Chapter Text
Arthur was a prince and a descendant of warlords, so it was really no surprise he liked conquering things; it was in his blood. When he was tiny he used to conquer his nursery and part of the garden and occasionally other places if he could manage it. You’d think for a dashing hero of his magnitude territories would be eager to bow down in supplication to him, but in actuality it was hard to conquer things when you were tiny and cute and kept being given sweets for your trouble. (Although in retrospect, Arthur admits that he had a good thing going there and that it was actually easier to conquer things when you were tiny and cute). He’d march purposefully up to them with his chest puffed out and a little flag he’d made from the tabard he’d torn yesterday and a stick and declare this place conquered in the name of Arthur. In his nursery he’d carefully arrange his toys to be an audience; sometimes they were his knights, sometimes they were grateful peasants who’d shower him with praise because he was such a wise and fair ruler, sometimes they were beautiful maidens he’d saved from dragons on his way. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure why maidens were saved from dragons, but he supposed no one really wanted to save crones from dragons, and the dragons would surely want something young and tasty. After he declared the area conquered by him, he’d rearrange it a bit to show his sovereignty, and then ride off to conquer someplace else. Once someone had tried to mount a resistance; one of his father’s councilors who was probably trying to teach Arthur a valuable life lesson or something. Arthur had hit him with his flag until he fell down, and his father was so proud of him that he actually let Arthur sit in his lap for a couple of minutes, on the throne in front of the whole court.
But he didn’t have to conquer Merlin. Merlin was already conquered. Conquered, brought down, and tied up with a pretty ribbon. So that didn’t explain why he liked to emblazon Merlin with his crest: the red Pendragon collar with Arthur’s personal sigil hanging from it which curved around Merlin’s neck, caressed it, held it like Arthur’s hands did sometimes. Not choking, not squeezing. Just resting there, knowing that Merlin’s life was literally in his hands. Claimed in the name of Arthur.
And it didn’t stop with the collar; there were the clothes. Well, the clothes were mostly because Merlin was absolutely hopeless at dressing appropriately, prone to draping himself in horrible rough cloth like he was a window and desperately needed drapery or something. Or a monk. And don’t get Arthur started on the idea of neck kerchiefs (which would actually cover up Arthur’s collar). Merlin clearly could not be trusted to dress himself. And so for the first month he owned Merlin (and while the good, moral part of Arthur was stricken with horror at the idea of ownership, the horrible greedy bastard Arthur wanted to pour the idea into his bath tub so he could submerge in it, roll around in it until he was covered in possession of Merlin), for the first month he dressed him up in whatever outlandish outfits he could think of. It was a good laugh mostly because Merlin would give him those frustrated and put out looks that said very clearly that he was plotting Arthur’s death and if he had his druthers Arthur would be dunked in the duck pond.
Putting him in one of Morgana’s old dresses was a mistake. It suited him. Same coloring, slender build. The dress didn’t feminize him, oddly enough, it made his muscles stand out more, made him look taller, stronger, gorgeous. And the low neckline just brought attention to the sweet, long curve of his neck and the gentle protrusion of his collar bone. Which really made Arthur want to bite it (both neck and collar bone. Biting; just a whole fuck ton of biting would ensue if Merlin continued to flaunt his skin like that). Arthur had put him in it and then quickly and firmly stripped him of it. Of course, his plan to resist the tempting wiles of his slave manservant was thwarted by the fact that he now had a breathless, put out, adorable, disheveled, naked manservant. And Arthur had…and he shuddered to admit this, even to himself lest he let it slip around someone sharp who would take advantage of it, like Morgana…but Arthur had morals, and said morals, while being fine with dressing Merlin up like a cat and making him crawl around the castle or spend hours polishing Arthur’s armor, were not fine with the idea of bending him over and buggering him senseless. All other parts of Arthur were perfectly, cheerfully all right with that, but not his morals, which protested that Merlin was a slave and couldn’t say no and it wouldn’t be all right and also his mother belonged to Uther and Arthur would never be able to look her in the eye again if he deflowered her baby boy.
And so he covered Merlin in red and gold (or blue or green in his quarters because they suited him and people were less likely to try and steal him there. Arthur was not stupid, one did not carelessly dangle the crown jewels out with the morning wash), and teased him until he pouted and looked put out and huffy and adorable.
Hunith and Merlin had been gifts from Cendren. Their village destroyed by bandits, they’d been forced to go to Cendren for help and ended up as slaves for their trouble. Arthur was very polite and diplomatic and certain that Cendren was the scum of the earth and that his people would be greatest served if Camelot conquered them as soon as possible. Morgana was less circumspect, but then she was Morgana. Also, she didn’t get a slave. Hunith had gone to Uther, and was basically sent to housekeeping because as Uther put it: “it was that or body slave and I would like to think I am not desperate enough to need to order someone into my bed.” He’d said it in the politely scathing tone that had made Cendren flush and Morgana smirk. This had calmed Morgana somewhat, and she’d demanded that Hunith be treated like any other serving woman. And pretty much everyone was too afraid of her wrath to do otherwise.
