewalks between them, nosing at Arthur's inner thigh. Suddenly Arthur's vague desire to fuck someone into the mattress, preferably Merlin, becomes a very real possibility.
He winds a hand in Merlin's hair, stroking his sudden contrition into the soft skin behind one ridiculous ear, briefly thumbing over a cheekbone in a gesture that is entirely too sentimental. Merlin buries his face in Arthur's groin, seeking out the bulge of his growing erection and mouthing it through the fabric of Arthur's breeches, tongue flickering over the laces like he's chasing the taste, and the sheer intensity of his focus makes Arthur's breath hitch.
It doesn't take long for Arthur's world to narrow to his cock; the tightness of his pants and the way they slide wet and clinging from Merlin's spit, barely enough friction. He gives a rough, needy groan and tugs at Merlin's hair — perhaps a little too sharply, because Merlin's gaze snaps up to his again.
"Take it out," Arthur tells him and Merlin starts to undo the laces one-handed. Arthur leans forward and realizes Merlin's other hand is rubbing over his own pants, pressing the heel against the obvious bulge. "Both hands, Merlin," Arthur says — a little waspishly because really, how stupid could he be, those knots were tricky — and Merlin's gaze dips, he exhales a quiet little moan, and obeys him.
They've done this before a couple of times. Mostly as a precursor to fucking. But this is the first time Merlin has drawn out Arthur's cock and pressed close-mouthed kisses along it, rubbing the head over his cheekbone, stuttering his hand along the tacky skin of the shaft. It's obscene. Merlin's face is open and needy, tongue flickering pink in and out of his mouth. The reverence on his face as he drags wet lips up the vein sends a feeling Arthur has no name for pulsing through his body, and after moment he has to tilt his head back and look at something, anything else.
There's no denying that it feels good, Merlin licking at him, but it's not enough. Arthur winds his fingers tighter through Merlin's hair. All that does is make Merlin suck a whistling breath through his teeth, and then groan. He pulls Merlin back and watches him strain for it, face scrunched up as he tries to get his mouth on Arthur's cock again.
"You love it, don't you," Arthur says fiercely, the words coming from a deep well of need inside him. "Look at you, you're as shameless as a camp follower. Desperate for me to choke you with my cock."
Merlin's panting, looking up at Arthur with eyes that are only a sliver of blue around black, his hands returned to rubbing frantically at the bulge of his own erection.
"Go on, then," Arthur says, taking himself in one hand and Merlin in the other so he can direct Merlin's mouth to the head. "It's not as though it'll suck itself, Merlin."
Then Merlin opens for him with a whimper, stretching his lips pink and wet around Arthur and cramming him down. When Arthur bucks his hips, trying to get more suction, more friction, more wet heat, he feels himself hit the back of Merlin's throat, which spasms. He watches as Merlin flushes, gagging, eyes watering, but brings a hand to the curve of Arthur's ass and urges him to thrust again.
Arthur throws his head back and fucks into his mouth, unable to stop curses and endearments spilling from his lips every time Merlin sucks him in deep. Merlin's groans are choked and messy, and when Arthur next looks his jaw's gone slack as he keeps up with the rapid pace, chin shiny with it. He's still not got his laces undone. Even as Arthur watches, Merlin screws his eyes shut, pushes hard into the heel of his own hand, and comes, a dark patch spreading across his trousers. The sight of it, the smell, and the knowledge that he didn't even touch Merlin is enough to set Arthur on the path to his own release.
"I'm—" he grits out, unable to find the coherency for a better warning, and just as his cock starts to pulse, orgasm hitting him like a flash flood, Merlin pulls himself off with a wet pop and lets Arthur spurt pearly strings of come all over his face.
+
"That," says Arthur, when they're tidied up and naked in Arthur's big bed, and Merlin can hear the awe in his voice. "That was— I hardly know."
"Good?" Merlin asks, with a smirk against Arthur's collarbone. "I liked it, when you, um."
"I noticed."
"Did you like it?" Merlin tries not to sound too worried, because Arthur is after all sprawled sated beneath him, but he's still not sure why the way Arthur treated him had gone straight to his cock, and if it's an odd thing to like, and what if Arthur sends him away—?
Arthur, for his part, is considering the question for a disconcertingly long time. "I liked that you liked it," he says thoughtfully, and Merlin must make a noise of relief because Arthur hauls him up and kisses him firmly. "I definitely want to do it again."
"Could we..." Arthur's face is so close that it's just a blur, really, and his hand is warm at the small of Merlin's back, and somehow that makes asking easier. "Could you be... not rougher, exactly, but—"
"Meaner?" Arthur suggests, blue eyes alight with amusement. "Funny, Merlin, have you always secretly enjoyed when I make you do things you don't want to?"
"No! Course not." Merlin pulls a face. "Maybe a little. It's not like I get off on washing your disgusting socks."
"What if I made you do it naked?" Arthur asks with a predatory curve to his lips, and Merlin shivers and kisses him again. After a moment Arthur hauls him back and squints at him. "How will I know how far to go? I don't wish to actually— hurt you."
Merlin shrugs, not sure if there is a too far, his limits untested. "I trust you to be only as much of a prat as you naturally are," he teases. But Arthur shakes his head.
"If you ever truly don't want to do something, if it's not fun, you must tell me, Merlin."
"I will," Merlin assures him, tracing his fingers back and forth across the impressive span of Arthur's chest. It makes something hard and unhappy form in his gut, because what Arthur does not, cannot know, is that he could never make Merlin do something he didn't want to.
Merlin wants, with every bone of his body, to tell Arthur the truth. He's never told anybody before, never directly said: Oh and by the way, I'm a sorcerer. Those who know are those who had another way of finding out, but Merlin doesn't want it to be like that with Arthur. He doesn't want to get caught. He wants it to be a gift of trust, to believe that there's no way Arthur would turn him in, get him killed.
"Will you sleep here?" Arthur asks, shifting to make himself more comfortable and settling Merlin against him without waiting for an answer.
"It's barely evening," complains Merlin, hooking the covers up with a foot even though Arthur is furnace enough.
"It's been a long day." Arthur gives a jaw-cracking yawn to emphasize his point, his voice already muzzy with weariness.
