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The dreams begin when Arthur is crowned heir to the throne on his twenty-first birthday. He doesn't think anything of it, at first. After all, he is a healthy young man, and since his investiture, he has been surrounded by beautiful young men and women hoping to gain his favour. Not that he can afford to grant it to anyone, but when he can have his pick of any one or dozen of them, it's surely only natural that he should . . . consider the possibilities.
Perhaps it's the way Percival bares his teeth in frustration as his swing glances wildly off Arthur's sword again despite his greater strength, or maybe the angle of the sun shining off the water trough where Leon has paused in splashing his face to watch them spar — for a moment, Arthur is dizzy with a sense of familiarity, and raises his sword too slow to catch the next, poorly judged swing even though it should have been just as easy to turn aside.
Leon cries out in alarm, but Percival has already checked himself, and his broadsword bites only a little into the top of Arthur's shoulder and presses the hard links of his mail shirt into his collarbone. Thank fuck he didn't decide to forgo the mail shirt today, Arthur thinks, and stumbles backwards.
"Sire!" Percival throws aside his sword and rushes forward to grab Arthur's arm before he can fall on his arse, stares at the wound in wide-eyed horror. "I didn't mean to — are you all right?"
Arthur blinks, slowly, and focuses on Percival's worried face. Distantly, he is aware of Leon calling a servant to summon the court physician to the prince's chambers and then coming up to seize his other arm. "Don't be ridiculous, you're supposed to be trying to kill me," he says, and his knees give way.
Percival's arm comes around his back, cradling him close; Leon leans in and cups his face. He closes his eyes to try to stop the world spinning, and then Leon's bearded mouth is on his, greedily nipping at his lips, hands pushing under his gambeson, one knee pressing between his legs. He gasps for air, and Leon steals the breath from him, sucking into his mouth and trapping his tongue, while Percival presses hot, sucking kisses into his neck between whispering in his ear what a good boy he is, how much he is pleasing them, how they will spread him open and fuck him, all his knights, take his arse and mouth until he is all theirs inside and out —
A cold sting where he expected Percival's tongue on the bloody scrape over his collarbone breaks the litany of filth pouring into his ears. Arthur blinks and manages to keep his eyes open long enough to see the physician's idiot apprentice, who smiles foolishly at everyone and follows Gaius around like a lost puppy, frowning down at him in worry as he dabs at Arthur's wounds with a foul-smelling wet cloth..
He's been stripped of his mail and gambeson, and the blanket is pulled up to his chest, he realises with a rush of embarrassed gratitude as he becomes aware of the aching hardness between his legs.
Gaius is speaking to his manservant, and frowning as Morris mumbles about how Arthur has been sleeping poorly, tossing and groaning in his bed like he was dying, and not eating, and his temper is even worse than usual, the traitor. He's fairly sure he didn't throw his breakfast tray at Morris, unless he did it before he woke up and didn't remember. None of it sounds anything like . . . well, what he thought he was listening to.
The apprentice presses down hard on the gash on his shoulder, and he — he comes with a choked cry, and presses his legs together in humiliation, hoping no one knows what had happened. To his relief, Gaius leaves the room with Morris, still talking quietly, and only the stupid apprentice is left.
"Are you done blundering around with that grubby rag yet?" he demands, voice rougher than he would like.
The apprentice only beams at him, and the gormless smile makes his ridiculous cheekbones stand out even sharper, and somehow it even makes his blue eyes sparkle. He puts the cloth in a bowl of even fouler liquid on the night table, and then just sits there, looking at him expectantly.
Arthur clenches and relaxes his fists, keeps himself still with an effort of will. "What are you waiting for? Get out and let me rest in peace."
"Don't worry, sire," says the apprentice. "Sometimes it takes some people that way," and before Arthur can ask what the fuck the boy is talking about, he has reached under the blanket and wrapped his hand around Arthur's soft cock, sliding it down to wipe him off.
Another waking dream, then, Arthur thinks, as the boy holds his gaze and raises his come-covered hand to his lips, licking Arthur's come from his fingers and palm like an oversized, fastidious cat.