Hunith and Merlin were very different; it was hard to connect the two as mother and son sometimes. Merlin was all youth and fire, insulting Arthur and tackling a sorceress to the ground and wrestling a knife out of her hand for Arthur. When he smiled it lit up everything, a smile that could summon rainbows and bring puppies back from the dead. When he was sad his eyes could melt stone and when he was angry he crackled with it. He was all lanky elbows and clumsy movements. Hunith was soft (and he didn’t just mean due to her gender). She moved with a stately grace as if a dignitary in a funeral procession. When she smiled it was a broken smile, which always made Arthur wonder about Merlin’s father. Had she once worn Merlin’s hapless grin when she looked at him? Had that been stolen from her with her husband? Arthur really hoped she’d smiled unreservedly at Merlin’s father but he wasn’t an idiot, and Cendren’s kingdom was unlikely to be filled with anyone having any notion of chivalry and she must have been quite beautiful in her youth. Hunith only lit up when she looked at her son, but even that was filled with weariness and worry. She was competent where Merlin was hopeless but both of them had the same way of standing up for others in need and vast reservoirs of caring that made Arthur want to lock them both up somewhere safe where no one could take advantage of them. Really, Hunith and Merlin were very much the same. They both had a way of looking at Arthur that made him want to be a better man. Not accusing, not wanting, just - Believing. They believed in him, and he couldn’t disappoint them. Couldn’t make Hunith sigh that quiet, tired sigh. Couldn’t risk making Merlin smile a broken smile.
One warm afternoon Arthur had overheard (he hadn’t been sneaking, he’d just happened to overhear) Hunith speaking to Merlin. They’d sat next to each other, Hunith with some mending and Merlin polishing Arthur’s boots. Well, next to each other was inaccurate, as they’d been curled together, Merlin’s head in his mother’s lap, but the idea was the same.
“It’s actually much easier, compared to raising a toddler. I don’t have to make sure he doesn’t set himself on fire for one.”
“Muuuum. That only happened once,” Merlin protested, confirming Arthur’s belief that he should really not be allowed out on his own lest he hurt himself.
Hunith had just hummed noncommittally. “It’s basically housework on a larger scale, and the food’s better. Harsh he may be, but King Uther seems a fair man, kind even.”
Merlin shot up. “Please tell me you don’t—“
“Merlin. I am your mother and fully old enough to make my own decisions. Anyway, no I don’t. I was merely remarking that it could be worse. Cendren could have decided to keep us.” She and Merlin both shuddered and Arthur began revising his Strategy to Liberate Cendren’s Kingdom.
“But we could still be home, be free if…”
“No. I meant what I said, Merlin, it’s too dangerous. Sometimes we can’t do what we want. This was the best way. Your safety is too important to me. If you’d fought the bandits we would have just lost you, too. However you feel, you’re not invincible.”
Merlin smirked at her. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”
“Brat,” she’d scolded, whacking him with the mending. “Anyway, tell me about the Prince.”
“He’s a prat,” Merlin responded instantly. “He keeps putting me in these ridiculous outfits. Yesterday he put me in this gauzy....dress.... thing," his hands irritably pantomimed the invisible frills, "and I’m not a girl and I don’t see why he should call me one just because I’m not an over muscled…mountain man or something, and then he apparently didn’t like it and made me take it off right away, and then he made me wear a ridiculous hat and all red. Seriously, I think he’s obsessed with the color; he keeps putting me in it. And sometimes he just seems to drag me around like a child with their favorite toy, and sometimes he treats me like a manservant and gives me an unreasonable amount of chores. I mean seriously, were all of his other menservants sorcerers? Because I don’t think it’s physically possible for one person to do them all. Also, he made me put on armor and kept hitting me with his sword and being all superior and Perfect Warrior or something, and I really just want to smash things in his face.”
Well, Arthur was a perfect warrior, and he’d only been trying to make sure his new slave could take care of himself in a pinch. Also, he was not a prat. He was a prince. He could understand Merlin being a bit confused, growing up in Cedren’s kingdom, but he should be happy to have kind master like Arthur and not some immoral degenerate who would bend Merlin over the table and bugger him until he couldn’t breathe but could only make helpless squeaking noises; a horrible, immoral degenerate who’d force him to his knees and thrust into that lush little mouth, choking him until tears ran down his pretty face; who would keep Merlin oiled and ready and chained to their bed to plunder at their leisure…and now Arthur had lost track of what he was thinking about and made himself…uncomfortable in the process. Right, Merlin’s blatant ungratefulness. He should be on his knees thanking…ah, that is he should be very happy that all Arthur did was give him a few chores and play with him a bit.