It isn't truly his life that Merlin is afraid for. Perhaps even their friendship could survive the revelation. But this, this casual closeness, to feel the way Arthur's breath snuffles and then evens out, the vulnerability of nudity and sleep... Merlin treasures it too much to risk throwing it away on a secret.
+
Suddenly Arthur's ten times the bastard he usually is in their day-to-day, taking infinite pleasure in throwing cold water on Merlin, or shoving him around, or mocking anything he says. Merlin gives as good as he gets in public, bowing deep and insolent. But in private when Arthur orders him to the floor he goes, and spends the better part of an hour kneeling on the stone with Arthur's boots on his back, terrified someone will interrupt them and harder than he's ever been in his life.
Merlin discovers he likes to be bruised, the dark marks blossoming on his pale skin. Arthur bumps him into the edges of cupboards, tweaks the soft skin under his ribs, nips harshly along the inside of his thigh or sucks dark red along the line of his collarbone. Sometimes he counts them for Merlin, rediscovering each abused spot with a kiss.
At first it's just play, but Merlin's heady with it, the rush he can feel simply by being in the same room as Arthur. It makes him forgetful. It makes him clumsy. When he drops a wine jug at a feast, Arthur slams him up against the stones of his chamber's wall. "All this time and you still haven't learned your duties," he whispers scornfully into Merlin's heated ear.
Merlin likes it best when Arthur talks. Obscenities, revilement, compliments, he loves them all. Of course, he knows the promises hold no weight in the real world if they're made when Arthur is deep inside him, starting slow and teasing and working them both into a frenzy. He treasures them all the same.
Of course, probably it was a mistake to mention something uttered in the bedchamber at the table of the High Court.
+
Slouched in his chair, toying with his dinner knife, eyes dark with consideration, Arthur is dangerous and beautiful. Merlin shifts where he's standing, wondering whether this infraction merits genuine punishment or something more interesting. Arthur seems to be mulling over the same question, for he pushes his chair back and leans forward over the table, hands planted, and says: "I don't think the stocks are quite what's called for, do you?"
Merlin meets his eyes, a hot joy igniting in his stomach. "No, sire."
"Get out of those clothes," Arthur says with a deliberate casualness, and Merlin knows he's come to a decision.
It's strange, to undress when Arthur isn't. It seems to make him more sensitive, so he can feel the air and Arthur's gaze prickling over his skin, nipples tightening when he pulls off his shirt though the fire is stoked and the chamber is pleasantly warm. He wraps an arm around his own waist self-consciously.
"Good," Arthur murmurs, stalking around the table and trailing a hand down the pale length of Merlin's flank. His voice has deepened, and he grips Merlin's hip possessively, fingers digging into the bone. "Bend over the table."
Merlin bites his lip and stretches himself forward, pushing paper and empty plates aside so that he can press his chest and forehead to the surface and grip the edge tightly. He spreads his legs, anticipatory, relishing the thought of Arthur taking him like this, fucking him open with no thought for anything but his own pleasure.
Arthur's fingers play over his shoulder-blades, down the bumps of his spine and the dip of his back, caressing the curve of his arse. Merlin lifts it, invitingly, shifts his legs apart again so that the muscles in his thighs strain with it.
He doesn't expect the first blow.
The room rings with the slap of Arthur's open hand on his skin. Merlin doesn't even register that it hurts at first, just gasps in shock, breathing in and in. Just as it starts to blossom and tingle Arthur smacks him again, the other cheek this time. All the air rushes out of Merlin in a guttural cry, that he tries to stifle but it becomes a whimper on the third blow, and the fourth, fresh on the already sensitive skin of his arse.
He's being spanked. Arthur— Arthur is— Merlin can't seem to encompass the thought properly. He can feel each like a brand, and if his ears and face are heating with humiliation then he knows his arse must be redder.
Arthur strikes him evenly, just enough space after the shock of each that Merlin thinks he might be able to catch his breath, but not enough for it to happen, his cock pressed painfully into the wood of the table and his eyes stinging with tears. "Please," he chokes out. "Arthur."
"You embarrassed me in front of my father, Merlin!" Arthur says angrily. "I've told you more than once to mind your manners, but you never listen, do you?" A stinging slap. "Do you?"
"N-no," Merlin stammers.
"You know how I hate to repeat myself," says Arthur sternly. "Yet you persist in ignoring even the simplest of orders."
Merlin's body feels like a conflagration now, his fingers white-knuckled on the table as though holding onto something will keep him from flying apart. "I'm sorry," he manages. "I won't do it again, Arthur, I'm sorry."
"How am I meant to concentrate on running Camelot when you're there, provoking me. Taunting me." Arthur's palm lingers on a cheek for a moment and it's just one more sensation in the cacophony of Merlin's body, but somehow suddenly it's too much and he loses himself in the sensation, screwing up his face and rutting his erection against the edge of the table.
"Please," he says, not sure what he's asking for. "Arthur."
Arthur smacks him again in answer, his strikes faster now, less rhythm and surety. "You deserve this, don't you? You deserve to be spanked like a child, because you're a terrible manservant. Worst I've ever had."
"Stop," Merlin says with a hoarse sob, squashing his nose against the table, feeling his wet face smearing against it. His breath hitches, and he's barely aware of what he's saying. "I can't— don't, please, stop—"
The rain of blows ceases, and Arthur moves around the table, into his line of sight, concern plain on his face. "Are you all right?" he asks, bending over it to cup the back of Merlin's neck, stroke a soothing thumb behind the skin of his ear. His palm is warm. It helps Merlin come back to himself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to actually hurt you."
Merlin pushes himself up onto his elbows unsteadily, scrubs at his face. "God, no, Arthur, it's fine, I don't—" the words stick in his throat awkwardly, but Arthur seems horrified at himself and Merlin can't bear to see that expression on his face. "Arthur, really, I don't want you to stop."
"But you said—"
"I know, but it was— I was getting into it." Merlin can feel himself blushing furiously.
Arthur raises an eyebrow, bemused. "You're actually enjoying this?"
Merlin nods, closes his eyes as Arthur's hand strokes down his back, soothing. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I'm not scared," scoffs Arthur. He hesitates. "Do you want to... keep going?"