"You taste so lovely, sire," the boy says, and he smiles again. "Won't you have mercy and let me drink from you, so it will be fresh and warm, my liege?" Arthur feels himself hardening again. Of course he can get hard as many times as he likes, it's a dream. Why not, then?
"Fine, go ahead and show me if you're any less useless a cocksucker than you are a physician." He flips the blanket back, sitting up and backing to the headboard so he can get a better view, and sneers as the boy licks his lips and crawls up the bed, putting his warm, rough palms on Arthur's thighs to spread them. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
"You are filthy, my lord," says the boy, looking up at him demurely through dark lashes, belied by his impudent smile. "Hold still and let me clean you properly first." Then he bends and begins to lap the smeared come from Arthur’s stomach and thighs with delicate dabs of his tongue, avoiding Arthur's impatient cock.
Determined not to let the little brat get the better of him, Arthur grits his teeth and lets him tease all he likes. The boy dips his tongue briefly into Arthur's bellybutton, surprising a ticklish snort from him, then smiles and moves on, venturing down, closer and closer without touching his cock or balls until he is aching with need and certain he will break his teeth if he clenches down any harder.
Then a sharp nip in the tender skin closest to his cock makes him shout in shocked pain. Furious, he grabs the boy's hair and pulls him off, shakes him roughly. "What do you think you're doing, you idiot?"
"You promised you wouldn't move, sire," the boy scolds, and his eyes glow gold. Tingling lines of force wrap around his wrists, crushingly tight, until he is forced to release the boy, and his arms are dragged behind him.
Magic, he thinks, a prickle of fear creeping up his spine and raising the hairs on his skin. A sorcerer, here to avenge the two Druids executed that morning, the man and the child. The magical bonds had eased, no longer painful, but indefinably there, real, certain in a way that tells him he could rip his arms from their sockets struggling and still be bound. "What do you want from me? Revenge?"
"Only to drink from you, my lord, as I said." The sorcerer smiles again, eyes still glowing, and Arthur is drawn back to rest on the bed again. More of the luminous vines rise up around him and drag his legs apart.
"But you're so pretty, if I started, I would only want more and more," he bends and nuzzles Arthur's cock, letting the wet tip draw glistening lines on his smooth cheek, "and I would never stop," he licks at the edge of his foreskin, "until you're nothing." Arthur whimpers in need, and the boy smiles as he touches his lips to the tip of Arthur's straining cock, "nothing but a dried-out husk." Arthur opens his mouth to protest, and sucks in his breath instead when the sorcerer slides a finger lightly in the cleft of his arse to circle his hole. .
And he shouldn't be, but he's still hard, still wants the full, red lips wrapped around his cock more than he wants to get free, maybe wants — more, wants what the sorcerer threatened him with, and there's no shame in it, not if he's bound and helpless, at the mercy of a sorcerer.
The sorcerer pushes his finger in, dry, and it hurts. He clenches down, and can't tell if he's trying to expel the intrusion or keep the sorcerer from taking it out, and he groans in mingled terror and desire.
The sorcerer touches his cheek, more tenderly than he would have expected. "Arthur! Are you all right?" he asks. Stops, adds, "Sire," as though just realising his slip in calling the prince by name like they were equals.
Arthur blinks. He cautiously stretches his legs beneath the blanket. He looks at the apprentice's earnest, innocent face and thinks of grabbing his hair again, dragging him down to his cock to finish what they started in the dream. But he's not hard at all. He's just wet and lying in his own mess.
"Gaius has a potion for you, to help you sleep," the boy says, pouring a vial of something that smells like pure evil in a cup of water and holding it out to him. It doesn't smell soothing at all. It smells like Morgana's own nightmares and sleepless nights.
"Get out," he says at last, voice cracking.
The boy hesitates. "I'll just put it here; you can take it when you want to sleep."
"I don't want it. Get out."
"I'm Merlin," the apprentice says, sober and unsmiling for once. "I'll be taking Morris' room for the time being. Call me if you need anything."
"Go!" Arthur struggles to sit up, grabs the cup and throws it at Merlin as he ducks out into the side-chamber.