Hunith chuckled. “He’s not that bad. I remember when you were five you insisted that Will was horrible and mean and then he hit the baker’s boy for making fun of your ears and you ended up best friends. You’ll grow used to each other eventually.” Merlin just huffed.
Arthur had used his great skills at stealth to stealthily sneak away from the mother/son bonding moment and go hit things with his sword for a bit. And later that evening, as punishment for filling his mother’s head with fantastical stories, Arthur had made Merlin be his footstool all evening. And made him wear one of Arthur’s old red jackets and a red skirt. And did not wonder who Will was. Merlin was a blatantly horrible footstool. He kept moving and whining about Arthur’s feet (which were perfect and princely, dammit). And Arthur had even given him a cushion to kneel on so that he wouldn’t…hurt his knees. Kneeling on all fours with his mouth in a little pout and his arse up in the air, covered only in a red skirt that hugged its curves before dipping down in a teasing slant to spill across the floor….perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, Arthur thought, shifting in his chair uncomfortably and wondering if anyone would be up for sword practice at this time of night. He just felt the…urge…to handle a sword…
The collar hadn’t come out until several months into Merlin’s time as Arthur’s personal slave. Before then, Arthur, like his father, had been playing the ‘pretend Cendren gave us servants because Camelot doesn’t hold with slavery, but keeping that horrible jumper your aunt knitted you also applies to people when you’re royalty’ game. Merlin was allowed to wear his own (horrible) clothes every other day, and Arthur didn’t make him do anything terrifically embarrassing where Hunith might see and be disappointed in him in public.
Then came the sorceress who tried to steal him. She claimed to be ‘liberating him from the murderous tyrant’s grasp’ but Arthur wasn’t an idiot. She hadn’t tried to ‘liberate’ Hunith who was actually Uther’s slave; no, she’d gone for Merlin. Gorgeous, oblivious, likely virginal Merlin. And Arthur could tell by the shreds of her formerly fine dress that danced around her admittedly very shapely legs that she was most likely a court lady who’d gone mad (possibly due to magic) and run away to the forest for many years where there were no needles for mending or men (but apparently face paint and hair products) and clearly wanted Merlin to be her little sex toy and if Merlin was going to be anyone’s sex toy he was going to be Arthur’s—ah. That is, Arthur couldn’t allow Merlin to fall into the terrible, lecherous hands of a crazy sorceress. Who may or may not spontaneously decide that what she really wanted was a virgin sacrifice and who almost definitely intended to put Merlin in dresses and force him to have fancy tea parties with her like Morgana used to do with her dolls and Gwen.
Regardless of her intentions, she had them, and Arthur could not have other people wandering around having intentions toward his slave, and Father didn’t like sorceresses anyway. So he was all prepared to strike her where she stood, powerful and crackling with lightning—ok, honestly she’d just been standing there in her tattered dress, and if his father hadn’t looked so frightened of her Arthur would have honestly thought she was just your average madwoman and had his guards take her to Gaius for a tonic. She didn’t look very frightening, in fact, she’d look rather gorgeous covered in Merlin silks and jewels.
And then she’d made a gesture and Merlin’s red outfit had transformed into a gorgeous flowing robe of blue and green. Merlin had looked down and said in an annoyed voice, “Ok, seriously, what is it with you people and my clothes? Also, still not a girl.”
“Come with me, Emrys, free of this—”
“Yes, yes. Murderous tyrant. I heard you. And it’s Merlin, not Emrys. I don’t even know how you could get the two mixed up, and anyway I don’t think my mother would approve of me running away with strange women in tattered dresses. No offense, but we were warned about girls like you.” Then he cocked his head to the side. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“I have been doing my best to rectify the wrongs done by Uther. Hugging always the shadows, hiding my name and face lest—”
“That’s it! You’re Nimueh,” Merlin had nodded to himself thoughtfully. “Gaius told me you’d started some sort of plague that would have killed everyone if Arthur hadn’t set the monster on fire. Don’t you think it’s a bit rich to wander around accusing other people of being murderous?”
“I have done only what I must to rectify—”
“Yeah, yeah. You, like every other person with too much power and privilege, have seen fit to force your viewpoint on others and continue on a crusade with no thought to those you might harm along the way.” Merlin was building up quite a bit of righteous fury now. Arthur tried not to find it irresistibly sexy. He just looked so adorable and fierce, like a kitten attacking Arthur’s boots with all four paws and teeth.
Nimueh was looking pissed now. “Regardless, you will come with me.”
“I belong to Arthur.” There was something strangely echoing about that phrase, something that was a promise, a vow, and a challenge. Also, something particularly hot and Arthur was going to hell for this, he really was. “I am not going anywhere.”