"Of course," says Merlin. "Do you?" Arthur presses his lips together. "Arthur."
"It's not that I don't like it," Arthur admits. "You should see how you look, spread out and rosy-arsed and crying my name."
"We'll take a break," Merlin says, hearing what he's not saying, and then groans a little as he straightens up. His back is protesting, and his arse— well, he's fairly certain he won't be able to sit down properly for quite a while to come. Arthur wraps around him from behind, nuzzling at his neck, and even the mere brush of his breeches is enough to make Merlin flinch and hiss through his teeth. But then Arthur takes him in hand, just squeezing his cock gently, and the pain turns liquid-good. Merlin moans.
"You really were enjoying it," Arthur marvels, thumbing over the head of Merlin's cock, already dark and slick with precome. "Come on, over to the bed."
Merlin crawls into the center of Arthur's huge four-poster and stretches out luxuriously, looking over his shoulder to watch Arthur undress. "Are you going to fuck me?" he asks, thinking how that would feel, Arthur's thighs slapping against his sore arse with every thrust, and unable to stop himself sliding his cock against the soft sheets with want for it.
"Not just yet," Arthur murmurs, coming to sit on the bed beside him, huge and naked and perfect. He cards his fingers through Merlin's hair absently. "I have something I want to try. But I'd like—" he clenches his jaw for a moment, addressing the air above Merlin's head. "I want a way for you to really call an end to it, so we don't get... confused again."
Merlin kisses his wrist, overwhelmed by a sudden combination of long-suffering and affection for Arthur's ingrained nobility of heart. "What if we had a word that meant stop, then, something I'm not likely to use accidentally?" Arthur nods, touches his face gently. "Ah, how about 'dragon'?"
That gets him a weird look from Arthur, probably because there's mischief in Merlin's eyes, but he nods again. "Dragon," he assents. "All right."
Merlin loves Arthur's hands; they're big, and calloused from sword-fighting in just the right places, his fingers thick and sure and strong. They're a warrior's hands, but they can be soft. Arthur often rubs Merlin's head and neck and shoulders like he's one of Arthur's horses or hunting dogs, and Merlin will turn his face into it happily. Now they're stroking down his back, thumbs easing the tension in the long lines of muscle, and even though he's still straining for release Merlin feels wrung out, the gentle attention making him loose and limp and useless.
Once he seems to feel that Merlin is pliant enough — and certainly Merlin is worried he might just sink down through the mattress and into the bed — Arthur maneuvers a pillow under Merlin's hips and nudges his legs apart. Merlin smiles dreamily into the mattress, thinking how good Arthur's fingers will be when they stretch him open.
But Arthur's taking his time, massaging around Merlin's arse, running his fingers dry and careful up and down the crack, barely touching his hole. As relaxed as he is, Merlin still arches into it a little, spreading himself wider and tipping his arse up in offering. As if in response Arthur licks a stripe up one cheek, and his mouth is at first too warm and then deliciously cool on Merlin's sensitized skin. A pleased little sigh escapes Merlin's mouth, and Arthur does it again.
Arthur keeps laving over Merlin's arse, soothing the soreness and leaving behind a tingling sensation that spreads down to Merlin's cock. "So good," Merlin murmurs hazily, and he can feel Arthur's chuckle.
"Just remember you can stop me at any time," Arthur reminds him, and it's Merlin's turn to laugh; in bafflement, because why on earth would he want to stop Arthur from—
Arthur's tongue slips down between his cheeks and Merlin squirms. Oh.
Gently, Arthur holds him open, and even the pinch of his rough fingers is good. But Merlin can't breathe properly because Arthur's mouth is making its way down to his bollocks and back up again, and that's— he's dirty, that's not where mouths should go, that's where he—
"Shh, shh," Arthur says, rubbing the back of his thigh, and Merlin realizes he's tense and whimpering, face flushed again.
"You can't," he gasps. Arthur kisses his hole in answer, and any further protestations Merlin might have made turn into desperate keening. He writhes as Arthur keeps licking flat-tongued, pressing against the skin behind his balls and it feels amazing, better than anything, and filthy, and shameful, and Merlin feels like he might come at any moment.
Then Arthur works his tongue inside, and Merlin can feel it: the scrape of Arthur's stubble, the mild press of his teeth, the wet that's everywhere and the deep, pointed thrusts of Arthur's tongue.
"Fuck," Merlin groans. It's so intimate— more intimate than anything else they've done together— and he can't help pushing back onto Arthur's face. Arthur smacks his arse and Merlin whines and shudders and tries to get a hand underneath himself, squeezes and jerks at an awkward angle and Arthur smacks him again, harder, and all the pleasure and need and humiliation that's been building up inside Merlin explodes out of him in a rush and he sees spots behind his eyes as he comes.
For a moment Merlin just drifts, feeling like he's floating, unable to form coherent thought.
It's not that he's passed out; he's aware of Arthur wriggling up his body, sliding his cock against Merlin's wet arse, never pressing inside him but just fucking into the channel, short and sharp. He can hear Arthur's hoarse pants, feel the tension in his body, but it all feels detached, dreamlike. When Arthur finishes, Merlin feels that, too, spunk pooling in the small of his back, and he's wracked with an aftershock of pleasure.
"Christ," says Arthur, flopping onto his back and looking across at Merlin. Merlin pillows his head on his arms and looks back, fondly. Arthur's a mess, swollen lips and jaw shiny with spit, cheeks flushed and his pupils still blown and glassy.
"That was amazing," Merlin says, and maybe there's too much adoration in his voice and eyes because Arthur looks away, up at the canopy of the bed.
They drift for a while, and Arthur's hand moves to card through Merlin's hair, a soothing back and forth motion. When Merlin breaks the silence with: "What are you thinking?" the hand stills, and Arthur draws it back.
"Not much."
"Nothing new there," says Merlin with raised eyebrows, but he's too tired to bait Arthur properly and Arthur's too tired to respond with more than a light shove.