It takes some effort, but Arthur gets up and cleans himself, gets a fresh nightshirt. He even tries to wipe off as much of the mess on the sheets as he can before he lies down again on the clean side.
He drifts in and out of sleep for a while afterwards, feeling unrested despite the fact the dreams seem to have ceased for now. He has the idea that his father was in his room briefly, speaking to Gaius or him, but he can't be certain.
A new cup of the foul potion appears at his bedside during one of these wakeful intervals. He doesn't touch it.
And then he comes fully awake when night falls. All his drowsing through the day hasn't made him feel any better. He's so tired he even misses the dreams. Everything is dull and colourless, except for a persistent herbal stink. When he can't stand it any more, he forces himself to get out of bed and throw the cup out the window, but the smell remains.
When he gives in to the urge to turn over, he feels something hard bunched under his pillow, and pulls out a crude poultice wrapped in a faded blue rag. It feels warm to the touch, tingling faintly like the remembered touch of the magical bindings from his last dream, and his blood runs cold.
A sorcerer has been in his room, enchanted him. The apprentice, Merlin? Would he be that obvious? Or anybody could have been in his room, really, while he slept all unknowing. He crushes it in his fist, torn. Should he burn it, or keep it for evidence, try to find some sort of clue to its origin? Did he dare keep it? How close did it need to be to work?
It was under his pillow, he reasons. Surely that meant it needed to be very close. Steeling himself, he throws it in the furthest corner of his chambers from the bed, and immediately feels better, his energy returning.
Perhaps he can sleep for real now. He lies down, and arousal rushes through his body like a sudden spring flood. He fists his cock lazily, then turns over and stuffs the pillow under his hips to hump it, trying to get more friction.
It's not quite enough.
He closes his eyes and thinks of Gaius' irritatingly oblivious apprentice sleeping in the next room, imagines going into the little room and climbing on that narrow bed on top of the boy, putting his hand over that pretty mouth to keep him from protesting when he wakes to find Arthur's cock stuffed in his tight little arse, fucking him into the thin mattress until he can only moan, "Arthur!", wrap his legs around Arthur's waist and beg for more. It's so good . . . he can almost feel the tight heat and trembling body under him as though it were real.
His orgasm, when it comes, explodes with a blinding flash behind his closed eyes and sings through his body like nothing he has ever felt before, and he falls into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
He feels even worse in the morning, aching all the way into his bones. His eyes feel gritty and sealed shut. A cool, wet towel lands with an annoyed splat over his burning eyes, and he feels so much better for it he doesn't even want to scold whoever had acted so impertinently.
"You shouldn't have done that," says an angry voice that he takes a moment to recognise as Merlin.
"Done what?" he asks, and is appalled at the pale croak that his voice has become. Then he smells it, that tell-tale herbal stink, and a wave of anger and confused betrayal burns away some of the lassitude. "It was you. Get that thing out of my bed." He grabs in the direction of the voice and catches Merlin's thin wrist.
Merlin, surprisingly, doesn't struggle, instead putting his hand over Arthur's. "Arthur, please. I know you feel bad right now, but you mustn't."
He pulls himself up, can barely open his eyes even after the towel falls off, but he doesn't care. Still clutching Merlin's wrist to keep him from escaping, he pats around his bed half-blind, trying to find the cursed poultice again, but it seems Gaius' idiot apprentice was at least smart enough to not hide it in the same place twice. "Tell me where it is!"
"Arthur, you have to stop. Please. This is how you really are now; if you take away the charm, the creature will come back and drain you completely! Listen to me!" He sounds young and desperate. Something pushes Arthur with surprising force, and he falls back on the bed, wind knocked from his chest.
He takes a moment to drag in lungfuls of air, and tries again even as exhaustion threatens to drag him back into unconsciousness. "Tell me where it is, or I will tell the King about you!"
"Arthur, I —"
"Tell me what?" Uther's voice cuts through the room, sharp and heavy as a war-axe.
"I," Merlin repeats uselessly, and falls silent.
"Guards. Take the boy to the dungeons for questioning and search the prince's chambers."