Nimueh began intoning some very creepy sounding words, the world turned blue and sepia as she gestured and…Merlin stood there, calmly holding the wine jug he was in charge of. One of the feathers on the hat Arthur had put him in had ruffled a bit, almost apologetically. “Is it broken?” Merlin asked in a politely mocking tone that Arthur had thought the particular talent of Morgana, who was kind of looking like Merlin was her favorite person ever.
“YOU WILL NOT DEFY ME. IF YOU WILL ALLY YOURSELF WITH THIS—”
“Me? I’m just a slave. I clean up after Arthur and am repaid for my pains with ridiculous hats. You’re a sorceress who just walked into the court of a king who’s famous for killing your kind. Really it bewilders me why anyone with magic would just hang around Camelot performing spells that will get them killed. You do realize that if you just go east and then north a bit you’ll reach King Pelinor’s kingdom and he’s rather fond of magic users, right? Especially ones who can make rabbits appear out of hats, I’m told. I’m not sure if you’re up to that level, but you should at least be able to do a few scarf tricks,” Merlin had encouraged her.
It was about that time when Arthur realized that he and the entire contingent of Camelot knights were standing around, fully armed, not doing anything as Merlin traded barbs with a sorceress. Which was both against what they were supposed to do when confronted with powerful magic users (kill and kill fast) and kind of stupid. When she’d first walked in she’d blasted a couple of guards, but she seemed fully occupied with Merlin at the moment. And, much as Arthur believed in chivalry and chivalry believed in fair fights, chivalry also believed that sorcerers didn’t count. So he walked up behind the sorceress and cut her head off.
Everyone blinked at him like they hadn’t even thought of that and Arthur had somehow interfered with the plot or something, or perhaps they’d merely been mesmerized by the dead sorceress’s rather revealing attire or ensorcelled in actual fact. Or something. And then of course, the body under his feet turned to water, because according to Gaius it was only a simulacrum or something because life was never easy. The whole thing had been rather anti-climactic anyway. The bards would have to spice it up a bit when they retold it.
Regardless, Arthur had sort of killed a sorceress and here in Camelot they liked to celebrate such things with a Feast. This wasn’t very unusual, since here in Camelot they were prone to celebrating the fact that the day of the week ended with ‘y’ with a feast.
End result, the events of the afternoon irrefutably proved to Arthur that people wanted to steal his slave and should be warned off by clear signs that he belonged to Arthur, and Arthur would stab them a lot if they tried.
He’d earlier tied a pretty red ribbon in a bow at Merlin’s throat and found that he quite liked it, though this was nothing compared to fastening the ruby encrusted collar around Merlin’s neck, with the little dangling Pendragon sigil. Seeing it hugging Merlin, proclaiming to anyone with eyes that this boy belonged to Arthur, it had made Arthur a particular mix of giddy/guilty/uncomfortably ‘happy’ and breathless that had only been previously matched by the time he’d decided to spy on Morgana to see if she was plotting against him and had ended up watching her and Gwen share a bath together. It was one of the most precious memories of his adolescence experience which he could never speak of because Morgana would kill him and Gwen would be embarrassed and possibly not even be able to look his shoes in the face.
“I’m not a dog,” Merlin had complained, which was at odds with the way his fingers were caressing the collar.
“No. You’re a slave. One who is apparently ripe to be kidnapped and ravished by crazy half dressed sorceresses.”
“I don’t think she was going to ravish me.”
“Of course she was, Merlin, why else would she be so keen on taking you? True, you belong to me and clearly she has something against Camelot, but if she just wanted someone to put in pretty dresses and have tea with she would have taken your mother. Whom she appeared to have no interest in, thus she clearly wanted to kidnap and ravish you. What else could a sorceress want you for?”
Merlin was silent for a moment, his face a study of ‘my god,’ fear, and a little bit of ‘Arthur, you idiot’ which Arthur thought was a bit much since he was only trying to warn Merlin about the threat to his virtue. “Perhaps I should have let myself be kidnapped,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “She was very pretty in a crazy way, and at least then I’d get to have a romp.”
Arthur was beginning to suspect that his slave was not actually eligible as a virgin sacrifice, and the thought made him want to break things because that meant that some cad had taken advantage of his sweet, innocent and slightly stupid manservant, and he was going to make scathing comments about being hard up, shameless hussies, and the kinky things crazy slave stealing sorceresses might be into when Merlin broke his brain by continuing: “....and I bet she’d be very inventive. Who knows what you could do with magic? You could tie someone up with invisible bonds and then ride them to exhaustion and leave them all sweaty and breathless and wanting under you—”
Arthur made a strangled sound and suddenly remembered an urgent training session with the guards in ‘how not to just stand around when someone’s threatening the court with magic’ and was not picturing it at all and so missed the half speculative/half frustrated expression on Merlin’s face and the way Merlin’s eyes lingered thoughtfully on Arthur’s wrists.