Another silence, and Merlin shifts. The rawness of his arse is beginning to make itself known. "I should go back to my room," he says, a little awkwardly. "Gaius has some salve I could—"
Arthur presses a finger to his lips. He slides off the bed, and Merlin twists to watch him, wincing. He returns with his own jar of salve, undoes the cap deftly, and if Merlin wasn't completely spent he thinks he'd be hard again because it feels perfect on his skin as Arthur rubs it in with slow circles.
Arthur washes his hands and douses the candles. Merlin watches him move in the faint light from the glowing coals of the fireplace, trying to find the willpower to move. He really shouldn't stay. Gaius will notice if he's not in his bed. He really shouldn't—
"You'll have to sleep on your stomach," Arthur says, sliding back beneath the covers and tugging them up around both their shoulders before flopping an arm over Merlin. It's very warm. Merlin smiles a little dumbly against his pillow, only emerging to peek at Arthur, who's already closed his eyes.
"G'night," Merlin mumbles.
"Night, Merlin," Arthur replies. "Sleep well."
+
Arthur's not used to asking for things— not just a demand with a polite question mark, the cliff-edge of truly asking something. The words stick in his throat, the time never seems right, and while he has no desire to force anything, he also doesn't want to hear: no. Doesn't want to watch the denial curl through Merlin, making him ungainly and apologetic, straining the tendons in Arthur's neck and embarrassing the both of them. So he doesn't ever bring it up; doesn't even hint; doesn't let so much as a breath of dissatisfaction escape him. Arthur is well-practised at wanting something he cannot have.
But the idea sticks.
It washes through his dreams in greens and blues; Merlin is a water-creature, and Arthur joins him in the coldness and brightness of it, feels their bare skin slick against each other. In the dream they have to hide, and Merlin tugs him down; they're in a tunnel, everything hazy and dark with the weight of the water, and when Merlin kisses him Arthur opens his mouth and lets the water rush in, draws it further, chokes a flurry of bubbles that tickle over the two of them and—
He wakes up gasping burning lungfuls of air, achingly hard. Merlin thinks he's having nightmares. He wakes with Arthur; as he always does, whether it's to escape dream shades or fight real ones. Even on the days with early training, when Arthur's eyes open as the first rays of the sun are trickling in hazy pink over the horizon, Merlin will rouse himself enough to rub his face over Arthur's like a cat, muttering reminders and endearments neither of them will remember later, before falling back into a doze.
It always seems so vivid. Arthur doesn't really remember drowning, but imagination fills the gaps in his memory, and he can clearly picture Merlin soaked and desperate above him, scrabbling hands across his chest as if to press the water from his lungs, pulling him back to life.
Sometimes, when he's alone, Arthur will duck down under the surface of his bath, folding himself awkwardly in the wooden tub so he can wrap a hand around his dick and jerk himself off in rapid strokes. With his face submerged in the hot, soapy water Arthur can wonder, and fantasize, and dare himself to take a breath he knows he never will.
"That manservant of yours," Uther says mildly as they're going over the tariff figures for the coming months. "You're very close to him, aren't you?"
Arthur stills. "What of it?"
Uther just hums; he's been in a good mood this afternoon, joking quietly, jostling playfully with his son in the spaces between work. "I've told you before, it's not good to get too attached to a servant. We employ them. We cannot allow them leniency."
"Is there a problem with Merlin, Father?" Arthur asks carefully.
"The boy is devoted, certainly," says Uther. He shakes his head. "And able-bodied. But he disrespects you."
Arthur wants to explain that it's all right, that it doesn't bother him anymore — that in some strange, unequal way, they're friends. His father wouldn't understand that any more than he'd understand the strange relationship that has sprung up between them. Uther knows intimately the give and take of power required to balance a kingdom, but in personal dynamics he is near intractable. "Merlin has a mouth on him, certainly," Arthur replies, feigning diffidence. "But he knows his place."
"I wonder," Uther says. There is a pause. "It is of no matter. Have you finished the sums for June? It's been a quiet year; perhaps we could take a larger percentage of the harvest, to buffer our grain stores." And they're back to work.
It isn't really any one thing. But Arthur, loathe as he is to admit it, worries about Merlin. He worries about his people. He worries about his father, too, and his tendency to leave more and more of the running of the kingdom to Arthur, under the guise of teaching him. Arthur knows he will be king one day, but the thought that it would be while Uther still lived, every change and decision held in judgement, had never even crossed his mind.
They lose an entire patrol on the border of Cendred's kingdom. Once upon a time Arthur wouldn't have batted an eyelid. Losses were just another fact of their duty, and though Arthur knows the names of his men and leads them into battle, he had learned the hard way not to get too close. But the knights are scarcer — those that do step forward are brave and capable men, but there are only so many nobles in the kingdom willing to take a dangerous job. Arthur thinks of Lancelot, and regrets.
And the kingdom seems to always need defending. They wipe out an infestation of giant scorpions in the forest, and a bandit encampment moves to take its place. There always seem to be more sorcerers, or those who loved sorcerers, coming to avenge their dead kin.
A flood in the Northern regions loses them not just a significant fraction of the harvest, but a good many peasants. Arthur stares at waterlogged bodies lined up for the pyre with a desperation he cannot help. It itches under his skin, and even his time with Merlin will not satisfy him anymore.
The bridge arches over the river, and Arthur leans on the railing, staring down at the shifting greens of the water. It's slow-moving — there hasn't been rain in a couple of weeks — and the early afternoon sunlight peeks through the canopy and sparkles off the surface. The weather is unseasonably nice, more fit for spring, and Arthur steps back and bends to unbuckle his boots, shucking his riding clothes with a carefully blank mind.
When he's down to his breeches he climbs over the railing and perches there. He feels strangely at ease. This path is disused, but he wonders what a passer-by would think, seeing their Prince sitting so contemplatively quiet.
That thought skirts too close to the why and how of his desires, and before he can talk himself out of it Arthur launches himself forward into a dive, breaching the water sleekly and for a moment swimming easily, weightless. Then the current catches him.
The slow movement of the surface had been deceptive; this deep, it's strong, and it buffets him easily, pinning him down, all his athletic ability useless against the water that surrounds him. Arthur lets himself be dragged loose-limbed down the river. The rush of this kicks his brain into overdrive and now he can't help but think of rocks and rapids, biting fish, leeches, all the hidden dangers. Already the need for air is aching through him. Arthur begins to battle his way to the surface.