"No," Arthur says, but Uther is no longer listening. One of the guards, younger and more overeager than the rest, snatches up Arthur's other pillow and exposes a blatantly magical bunch of herbs woven in an intricate design. Arthur stares at it in outrage and despair. The other pillow. And even more obviously not a mundane item. Gaius' apprentice really could be that much of an idiot.
The guards take Merlin away in the unnatural silence, and Arthur sinks back into sleep.
When he wakes again, there is again a cool towel over his eyes, and he wonders if he might have dreamt the argument and Uther's interruption. He feels . . . good. Not quite back to his full strength, but not so exhausted that he wants to go to sleep and never wake. A woman's soft laugh makes him start, but a small hand drops down and keeps the towel over his eyes.
"Hush, it's all right, sire, we'll take care of you," says a soft, gentle voice. "Just lie back and relax. You've had such a hard time lately, it makes my heart ache for you." The woman takes his hand and presses it over her soft breast. Morgana's shy maid, Guinevere, he thinks, faintly. Surely she would never be so bold.
"Can you feel it, how you make my heart race? Here, you can feel it better like this." There is a rustle of cloth, and then his hand is pulled inside the warm fabric of a dress and over the smooth skin beneath. His thumb brushes over a hard nipple, and she sighs lingeringly, then gasps when he pinches it without thinking. "Oh, sire! You are so sly."
"You are too gentle with him," Morgana's voice rings out sharply, and Arthur snatches his hand back, pulling the towel off his eyes to see Morgana walk in as Guinevere hastily pulls her opened bodice back together. "You shouldn't let him take liberties with you like that."
"What are you doing here?"
Morgana comes up to the bed and looks down her nose at him. "Checking to see if the rumours were true and you were really dying."
It's reassuring after Guinevere's strange behaviour. He waves his hand dismissively. "As you can see, I am quite well. You can go now."
"You have indeed risen from the dead, I see," she purrs, sitting down on the bed beside Guinevere. She puts her hand on his crotch, and he hisses in shocked arousal.
"Morgana, what are you —"
Morgana ignores him. "You see, Guinevere, if you really want to help him, you shouldn't be so diffident. See how quickly he rises to my hand," she says, and rubs him firmly through his sleeping trousers. "Come, give him your breast again, and properly this time," she orders, and Arthur finds it impossible to refuse when the maid shyly opens her dress and leans down to offer her firm, full breasts to his hands and mouth, moaning softly and rocking herself on the bed as he suckles and caresses them.
He has a fleeting thought — what am I doing, this is wrong, it's Morgana — even as Morgana undoes his ties and reaches inside to grasp his cock with her cool hand. The sensation is overwhelming, and he turns his head from Guinevere's lovely breast to gasp for air, and inhales a lungful of the unpleasant herbal scent the poultice had left on his pillow.
All his energy drains away. Morgana frowns as his erection flags, and he stares at them with a growing sense of horror, shaking his head to try to clear it. He breathes in the pillow again, and the two women fade back into nothing but shadows.
He forces himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed and counting off long, slow breaths as he looks around the room, taking in every detail. His sword, his armour, the grain reports from the outlying towns his Father wanted him to look over, some old clothes that had been pulled out during the guards' hasty search. A heavy book, tipped-over inkwell, broken quill . . . he stops, closes his hand around the bedpost, taking a moment to gather his strength.
His eyes fall shut a moment. "Did I not please you, my lord?" asks Merlin softly, kneeling at his feet and resting his hands on Arthur's thighs. "I can do better. Tell me what you want."
The boy's eyes are soft, his expression gentle and eager to please, and he looks nothing at all like Gaius' witless apprentice, who bumbles along chattering happily to everyone and then turns around and laughs at Arthur like he is a spoilt, foolish child, like Arthur has yet to prove his worth to him. If Gaius had not asked Uther to revoke his appointment as Arthur's manservant, citing his own old age and need to train a successor, Arthur would still be suffering his reluctant service and erratic ways.
"You were a terrible manservant," Arthur murmurs, and lets himself raise his hand and touch Merlin's face, and the boy turns to rest his cheek against Arthur's palm, kneading Arthur's thighs lightly.