Arthur only dressed Merlin as a cat the once. Mostly because Merlin repaid him by deciding to act like a cat. And this did not mean catching the rat hiding in Arthur’s chambers and nibbling on his bedsheets. No, it meant that Merlin had crawled over to him, plopped himself in Arthur’s lap and demanded head scratches. Arthur thought that Merlin was a little confused as to how this whole Master/slave thing worked and caving to his demands would set a bad precedent.
But then Merlin cheated and turned pleading eyes on him and Arthur found himself scratching his head and stroking his neck. Merlin’s short hair had curled fondly around his fingers like it wanted to cuddle too, because heaven forbid any part of Merlin ever have a sense of propriety. Merlin had given a little contented sigh and melted into Arthur’s lap in a way that the castle mousers certainly would never do. Sleep soft and warm, a little flush from being close to the fire, and honestly a bit heavy—he was making Arthur’s legs fall asleep. Arthur was tempted to dump him unceremoniously onto the floor stones, but then Merlin sleepily, ah..nuzzled him and Arthur …dumped him unceremoniously on the floor stones and ran away went to go train his knights in the fine art of hitting things with their swords. Merlin pouted at him for hours until Arthur let him sleep in his bed and allowed himself to be cuddled. And he certainly did not pull Merlin back onto him when he rolled away in the middle of the night. And if his arms curled possessively around Merlin that was just because Merlin was his, and Arthur was trained to keep a hold on things that he owned lest they be taken away from him. It had nothing to do with the comforting weight of Merlin pressing on him like his armor, or the way Merlin puffed little breaths of air onto his neck in not quite snores. It was pragmatic, that’s all.
Merlin had a most distressing habit of bending over a lot. Most…distressing…. Although Arthur could only blame himself for making Merlin crawl around on all fours, arse sticking in the air and head submissively lowered as he muttered insulting things about Arthur’s childhood. Still, that didn’t explain how Merlin was always dropping things and bending over to pick them up in front of Arthur, and Arthur was a chivalrous knight and prince and was absolutely not going to ogle his slave’s perky bottom when it was wiggling right in front of him. And pumping up, and down, up, and down. Arthur shoved his plate away and shot to his feet, having decided that what he really needed was a lap around the castle walls. Possibly followed by whacking people with sharp objects. Merlin looked very frustrated from his position on the floor.
Arthur was beginning to think Merlin might be a bit sweet on him. Also that Merlin was more than a bit daft, as he was apparently going to the huge fucking dragon imprisoned underneath the castle for relationship advice. First of all: dragon. Evil, magical, dragon that would chomp him down like a crunchy little treat. Second of all: who goes to a giant flying lizard for advice on how to win your (very human) sweetheart? But there Merlin was, under the castle having sneaked away from Arthur’s bed like the least sneaky person ever. Seriously, he might as well hold a curtain over himself while sidling along the corridors chanting ‘sneaky, sneaky’.
Anyway, he’d snuck away to where the dragon was imprisoned under the castle and Arthur had, very logically, followed him because he wanted to know where his slave was creeping off to in the middle of the night. And he was chatting with the dragon about Arthur and asking it if it thought Arthur liked him and if he should tell Arthur his secret (and honestly, it wasn’t that hard to say ‘Arthur, I rather fancy licking honey off your hot, naked body and then wrapping my legs around your waist while you fuck me senseless,’ he didn’t have to make such a big production out of it and steal off to have girl talk with a dragon. Shouldn’t he be having girl talk with Gwen or Morgana or someone who was a girl and not a dragon (who may or may not be a girl, Arthur was not up on his dragon gender identifiers)? Also, Arthur was going to make fun of him until the end of time for being such a girl).
It was both disturbing and heartening to hear that the dragon thought they’d make a sweet couple, at least that’s how Arthur was interpreting the bit about the ‘Great Destiny’ ‘Two sides of the same coin’ and ‘The half cannot hate that which makes it whole.’ Were all dragons this needlessly cryptic? Did it/he/she not realize that Merlin was more than a bit simple and what he should really be saying was ‘yes, of course you should kiss your prince, little treat'. Oh god, Arthur really hoped the dragon didn’t want, like, details. How did Merlin and the dragon even meet? Was he wandering down corridors and just accidentally slipped past the (rather incompetent, and he’d have to train that out of them) guard and found a dragon and gone: aha! Just what I wanted: a dragon to pour out all my romantic woes to! This was such a bad idea that Arthur couldn’t even compute it. It was as if a bad idea and a catastrophic idea had a little baby and named it ‘Merlin’s idea.’ Arthur contemplated confronting Merlin. He calculated the likelihood that the dragon would roast him for interrupting their chat, added Merlin’s betrayed look and decided to retreat and consider his options.