It's different to the lake, more tumultuous. Even with his eyes open Arthur can't make out more than shadows and light, and he's no longer sure which way is up. His elbow knocks against something and he yells, precious air whirled away. He's exhilarated, and the closer he comes to drowning the better he feels. There's a strange freedom in the knowledge that he could die here, that the training and control of years might not be enough to save him.
Then he feels himself being dragged out of the water. This time there's no grasping hand, and he doesn't pass out; he's dizzy but aware as he breaks the surface and the world comes flooding back. The air is so good, pouring into his lungs sweetly. He can hear the sounds of the forest, feel the water sheeting from his bare skin, the movement of the breeze as his invisible savior carries him to the bank.
Merlin is waiting there, hand outstretched and eyes a furious gold.
Arthur digs his fingers into the soft black soil and breathes; right now there's no room in him for anything else but the rise and fall of his chest. But then realization slams through him with as much force as the river, as shocking as his emergence from the water.
"What the hell, Arthur?" Merlin is shouting, his face fierce and starkly pale, practically unrecognizable. He falls to his knees beside Arthur, reaching for him, and Arthur skitters backwards in a panic.
There are two images in his mind. His clumsy manservant, bony and wide-eyed and constantly in awe of the world around him, beautiful blushing and whimpering and spread beneath Arthur. And this stranger, cold and savage and sorcerous. He cannot reconcile that they are the same person.
"No, I'm— don't, please, Arthur." Then Arthur realizes that Merlin is terrified as well as angry, and somehow that's enough for him to see his Merlin in this man's face.
"You're a sorcerer," he spits, getting unsteadily to his feet and taking in the terrain, still buzzing with adrenaline.
"You tried to kill yourself," Merlin shoots back. "You— I wouldn't have been in time, otherwise, I couldn't, I had to save you."
"You're a sorcerer," Arthur roars, as though this is a new argument. "How long!"
Merlin's lips thin and he twists his fingers together, the fury falling from his face. "Always," he admits, and then: "I couldn't tell you!"
"Why not!?"
"Because I knew you'd react like this!" Merlin waves a hand between them.
"I trusted you," Arthur snaps.
Merlin flinches. "I still trust you," he says slowly. "I do. Arthur, please."
Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to reign himself in. Merlin just saved his life, and not for the first time. It would be poor form to repay that with a one-way trip to the executioner's block. This is not the first time Arthur has doubted his father's unyielding stance on magic, his insistence that it is chaotic and evil, no matter what purpose it is put to. Yet there's still something wounded and ugly lodged in his chest, because he loves Merlin, with a strength he cannot, will not ever put voice to, and this feels like bitter betrayal.
It takes no more than three steps to cross to Merlin, and Arthur's fingers smear dirt across his pale skin as he drags Merin in for a bruising kiss. "You must never lie to me," he says darkly, their faces close. "Not ever, or I'll run you through myself."
Merlin sags against him, weak with obvious relief. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry. Never again, I promise."
"Good," says Arthur viciously, holding Merlin tightly as he looks down the crooked line of the river to the bridge in the distance. The water had carried him quite far quite quickly. "How did you find me?"
"I followed you. You were acting odd, and I wondered—" Merlin gulps, draws back to look at him with the same mixture of emotions that had been plastered on his face the last time he'd had to drag Arthur out of the water. "You jumped, didn't you?"
"I wasn't trying to end my life," Arthur says, because that hadn't been the goal at all, even if it had seemed inevitable towards the end.
"Then why—"
"Don't," Arthur warns him, pulling away and walking briskly back towards the place he'd left his horse and clothing. "You will speak of this to no-one, and I shall do likewise."
"All right," says Merlin, a pace behind him and sounding uncertain.
They ride back to Camelot together in silence, Merlin a steady presence in the saddle behind him, arms wrapped around Arthur tightly, and if he cries a little when he presses his face into Arthur's tunic, it's already river-damp and Arthur can pretend not to notice.
That night, Arthur collapses wearily into bed, watching through half-lidded eyes as Merlin extinguishes the candles around his room.
"Goodnight, sire."
"Merlin." He hears more than sees Merlin still halfway to the door. "Stay?"
Merlin undresses without a word, and climbs in beside him, and Arthur tugs him close. It's familiar, now; the tickle of his hair under Arthur's chin, the way he rests his hand on the dip of Arthur's hip, his cold feet tucking under Arthur's for warmth.
"You know I'd do anything for you," Merlin whispers into the space between them.
"Shut up and go to sleep," is Arthur's only reply, but he kisses Merlin's forehead with brief tenderness before he shuts his eyes.
+
Everything is fragile between them now, and Merlin's wary of it. He's pretty sure Arthur is no longer even contemplating having Merlin arrested, but he doesn't bring up Merlin's magic, either. When King Uther condemns an old woman to death for selling poultices in the lower town Arthur is tense and unhappy, and Merlin wonders if it is the injustice of the law or the treason of breaking it that troubles him.
For several days they barely say two words to each other; Arthur gives Merlin his duties tersely and he goes about them quickly and quietly, keeping his head down. The only contact they have is at night, when Arthur drags him to the bed; they do not kiss, or even talk, but those moments before sleep when Merlin can pillow his head on Arthur's chest and listen to his heartbeat in the dark — they help Merlin get through each day.
Then comes the morning where Arthur pours a goblet of water with his breakfast and offers it to Merlin. Thinking it is perhaps a strange sort of peace treaty, Merlin gulps it down, but Arthur only refills his cup and watches him like a hawk. When Arthur starts to replenish it a second time, Merlin touches his wrist lightly. "I'm fine, thanks."
"Drink it," Arthur says softly, dangerously, and Merlin does so with no little confusion. Apparently satisfied, Arthur takes him by the shoulder and leads him over to the gigantic wardrobe that lurks in the corner of his bedchambers. "I have a task for you, Merlin. I need you to go through my clothes; check them all for stains, holes, moths, that sort of thing. Sort out any that need to be thrown away and refold the rest— neatly, if you please, some of us like our things in order."
Merlin's shoulders sag. "That will take ages," he protests, and Arthur raises his eyebrows.
