Chapter Text
He makes it three days in Camelot before becoming Arthur’s.
It goes: execution, dungeons, stocks.
So maybe an execution being the very first thing he sees upon setting foot in Camelot doesn’t bode well. But technically, he sees many things in his mere hour in Camelot before that.
Even the lush woods bordering the kingdom of Camelot feel more vibrant than the forest of Ascetir, where Merlin explored and played as a boy. He’d come through Ascetir first to get here, where there are all sorts of creatures poking about—elk and sparrows and chipmunks. Life everywhere. Then come the packed dirt roads winding down the hills, and the stunning revelation of a castle, just like out of Merlin’s books. He thinks it’s a mirage at first, but he’s not dehydrated or daft, just buzzing with anticipation.
Camelot is lively and bustling. There are things to see everywhere: chickens and cats and goats and dogs trotting along the paths; and all the horses, he loves horses. Merchants selling pottery and trinkets and fresh vegetables and fabrics. People, people, so many people. Talking and arguing and bartering and giggling and shouting. Men drunk outside the tavern in the middle of the day. People wearing odd fashions and people who smell unpleasant and people with accents Merlin’s never heard.
He loves them all.
The castle towers beyond it all, on the hill like a horizon, looking nothing less than magnificent under the gleaming sweaty sun, the brilliant blue sky.
Camelot is a dream come true.
He wanders through the town until he ends up in front of the portcullis. There’s no moat or drawbridge, to his mild disappointment, but the gates are wide open, people spilling in and out, so he adjusts his pack and inserts himself into the flow of traffic and hopes not to be noticed. Hopes to get to see—something. He’d overheard a woman say royalty will sometimes stroll out in the open street in Camelot. Imagine seeing a princess, or even the king. He’d write to his mum about it straight away.
Inside the castle keep there’s red and gold strung everywhere, gold like nothing he’s ever seen. Guards are stationed along the perimeter, covered in silver plates, looking severe. These men are soldiers, Merlin thinks. He’s never seen a soldier before.
As far as he can see in any direction there are sprawling courtyards, winding gardens, rolling fields surrounding the castle. He thinks he can make out in the distance a wooden enclosure strung with banners and pennons. It’s easy to picture men on horses there—knights—rushing each other with lances. He’s never seen such things, but he’s read a lot of books, and some have illustrations.
Everything intensifies as he approaches the inner courtyard. Stables filled with snuffling horses, stinking of hay; worried-looking ladies rushing about with baskets on their hips; a bailey where men thwack at each other with various weapons, some which are recognisable to Merlin, some which are not. He pauses to watch them, blood stirring.
These men, Merlin thinks, are knights.
His books could never capture how it feels to actually be here in Camelot. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating and splendid and too much and he loves it, every inch of it, every second.
Until the king orders a man’s head lopped off in the bloody castle courtyard.
The castle he now happens to live in.
This is how Merlin learns how Camelot feels about him. His judgement is cast before he has a chance to even make an impression on the city he’s already fallen hopelessly in love with.
#
Hide it, says Gaius. More of the same.
But then—
Then Merlin meets Arthur and that’s it. Arthur goads him and taunts him and hits him with a broom and calls him brave, all with that look on his face. Like Merlin amuses and confounds him at once.
Then Merlin makes the tremendous mistake of saving the prince’s life.
“Tough lot,” says Richard, a kitchen hand Merlin met only yesterday. He passes dishes to Merlin to dunk in the soapy water. “But look at it this way, you won’t be there for long. Prince Arthur rejects every servant they send his way. They all last a week tops. He won’t even take a squire.”
And the prince does send Merlin away. First, though, he beats him full of bruises under the guise of training for a tournament.
“Why’d you save me?” Arthur asks on that first day, sounding annoyed about it, dripping with sweat from the effort of pummeling Merlin.
Merlin fully understands that Arthur expects a mild answer along the lines of “You’re the prince,” or “I’d’ve done the same for anyone.”
“I don’t know,” is what he says instead, making a face. He just can’t help himself.
Arthur gives him a snotty unimpressed look that motivates Merlin to get back to his feet, because if he ever hopes to wipe that look off the prince’s stupid face, he’s got some work to put in first.