Option A was of course to pin Merlin to the nearest convenient surface and commence ravishment. Option A had a lot going for it. Mostly getting Arthur laid. However, Option A could lead to confusion and mixed signals and the entire possibility that Arthur was well, misinterpreting Merlin’s Talk with the dragon, which could be about Merlin’s habit of following Arthur around like a lost puppy or the latest fall fashions or whatever it was people who weren’t knights spoke about. So, that meant Arthur had to…well… he had to…talk about it with Merlin. Possibly even bring up…feelings.
He’d just have to go out and kill a lot of things afterward. It’d be fine. The larder could always use some bulking up.
Arthur waited until Merlin had come back and started tidying up, sat watching him while crunching nuts absently.
“Are you going to say anything or are you just going to sit there staring at me all night?”
Arthur shifted and cleared his throat. “Tell me, Merlin, do you…ah…that is, do you think of me…as a Master or a Prince?”
“I think of you as a Prat, sire, as you are.” Pretty good indication that Merlin wouldn’t feel shy about telling Arthur to go boil his head if Arthur expressed a desire to strip him naked, tie him to the bed, and spend hours licking every inch of him and biting his ears.
“And…as a…man?” Arthur asked, studying the nut in his hand as if iit contained all the secrets of the universe and perhaps a dress that shone like the sun, which Arthur would promptly put Merlin in and make him twirl around.
Merlin just looked at him in confusion. “As opposed to a woman? Because I won’t judge you if you want to be the one in the dress if that’s—”
“No! No. I just. Some people might take …advantage of…people under their power. And I just wanted you to know you’re not obligated to welcome the attentions of anyone who’s…attentions you don’t….welcome.”
Merlin gaped at him and then got a knowing look on his face, thank god. “Is this about you being in love with Gwen? Because I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t—“
“NO. I’m not. How did you even? I mean, of course I’m fond of Guinevere, we grew up together and she’s always been a much better little sister than Morgana, but really I don’t think of her…like that. I mean….no.”
+
“Oh.” Merlin looked at him expectantly. “So. Who do you like?”
Arthur had clearly misinterpreted the conversation with the dragon and probably shouldn’t involve Merlin in these things anyway since clearly he was mentally deficient. “Actually, I just remembered I need to…train some of the guards.”
“Didn’t you train the guards this morning?”
“This is…remedial training.” For guards of dragons who couldn’t stop a mentally deficient slave
.
“Arthur?” Arthur paused on his way to the door at the uncharacteristically quiet and wistful tone. “I don’t think you need to worry. Anyone would be lucky to attract your attentions. I think she’s very lucky, your girl.”
“Because I’m the prince.”
“Because you’re Arthur. You’re a prat sure, but you’re gorgeous and funny and kind and gorgeous and I’m going to shut up now.”
“Please do.” And Arthur made sure he did by covering Merlin’s mouth with his own.
Merlin didn’t freeze. He didn’t pull back and ask Arthur what the hell he thought he was doing. He just wrapped his arms around Arthur, lifted himself up so he could wrap his legs around Arthur’s waist and stuck his tongue in Arthur’s mouth. Arthur found himself very glad for all the extra practice he’d been getting in so that he could hold strong under the onslaught of Merlin’s attentions.
“Thank god,” Merlin panted when they parted for air, “I thought you were never going to fuck me.”
Arthur made a little strangled sound. “Ah, shouldn’t we, it’s just…”
“Yes, Arthur? There’s a reason you’re not bending me over that table right this minute?”
“I just thought….I might….court you a bit first.”
Merlin stared at him, legs still wrapped around Arthur’s waist, Arthur’s hands on his delicious little bottom, supporting his weight. “You don’t have to woo me, Arthur. I am well and truly won. Commence with the ravishing.”
Arthur wasn’t…against the idea of just bending Merlin over things. He was really, really enthusiastic about it. It just seemed….wrong somehow.
“God, you really do want to woo me, don’t you?” Merlin sighed, letting his legs fall to the floor and Arthur had not said Merlin could go anywhere that did not include Merlin’s delicious little body pressed up against his, and no he was not releasing his hold on Merlin’s arse. That arse was his. His, dammit.
“Maaaybe.”
“How long does this wooing last before we get to have sex?” Merlin asked rather plaintively.
“Long enough for me to be able to continue looking your mother in the eye afterward,” Arthur stated firmly.
“And you still intend to dress me up and collar me during the wooing process?”
“Of course.” Just because Arthur wanted to conquer court Merlin didn’t mean he wanted anyone to think Merlin was anything other than completely and utterly his. People might get ideas like that sorceress bitch had.