"I imagine it might, yes," he says. When Merlin doesn't move, Arthur pushes him lightly. "Well? Get to it, you don't have all day."
Dragging his feet, Merlin starts to empty out the drawers. He thinks perhaps he might be able to use magic to speed the job along — refolding some of the garments, perhaps — but Arthur has moved over to his desk and taken out some paperwork, and he's showing no sign of moving in the near future.
Occasionally, as Merlin works, Arthur glances up and says things like, "Careful with that jacket, Merlin, you'll never get the creases out," or "I'd rather you didn't leave my best tunic in a heap on the floor like that, thanks," or "Keep that one, actually, it was a gift from Morgana."
It's around about midday when the urge strikes Merlin, three quarters of the way through the clothes; he grimaces, glances at Arthur, and then heads for the door.
"Did I say you could stop?" Arthur asks, putting down his quill as Merlin turns.
"It's just— it's almost lunchtime, sire. I thought—"
"I'll have someone else fetch me lunch. I wouldn't want to interrupt you— you're obviously very busy."
Merlin shifts where he stands, and then sighs and goes back to it. He's fairly sure he can control his bladder long enough to finish the job, and he's too stubborn to request permission just to use the privvy.
True to his word, Arthur does call for lunch, and he offers some of his bread and cheese to Merlin: "As long as you don't get crumbs in my clothes." Merlin eats them leaning against a bedpost, leg bent awkwardly as he resists the urge to jiggle.
"Would you like a drink, Merlin?" Arthur asks, all false geniality, and approaches him with the same goblet. Merlin begins to wonder if maybe Arthur is doing this on purpose. The look in his eye says it's a sure thing. "You must be thirsty."
"No, I—"
"Merlin." Arthur leans in so they're nose to nose, his gaze predatory. "Drink."
Merlin obeys.
He thinks perhaps he understands the purpose a short while later, after he's closed the doors of the wardrobe and is collecting the pile of discarded garments. "Shall I take these down to the seamstresses then? They're always wanting new fabric."
Arthur shakes his head. "No, leave them. You can read, can you not?"
"Yes," Merlin says, leaving the clothes in a heap by the bed. "My mother taught me."
"Good." Arthur picks a heavy tome from the stack beside him and thumps it down on the table. "I need you to go through this book and record the crop intake for each harvest for each county for the last twenty years." At Merlin's wince, he shakes his head, misunderstanding. "Don't worry, I'm not going to make you add the numbers up or anything so tiresome. I just need them copied out."
"Arthur—" Merlin swallows; the ache in his bladder is insistent, now. "I need to— I just have to go see Gaius, first."
"Gaius!" Arthur repeats, tone jocular. "Why?"
"He said..." Merlin's gaze shifts away. "He said he might need some errands run?"
"I'm sure he'll make do without you," Arthur says.
Merlin swallows, and he knows that Arthur knows so he says it, even though it makes his ears heat. "I need to use the privvy!"
"Well, at least you've stopped lying," Arthur reflects, and Merlin feels a stab of guilt. "No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"Do you not understand the word, Merlin? Actually, that would explain rather a lot." Arthur gives a small huff of amusement. "Sit down and start writing out those figures."
"Arthur, please." Merlin is fairly sure that this is one of their games, and he thinks maybe if he begs...
"No."
Running a hand through his hair, Merlin grabs a chair and thumps it down opposite Arthur, sitting himself in it awkwardly and glaring across at him. Arthur seems unaffected.
This is the table where he'd spread Merlin out and spanked him, and Merlin is fairly sure that this is another one of their games — knows that if he really wanted Arthur to stop he could say dragon and Arthur would leave off. But despite the urge to piss, Merlin's curious to see where this is going. Does he want Merlin to beg, really beg? Or be forced to use the chamber pot under the bed, right here where Arthur can see? Both ideas make Merlin flush, but his sense of dignity stops him voicing these questions allowed, and he pulls across a piece of parchment and tries to lose himself in the dull lists of yields and tariffs.
But the work is boring, and Merlin's mind wanders. At least Arthur's stopped leaving any room that has Merlin in it. Maybe once he's proved his point Arthur will take Merlin to bed— and that thought has Merlin half-hard in his breeches, uncomfortable but slightly less desperate.
The sky is dusky pink by the time Merlin turns the last page of the book and lets out a groan of relief. "Done," he says, and Arthur looks up at him. He's squirming slightly in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn't press on his swollen bladder. "Can I go?"
Arthur brings the end of his quill to his mouth, thinking. "I think you need to be more specific."
"Can I—" Merlin wets his lips. "Can I go to the privvy?" As an afterthought, he tacks on: "Sire."
Arthur smiles. Merlin smiles back hopefully. "No," says Arthur, and pushes his chair back, standing up.
Merlin does the same, trying not to look too crestfallen, and then he has to reach down and grip his cock through his breeches, pinching it tightly. Arthur's gaze tracks the movement as he circles the table.
"Please," Merlin says, voice breaking. "Arthur, please, I need to piss."
Arthur leans in and kisses him, gentle but open-mouthed, and Merlin's wanted this for days, his eyes fluttering closed as he kisses back, sucking Arthur's tongue into his mouth and feeling it lick over his teeth. When Arthur draws back Merlin moans, screws his face up for a moment and does a little dance on the spot, feeling like a little child.
"You're not leaving this room," Arthur says throatily.
"Do you want me to, um, go in front of you?" Merlin hedges, giving Arthur an impassioned look. Arthur ruffles his hair and chuckles.
"That's the idea," he says. Merlin's cock twitches treacherously, but he can't even get hard. Instead he walks over to the bed, stopping halfway to bend double, willing himself to hold it just a little longer, trying to forget about Arthur's presence. Crouching to peer under nearly undoes him, and he feels his cock leak the tiniest squirt of piss, not enough to even mark his breeches, but it makes him flush and grab at his groin again.
The chamber pot isn't there. Merlin fishes uselessly for a moment and then stares at Arthur, who's looking irritatingly self-satisfied, the bastard.
"I had it sent to be cleaned," he says by way of explanation. "Didn't I mention?"