"I will do better, sire. Let me serve you."
Arthur stares into Merlin's patient blue eyes and sways forward, breathing him in. He smells warm and sweet, like fresh hay and sunshine, or clean sheets and musk, like a lazy day spent rolling indulgently in a warm bed. "I don't want you on your knees," he says. "Stand up."
Merlin kisses his palm and smiles, rising immediately, obedient as promised.
He follows Merlin up, stumbling a little, and catches his waist to steady himself, then tugs off the faded blue scarf so he can gain access to Merlin's neck. Merlin yields to him easily, sighing with pleasure as Arthur backs Merlin towards the wall, biting and sucking bruises into his vulnerable neck as he grinds their crotches together. The power is intoxicating.
Merlin starts to sag when his back reaches the wall, reaching down to fumble with the drawstrings on Arthur's sleep trousers, but Arthur catches his hands and shakes his head. "That's not what I want," he says. Merlin nods and lets go. Arthur shoves his hard cock against Merlin's once more, in emphasis, and holds his gaze as he undoes Merlin's belt, then trousers.
He hesitates before letting the trousers fall. Merlin shifts his stance subtly, spreading his legs just a little wider as Arthur rubs his palms over Merlin's bony hips, gathering his courage. Arthur slides down to his knees, pushing up Merlin's long tunic with one hand to bare his eager cock, and Merlin inhales sharply in anticipation, resting his hands on Arthur's shoulders.
"Have you done this before?" Merlin asks gently when Arthur just kneels with his head down for several moments, not moving. "Do you want me to kneel for you instead?"
Arthur smiles up at him, letting his hand trail slowly down the long, lean leg to his ankle. "No. I have you exactly where I want you." He grits his teeth in determination, and closes his hand around the enchanted poultice he had thrown in the corner before. Even knowing it would happen, already braced on hands and knees, the sudden draining of his strength as the dream fades unbalances and nearly drops him face-first to the floor.
"I have to stay awake," he tells himself aloud, crushing the bag of herbs in his fist. The stink is eye-watering. If he lets go, he will die. Merlin will die. And most likely more. He has no idea how to fight a creature like this, that lives in dreams and fantasy, but — he raises the bag to his face and forces himself to inhale it again — if Merlin can make a charm to defend against it, Merlin might also have some way to fight it. He needs to keep Uther from killing Merlin, then. He forces himself to his feet and picks up his sword on the way to the door, dragging it wearily behind him.
The walk down to the dungeons is tortuous and hazy as a dream of fog he can't wake from. Arthur stumbles into walls, almost falls down a flight of stairs, and has to wave his sword at people and order them out of his way more than a few times. It is possible that some of them let him pass because they are hoping he just falls down and knocks himself out. Finally, someone with sense manages to find Leon to intercept him. He sees Leon mostly as a very tall shape with a reddish top and beard.
"I am so glad to see you," he tries to say, slurs it worse than any drunk knight he has ever pulled out from a bar fight. "I need your help."
"Sire!" Leon hurries up to take his arm; a squire he can't see clearly enough identify comes up and takes his other arm, and he has a flash of memory to the earlier dream with him between Leon and Percival. Arthur feels his face burning at the recollection. He must look even more drunk now. "Let me help you back to your chambers, you are not well."
They try to turn him around. Leon sniffs discreetly at his breath. Arthur pulls his arm free from the squire's sweaty grip to thrust the bag of herbs in Leon's face, and he recoils, nearly dropping Arthur.
"It is a curse!" Arthur announces as clearly as he can. "I need to go down to the dungeons to question Gauis' apprentice." When Leon hesitates, Arthur smacks his face with the bag. "Feel it! This is magic. The guards stopped searching my rooms after they found the first one, and missed this. Take me to the dungeon."
"My lord," Leon says with clear reluctance, anchoring himself solidly and keeping a firm grip on Arthur, "the boy is not in the dungeon. He escaped."
Arthur feels his blood run cold, and sways in place. "No, I need to . . ." He has no idea what. "Which way did he go?"