“Fine. Then you don’t get to know my secret until your cock is hilt deep in me,” Merlin declared firmly.
Part of Arthur wanted to scoff at Merlin having any secrets, unless it was his friendship with a dragon, in which case Arthur already knew it. Most of him, however, was desperately trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t actually shove Merlin over the table, pull up his tunic, pull apart his legs and bury himself in Merlin’s tight little arse because clearly Merlin was gagging for it. He had a reason for not doing that. It was a good reason. He was sure it was. It had something to do with…keeping Merlin his and happy and making sure Merlin never regretted anything or looked at anyone else ever.
Arthur ran off to beat some sense into some lazy, godawful dragon guards and came back sufficiently tired and sweaty and confident enough in his own self-control to grab Merlin, who’d been pouring buckets of hot water into Arthur’s tub and had his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, and pull him into a spine melting kiss. He wrapped both hands around Merlin’s waist, delighting in the dip and the swell of his (rather bony) hips and the curve of his arse as Arthur plundered Merlin’s mouth until Merlin was limp and clinging to him, red and breathless. Well. Mostly limp. Also hard, and straining eagerly against Arthur because Arthur was just that good. Smiling and pleased, he released Merlin and started stripping for his bath. Merlin looked at him hopefully and Arthur realized that he could absolutely not be naked with Merlin if he wanted to do this correctly, so he sent Merlin to go help his mother while he himself bathed.
The next morning Arthur rose before Merlin to go to the Royal Gardens and gather a bountiful selection of roses. Roses were the most romantic of flowers after all. He came back into his chambers quietly as he could (and unlike certain mentally deficient slaves he could think of, Arthur could actually be really sneaky) to strew the roses around where Merlin was curled up in his giant pillow nest. Then he sent a servant girl to get them both breakfast. With plenty of fruit he could feed to Merlin by hand.
When Merlin woke up he flailed unhappily at being torn from the sweet embrace of sleep, rolled over and cried out as he found thorns instead of soft pillows. Which is how Arthur ended up soothing a scratched and unhappy Merlin and cursing roses as the most unromantic flower ever. What kind of flower scratched one’s beloved? Merlin had actually been rather pleased (if mildly bemused by the sheer number, and perhaps Arthur should have just gone with the single red rose thing?) at receiving flowers and had insisted on putting them all in vases and taking some of the pink ones to his mother. Which Arthur should have thought of because clearly Hunith was the way into Merlin’s heart (and also deserved flowers for having raised Merlin all by herself before Arthur came in and took him off her hands. Possibly Arthur also owed Hunith a goat and some chickens for Merlin. He wasn’t really up on his peasant customs).
That afternoon Arthur decided to leave Merlin (well snogged) cleaning his chambers (Merlin on his knees was even more dangerous and distracting than before because now Arthur knew he could just walk up behind Merlin and take him and Merlin would like it) and took his knights hunting for quail. He strung up the nicest ones they caught and tossed them to Merlin when he got back in his best: I bring you this dead bird, and with it my heart, manner. “Dinner,” he muttered, trying not to notice that Merlin was wearing an old red shirt of Arthur’s which was too big for him across the shoulders and slid slightly off them to reveal Merlin’s collar bone, and had tucked a yellow rose \into his collar and frankly looked…ravishing.
There were several rules in place that Arthur expected his slave to always follow: don’t antagonize people who will kill you, when I say ‘don’t follow me’, don’t follow me, and thou shall not climb into the Prince’s lap without specific instructions to do so. Merlin is rubbish at following rules, and having apparently decided he was going to be a lap merlin or something, was prone to draping himself over Arthur whenever possible. Arthur grew quickly accustomed to eating around him, one arm securely wrapped around his waist so that Merlin wouldn’t fall or wiggle, because Merlin was a shameless hussy and delighted in tormenting Arthur. While Arthur was determined to woo Merlin properly, Merlin was determined to seduce Arthur. It was an unbelievably frustrating situation, and much as Arthur couldn’t blame Merlin for being overcome by Arthur’s (frankly amazing) manly physique (especially as he was such a willowy thing himself), he wanted Merlin to want more than just sex from him. He wanted Merlin to crave him, to be unable to breathe without thinking about Arthur. He wanted Merlin to feel about him how he felt about Merlin, as if he were drowning in an ocean and happy about it. And that meant wooing.
In retrospect, poetry wasn’t really Arthur’s thing and he should probably thank the sorceress for interrupting his attempts at it (poetry was for ponces who flounced around in as much silk and lace as Morgana anyway), except that the damned persistent woman was once again trying to steal Merlin. Hopefully it was the actual sorceress this time and not another simulacrum, so that Arthur could kill her properly. So of course Arthur had to rescue him. As he was a prince and that’s what he did. Also, Merlin was his and bitches just needed to learn to accept that. Arthur sent word to inform his father that he would be out hunting (sorceresses, but he left that bit out; Father could get tetchy about the whole ‘only heir thing’), gathered his most trusted knights and damn well went out to reclaim what was his (HIS).