Merlin grits his teeth and gets wobblingly to his feet, glancing around the room to try and find something else he can use— a vase, maybe, or a bowl, or what had become of the water pitcher? A little noise he hadn't meant to make chokes its way past his tight throat, and he feels himself leaking again; more, this time, dribbling hot and awful from his dick to leave a dark stain that he knows Arthur can see. It's painful, now, to hold it back, his abdomen tight and hurting, and Merlin feels tears prick the corner of his eyes. He staggers a few steps forward. "Please, Arthur, please."
Arthur circles around behind him and wraps an arm around his waist. Merlin thinks it's going to be a hug, and then Arthur touches his lips to the sharp jut of Merlin's jaw and presses two fingers, hard, over Merlin's bladder.
Merlin sobs. There's no stopping it, after that; he starts to wet himself, urine seeping through his pants and trickling down his leg into his boots.
This hasn't happened to him since he was very small and unable to control himself, and the hot flush of embarrassment was the same then as it is now, burning through him. He can't quite seem to get his mind around it, still trying to fight the inevitable even as he thinks, I'm pissing myself, I'm pissing my pants in front of the prince.
But it feels good, too, even as he's soaking his breeches. The release is almost like coming, and he has the same sense of dizziness, of being able to let go, even as he starts to cry in earnest. Arthur's rubbing circles on his stomach and murmuring in his ear, filthy revilement mixed with soft comforting noises.
"Shhh," he mutters. "It's all right. God, Merlin, look at you, making such a mess of yourself."
Merlin looks down at the large blotch where the fabric is clinging wet and uncomfortable to his skin; it spreads out from his cock and down one leg. The smell of it is strong, catching at the back of his throat and making him wrinkle his nose. He feels completely humiliated, and he doesn't move even after the last of it has dripped from him and he feels his cock start to swell.
"I'm sorry," he sniffles, not sure whether he's apologizing for the puddle on the stone floor, or whatever it is in him that has him getting hard at this, or all the other terrible things he's done, the things that stand between him and Arthur.
"You wet yourself, Merlin," Arthur says, like he doesn't quite believe it, even if Merlin knows this had been his intention all along.
"I'm sorry," Merlin repeats.
"Clean it up, then," says Arthur, and Merlin stops leaning back against him, turns to try and catch sight of his expression. Surely Arthur can't expect him to get on his knees and—
"Are you a sorcerer or aren't you?" Arthur asks, exasperated, and Merlin can feel the ridiculous expression his face is pulling but he can't seem to do anything about it. He does know a spell for cleaning up spills, and another for drying laundry fast— both learned on the job, as it were. After a hesitant pause, the desire to be clean and dry outweighs the lingering fear of Arthur's anger and he whispers quiet words until there's no evidence left that he wet himself at all bar a bone-deep sense of shame.
Arthur removes Merlin's clothes methodically, and Merlin lets him, raising his arms so his tunic can be tugged off, lifting his legs at the appropriate moments, a strange reversal of his usual duties. His hand on Merlin's cock is equally thorough, just hard enough, twisting just the right way over the head, free hand wandering to pinch pink nipples into hardness, and Merlin loses himself entirely in the pleasure until orgasm slams through him.
He's vaguely aware that Arthur's carried him to the bed, and he sprawls on it, reveling in the feeling of being totally wrung out, physically and emotionally. Arthur lays a line of soft kisses along his collarbone, up his neck, flutters them over his face and then just props himself on an elbow and looks.
When he's recovered enough to speak again, Merlin finds his voice is husky with sex. "You're still dressed."
"Mm," Arthur agrees absently, tracing a finger over Merlin's lips. Merlin sucks it into his mouth greedily and Arthur groans.
"You make me feel really good," Merlin says, meeting Arthur's lust-darkened eyes. "Tell me how I can make you feel good, too."
"I wouldn't object to anything you wanted to do," Arthur replies, leaning in for a kiss.
Merlin lets it go on for a little while, lets Arthur be the one to pull back, dazed, and then he says: "That's not what I meant." He bites his lip, not certain he wants to raise this subject when he doesn't have all the pieces of the puzzle, when he doesn't know if Arthur will ever trust him again. "When you went to the river—" he tries.
Instantly, Arthur's face closes off, goes hard, and Merlin has to rouse his sluggish limbs and catch him in an embrace before he can get off the bed. "Arthur. Arthur. It's all right if you don't want to tell me, we don't have to talk about it." Arthur relaxes fractionally. "But I'm not exactly in a position to judge if it's— and I wouldn't think any less of you. I couldn't."
There's a long silence, where Arthur's hands play over Merlin's skin, tactile even when deep in thought. "I liked it," Arthur says eventually.
"Er," says Merlin, trying to fill in the gaps. "Swimming?"
Arthur swallows hard. "Drowning."
Merlin nods. "At first I thought you were trying to top yourself, and I was really worried. But you were so— I mean, if it hadn't been for the magic, I felt like we might've— and our, um, our first time, by the lake..."
"Yeah," says Arthur, sounding defeated. "I'm a freak."
"No! No, no, no, Arthur." Merlin kisses him quickly, wishing his could kiss those words right out of Arthur's mouth. "You're not! I mean, maybe Sophia did something to your brain, made you associate drowning with, well—"
Arthur's gaze sharpens. "What does Sophia have to do with this?"
"Ah. Right." Merlin grimaces. "She enchanted you so you'd elope with her. But really she took you to a lake and tried to drown you, as a sort of... sacrificial offering." He winces. "But I saved you."
"It seems," says Arthur, pinning him with a hard stare, "That you do that quite a lot, eh Merlin?
"I suppose you need a lot of saving, sire," Merlin says innocently, trying not to laugh because he knows he should be serious. "Especially if you're going to go around jumping into creeks and things just to get off."
"And what would you suggest?" Arthur asks.
"Well, you do have a bath," points out Merlin. "Or— is it the water or just the, ah, breathing... aspect?"
"I don't know," Arthur says, sounding reluctant but looking intrigued.
"I'd like to experiment with you," Merlin says. "If you'll let me."
Arthur smiles widely, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Of course," he says, tone sedate in contrast to his expression. "I trust you with my life, Merlin." Merlin can't help but grin back, gladder than he ever thought he would be to hear those words. "But not now. Right now I think I'd prefer to experiment with how quickly I can open you up for me."