"Let us help you back to your room first, my lord. You need to rest. I'll take that to the king." Leon reaches for the ragged bag of herbs; Arthur scowls and clutches it close.
"I will take it to him myself. After I rest. Help me back." Fortunately, Leon was never one to question orders, and accepts his concession with only a concerned frown.
There's no need for Arthur to feign relief when they let him flop back onto his bed. It's all he can do to not fall asleep before he can dismiss them, though. And once they leave, casting uneasy glances at the poultice he is still clutching close, despite its foul reek, he feels his heavy lids sinking inexorably again.
There is a scraping sound under his bed. Arthur opens his eyes again, heart racing. Leon had taken his sword. There are other weapons in his room, but none in easy reach of the bed, not in his current condition. Merlin spoke of a creature — what would it look like, where would it hide? Underneath his bed?
Unbidden, he thinks of the way the shining ropes had risen from the bed around him and tangled his arms and legs, pulled him open and helpless for the dream-Merlin to toy with, and shivers, squeezing the squashy mass of herbs again. The scraping sounds start again, more fiercely, enough to make the bed quake slightly. "Who's there?" he croaks, and the sounds stop. Then there is a muffled thump, a curse, and when he peers over the edge of the bed, Merlin slides out on his back, covered in dust and grinning like a fool.
"You came back!" says the boy happily. "I was afraid I had lost you for good!"
Disbelief gives him enough strength to raise himself on his elbows to glare at the fool more effectively. "What are you doing still here? You should have escaped Camelot while you could. And this, and the other one!" He throws the poultice at Merlin furiously. "How can anyone be so stupid?"
Merlin's mouth works with silent indignation for a moment, then he pulls out a staff with a glowing blue orb on it and shakes it at Arthur. "I'm trying to save your life, you incredible cabbage-head!"
It's too much for him. Arthur gawks at the staff, and drags himself to his knees on the bed. "Another, even more obviously magical object? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"No, I'm just —"
Merlin's eyes open wide as he looks up behind Arthur, just as long, slim arms twine around his shoulders and a warm body presses against his back. Soft lips brush against his ear and nip him gently.
"How cruel you are, my lord. You tricked me and left me standing there, unsatisfied," the new Merlin whispers to him. Arthur is suddenly very conscious of how thin his nightshirt and sleep trousers are, and the hard cock that has nestled into the cleft of his arse, thrusting against him purposefully. "And you," he addresses the gawking fool on the floor, "did you think your petty charms and crude drawings on this dusty floor would stop me? What do you take me for?"
Merlin points the staff at his double as though pointing a crossbow, but Arthur can tell he has no clear line of fire except through Arthur's body, even if it really could fire bolts, and the staff shakes. "Arthur! You can fight this! You resisted it before!"
The false Merlin reaches around and grasps Arthur, pulling him in time to his thrusts and making him gasp, clutch at the sheets. "But do you want to? You want me," it says, and lazily rocks into him again. Arthur closes his eyes and involuntarily rocks back into the thrusts. "You can have me. I was drawn to you because you desired me." It pauses long enough to pull Arthur's trousers down, and then there is hot, wet skin at his back, fucking between his legs. Arthur moans and presses his thighs together, feeling the slick slide between them as he thrusts into Merlin's fist.
"Arthur, no," Merlin is begging, and familiar tingling bonds of energy wrap around his wrists, pulling at him. "Don't give in to it." Arthur opens his eyes, and stares at the luminous lines connecting him to Merlin.
"You want me," the false Merlin repeats. "You want him," he says to Merlin, trembling guiltily at the foot of the bed. "You can have him." The creature sits back and pulls Arthur into his lap, exposing him to Merlin, who clutches at his staff like a drowning man at a plank. False-Merlin's hand abandons Arthur's cock, and Arthur whimpers in protest until the creature slides his palms under Arthur's thighs and raises them, holding him open. "Come on, Merlin." The creature’s hands, Arthur thinks muzzily, tingle exactly like the bonds around his wrists. "Look how he wants you."
"Please," Arthur says, as the false Merlin’s fingers, humming with the touch of magic, slip easily into his hole, and he shouts when it brushes something that sparks hot and white behind his eyes and sings all down his fingers and toes. "Merlin!"