They rode through some stock scenery, looking dashing and shiny as knights should, until they got to the shore by the Isle of the Blessed, where crazy sorceress chick was apparently a priestess or something. Arthur hadn’t been paying attention, but Morgana insisted this was where Merlin was, and Arthur had learned to trust women’s intuition in these things. Women’s intuition was very good at predicting battles and the location of lost slaves apparently. Arthur thought this was a bit unfair, but then again he got to actually go into battles and so it balanced out a bit.
There was a boat with no paddles sitting on the shore, which Arthur thought was rather convenient even if someone had absconded with the paddles, but he and his knights cut new ones and paddled to the island, which was very dramatic looking but didn’t seem very habitable. Merlin was tethered to the ruins with magically glittering chains and arguing with the sorceress. Because he was Merlin and he did shit like that. After this Arthur was getting Merlin a leash and never letting him out of the Princely chambers unless he was on said leash and thus within Arthur’s sight so that he couldn’t get himself in trouble any more.
“Release Merlin or suffer the consequences, witch,” Arthur declared heroically. Merlin gave him a completely and utterly unnecessary look. He was good at this, he really was, and ok, perhaps goading her to throw fireballs at him had been a bad idea, but Leon was sneaking in to free Merlin while the sorceress was distracted, so it was all good. And according to plan. The plan Arthur had just decided they were following. In which he and the other knights tried to gang up on the sorceress and Leon got Merlin to safety and then they…killed the sorceress. With knives.
Arthur was a bit distracted with the whole fighting thing, and thus couldn’t pay much attention to Merlin. And thus did not see Merlin’s eyes glowing an unearthly gold. Thus Arthur really had no idea why the skies seemed to turn against the sorceress, why the clouds gathered and lightning seemed to seek her out. He pretty much presumed it was divine intervention. On account of her being whoa evil. These things happened. And if Merlin was tired it was clearly due to his harrowing ordeal. He was sort of slumped against Leon looking pitiful as a wet kitten and still chained because Leon hadn’t been able to yet liberate him from his bondage.
Merlin straightened up when he saw Arthur. “You saved me from the evil sorceress.”
“Of course,” Arthur assured him. Surely Merlin knew that Arthur would always come for him?
“Stories indicate that this is suitable reason for two people to get married. Thus you have no more excuses for not bending me over the nearest surface and fucking me stupid,” Merlin continued blithely, looking completely unaffected by the fact that he was manacled and discussing their sex life in front of Arthur’s knights who were looking amused, embarrassed or turned on. Leon looked a combination of the first two, but then he was holding Merlin at the moment. Arthur decided to fix that, wrapping one arm around Merlin and bringing him close.
“Can’t we discuss this later?” When my knights aren’t here and you’re not distracting me by being all bound and helpless. Although those chains would really look better against your skin…
“Are you going to try to get out of it?” Merlin demanded. “Because I want penis, not flowers.”
God, Merlin was a shameless hussy. Heaven forbid Arthur try to do these things correctly.
“FINE. WHEN WE GET HOME.”
“Good.” And Merlin relaxed against him. “’M sleepy now anyway. How did you get here? Nimueh magicked a boat.”
“We made oars.”
“…hmmm, sensible. Was it Leon’s idea?”
“Do you want to get fucked or spanked?”
“Do I have to choose?”
Shameless. Hussy.
***
They rode home, Merlin snuggled against Arthur’s chest, as he couldn’t move his limbs until they found a blacksmith to remove the chains (a few towns in they found one who was very happy to help the Prince. Arthur decided to keep the chains. For…security. In case they decided to be magical again or something). Arthur still held Merlin stoically to him and thought very hard about siege tactics.
Morgana came out to greet them, wearing a black dress, her face solemn. Morgana never wore black dresses; Arthur hadn’t even been aware that she had one. Merlin’s mother wasn’t there, which was odd because surely she was worried about her son.
“Where’s my mum?” Merlin asked as if on cue, looking around for her in confusion.
“She’s in Gaius’s chambers. There was an attack and she was knocked out, but he says that she’ll be fine.” Merlin’s shoulders relaxed a bit, but Arthur knew Morgana well enough to know that it had to be more than just Merlin’s mum getting hit.
“It was an assassin. Arthur, your father—” No. He couldn’t. He refused to accept it.
“He’s injured.”
“He’s dead, Arthur. The assassin drove a knife through his heart; it was instantaneous.”
His father was dead. He was king. He was king and an orphan and he was going to ruin his father’s kingdom because he wasn’t good enough and—Merlin’s hand laced through his. “It’s time, Sire,” he said quietly.