Merlin feels his spent cock twitch, and shivers. "Well," he says, still thrumming with happiness and reaching to start undressing Arthur. "Anything in the name of science."
+
Merlin walks his fingers up Arthur's spine, to the nape of his neck, and lets them linger there, resting his forearm on the edge of the tub. Neither of them are clothed, but only Arthur is in the bath. It looks like it must be an awkward angle, but if so, Merlin doesn't complain.
"Whenever you're ready," Merlin says, caressing, and Arthur swallows.
"I don't know," Arthur demurs, even though he wants this desperately.
Merlin picks up Arthur's hand, laces their fingers together, and Arthur squeezes tight. "I'm right here," he says, squeezing back. "If you let go of my hand—"
"You'll bring me back up again. You've only said it a thousand times, Merlin."
"Just being sure." Merlin grins.
Arthur closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Then slowly, he lowers himself backwards into the tub.
The water that closes over his eyes and mouth is warm, and there's none of the violence and panic that he's felt before. Just softly sinking backwards, Merlin with him all the way, one hand cupping Arthur's neck and the other held tight. It's quiet, almost ethereally so. The thoughts that rush in to fill the silence barely linger; he doesn't have the focus for them, all his attention to the physical.
Not just his lungs, either, or the way his cock swells. He can feel where the water washes over his feet, and legs, and chest. Where his muscles are tense, and where they're gently relaxing. The pressure of his ear-drums. The thrum of his own pulse, louder in his ears the longer it goes on. It makes him recognize the strength in his own body, even as it makes him vulnerable.
His perception of time must slow, because it feels an age before Merlin's hand is lifting, urging, and the world comes slamming back. The first breath is so sweet.
"That was ten seconds," Merlin says once Arthur's blinked the water from his eyelashes. "D'you want to try fifteen?"
"Ten?" Arthur asks incredulously.
"That's what we agreed on."
"That's what you insisted on," grumbles Arthur, but it's hard to believe he had only been under for a bare ten seconds. "You're not counting fast enough."
"I know how to count the seconds, Arthur," says Merlin derisively. Arthur pinches the back of his hand and he yelps and then flushes, sucks his full lower lip between his teeth. Arthur's watching him closely enough to track when his gaze darts down to Arthur's body in the water.
"Fifteen then," he agrees, before Merlin stops thinking about him and starts thinking about reducing the time. Merlin rolls his eyes but his hand is steady as he guides Arthur down.
There's the same feeling of sensory deprivation as last time, of relaxation mixed with a sense of urgency, a need to struggle. The longer it goes the more urgency begins to win out, and Arthur's lungs strain; his head swims; he flirts with the idea of taking a gulping breath, but it's just an idea. Merlin has him breaking the surface again before he has the nerve or the need.
"How did that feel?" Merlin asks, rubbing his palm down Arthur's spine as he leans forward a little, hangs his head so the wet locks of his fringe unstick from his forehead and hang in front of his eyes. He's gasping, a little dizzy, and unbearably hard. It's almost embarrassing.
"Good," Arthur says roughly. He doesn't want to admit it, but he reminds himself that Merlin has opened himself up for Arthur time and time again, and tries harder. "Really good."
"Good," says Merlin firmly. "Um, d'you need me to—" he makes the slide of his hand a little exaggerated as it moves over Arthur's waist, down to his hip. Lust leaps in Arthur's gut, and he shivers.
"Yeah— no. Wait. Once more."
Merlin actually looks disappointed, but he nods and slips his hand away. He dips his head and kisses Arthur's fingers, where they're white-knuckled around his own. "More time? Less?"
"The same." Arthur grins. He feels ebullient, and anticipatory, and so close to sating some hunger within him that he thought he could never quiet. He's still smiling as Merlin dips him under the water, and it slides into his mouth. It tastes strange, in the way that warmer water does, but not soapy. It washes in and out, and Arthur thinks of fish, and tides, and then nothing at all.
He comes to in a slow, unhurried sort of way, staring up at the canopy of his bed. It's a dark burgundy, and Arthur has lost countless hours of sleeplessness studying the way it drapes and stretches, the texture of the weave. He coughs once, a little weakly, throat sore, but it doesn't feel like there's water in his lungs. Nor does he feel wet.
"Arthur." Merlin's nearby voice is laced with both fear and subsequent relief. "You idiot."
"Too long?" Arthur scrapes out, remembering.
"Too soon," Merlin explains. He gives a huff, somewhere between frustrated and amused. It's a familiar sound. "You probably didn't catch your breath properly. Couple of seconds and you sunk like a stone."
"Mm." Still, he's beginning to come more awake, fit the pieces together. They'd agreed that if Arthur fell unconscious Merlin could use magic. Which explained how he'd managed to get him out of the bath and dry him off. It doesn't bother him as much as he thought it would — but then, he's in an oddly brilliant mood.
"I'm glad you're all right," Merlin adds, and he sounds it. After a moment of Arthur's abstraction, he adds: "We won't do it more than twice, next time."
He's kneeling on the bed beside Arthur, leaning into his line of sight, and for a moment Arthur just looks at him. It's moments like this that terrify Arthur more than magic, when he loves so fiercely that it almost hurts. Arthur is miserly with his love, wary of loss and betrayal, unused to affection. But he can't be reluctant about it anymore, not when it's a feeling this joyous and brave. Arthur pushes himself up even as he grabs Merlin's shirt and kisses him.
"I'm fine," he murmurs fondly, and then manhandles Merlin into the mattress.
"Arthur— Arthur, you nearly drowned, you shouldn't— you can't just, ah— ah—"
Arthur tweaks his nipple with a little more force than necessary. "Don't tell me what I can't do, Merlin," he says with icy pleasantness.
Merlin arches, open-mouthed and beautiful, sliding his thigh against Arthur's cock. "Wouldn't— oh— wouldn't dream of it, sire."
"Excellent," Arthur says, thick with smugness. "Then I'm going to do whatever I like."
"Don't you always?" Merlin manages, though it turns into a groan.
"Shut up and do something useful with your mouth," Arthur retorts, and kisses him to get the last word.