"Arthur, no." Merlin looks like he wants to avert his eyes, but it is just as clear that he can’t look away from where his double’s fingers are sliding in and out of Arthur. "I did the wards right! How can you get through it?"
"You put so much of yourself in me, you can hardly stop yourself," it replies, calmly fucking Arthur with his fingers. "Even less when he doesn't want you to stop." The body behind him seems to turn wavery, translucent, still there, but somehow diffusing into thick cords and finer threads of light that gently support him and lick over his skin, creeping forward to envelop him in shivery sensation. Everywhere that Merlin’s bindings touch the creature, their outlines blur and meld together until Arthur can’t tell where Merlin begins and where the false Merlin ends.
"Merlin," Arthur sucks in a sharp breath when the sensation of fingers inside him expands into what feels like a cock. "Fuck me."
"I can't," Merlin says, brokenly, but he puts down his staff and crawls up the bed to Arthur. "I didn't mean to harm you. I'm sorry." He cups Arthur's face in his hands and kisses him desperately, ashamed, and then sits back, hunched into himself, covering his face with his hands. Arthur licks his lips, chasing the lingering taste of old books and musty herbs, and a harder thrust makes him grunt.
"There is nothing you can do to stop me," whispers the Merlin behind him. Merlin trembles and shakes his head at first, then his face hardens with determination. He climbs up onto Arthur's lap — yes, Arthur thinks — but Merlin reaches for the false Merlin instead of Arthur, taking his face between his hands as Arthur pants and thrusts up into Merlin as the false Merlin thrusts into him.
"I can take back what you stole from me, and he will do the rest. You are nothing without me," Merlin says, and presses his lips to the false Merlin's. A shock judders through the warm body behind Arthur, and heat explodes inside his arse as it melts into the air. The magical bonds slip from Arthur's body as his orgasm takes him, and all his strength crashes back into him from inside out. It feels like he was struck by lightning — he is buzzing all over with energy, and at the same time almost too exhausted to move. Merlin collapses on the bed beside him, as though just as shaken.
Arthur lies there and closes his eyes, taking stock of his feelings as the weariness slowly ebbs from his bones and the soreness fades, leaving only a sweet warmth in his blood like mulled wine, and a stretched, hollow ache in his arse. When Merlin continues silent for what he feels is long enough, Arthur opens his eyes and prods him with his finger. “Talk to me. Say something.”
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Merlin says, behind his hands. "I only meant to look in, see why the Dragon said all that about you, and us, about destiny. Then I got caught up in watching your idle thoughts and somehow — I nudged your dreams, and they pulled me in, so I just watched . . . I tried to stop it when I saw how the dreams drained you, but they kept growing stronger as they fed off us and finally manifested as that creature. I should have realised something was wrong earlier. I’m sorry."
Arthur sighs and sat up, folding Merlin into his arms in lieu of having to think up something sensible to say. Merlin stays stiff and resistant against him, and Arthur pats his back through the thin brown jacket, feeling put-upon. "So, you have magic. And you used it to spy on my sex dreams." Merlin nods, wary. "Instead of trying to kill me or my father. You really are a useless sorcerer."
Merlin sighs heavily. "It nearly killed you! I swear you have no sense of self-preservation at all. Every time! I keep having to . . ."
"At least I got a lot of sex out of it," Arthur blurts out to stop the rising tirade, and then realises what he said when Merlin goes rigid in his arms and pulls away to stare at him in disbelief. "And I haven't even seen you naked, even when I was fucking you in the dreams," he goes on, while Merlin's face turns to stone. Red stone.
"I can't believe you can be destined to be anything but an enormous prat!"
He grabs Merlin back and tucks him under his arm to ruffle the foolish thoughts out of his head. "Tell me about this Dragon and what he said."
Merlin groans piteously. "We have no destiny. The King is going to kill me as soon as he finds me. Will you put some clothes on?"
In answer, he topples them both onto the bed, flattening Merlin under him. "You took my clothes off, you can put them back on yourself. I'll think of something to tell my Father later. Now tell me about this destiny of ours."