#
On the nights he doesn’t fall fast asleep the moment his head touches his pillow, Merlin falls face first into bed and ruts against his mattress angrily until he spends himself, frustrated by Arthur, by whatever ludicrous chores he’d forced upon Merlin that day; furious with how much he wants him.
The problem is that Arthur cares much more than Merlin ever expected a prince to care.
The other problem is the lifelong mission the prince seems to be on to fulfil some sort of subconscious deathwish and prove to himself he’s not a coward.
The problem is Merlin really, really doesn’t want him to die.
The problem—the problems are myriad. The problem is Arthur scowling at him from under his fringe. The problem is the way he rolls out of bed and raises his arms in the morning, mussed with sleep, cheeks creased from his silken pillows, so Merlin can strip off the thin tunic he sleeps in, when he sleeps in one at all.
The problem is his chest when he doesn’t. The soft-looking hair smattered across it. His thighs, thick and strong under said tunic. All of him corded with muscle like he’s chiselled from marble.
The problem—if he’s being honest—is that Merlin’s a virgin, has only vaguely fooled around with a couple girls in Ealdor when he was younger, and once with Will when he was a bit older and understood a bit better what he wanted.
Merlin’s never had a master before. That’s the real problem. Something hot and embarrassed uncoils inside him the first time he refers to Arthur using the word.
His skin prickles constantly. It feels like magic but it doesn’t; it crackles and builds and fills him up until he thinks he’ll go mad with it. He hasn’t yet—all he can do is tamp the feeling down, fend it off to get through the day until he can collapse in bed and hump into his pillow—pillowcase threadbare; nothing like Arthur’s opulent bed hangings—biting his knuckles, hoping Gaius can’t hear his sob through the wall when he comes.
#
A week comes and goes, and Merlin feels equally relieved and distressed that he’s apparently outlasted the poor sods who’d previously had the honour of scrubbing Arthur’s boots.
He can see why the others didn’t last. The familiarity and constant proximity of another man clearly horrifies Arthur. He’s rude and prickly as a result, always poking at Merlin, pushing.
So each time Merlin manages to crack a piece of him open, exposing the man under his ridiculous, pratty exterior, he feels inordinately proud.
Arthur’s impressed when Merlin presents him with his armour all laid out and clean. “You did this all on your own?” he asks, suspicious—and rightfully so, given Merlin had used a spell to polish the metal to high heavens.
“Yes, sire,” he confirms, the title still new and testing on his tongue, and he successfully dresses Arthur in his hauberk and surcoat and gorget and vambraces and pauldron and couter and mail coif and belt and sword belt and presents him with his dagger and sword. And, of course, his helmet.
“That was much better,” says Arthur, looking floored.
It’s that warm feeling in his belly again, when Arthur praises him in earnest for the first time.
Of course he has to go and ruin it by adding, “Not that it could have got any worse.”
The prince has a temper and a severe father complex, and soon he sends Merlin away. When he asks Merlin to come back, apology stilted and oblique, Merlin is surprised, because he never actually left.
#
He overhears something that makes him burn with shame.
Morgana’s voice is loud from the open door of her rooms. “Merlin is quite possibly the kindest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,” she says, matter-of-fact. Followed by, “It’s no surprise you don’t like him.” Merlin can tell from her tone she’s talking to Arthur. The blonde head he spies as he slips past confirms it.
Merlin knows Arthur doesn’t like him. It shows in every word, every look the prince directs at him.
But to hear it put so plainly by someone else—it hurts.
He doesn’t mean to, but he goes a bit cold on Arthur after that. Despite his complete lack of emotional intelligence, Arthur notices and proceeds to spend a week trying to prise information on the source of Merlin’s inner turmoil out of him.
“No one else talks to me the way you do,” Arthur comments after Merlin’s creatively told him off once more. The way he says it makes it clear that he does not perceive this to be a positive trait of Merlin’s.
“You’re welcome for my candour,” mutters Merlin. He’s shoving shoddily folded articles of clothing into Arthur’s wardrobe as Arthur lounges at the table, procrastinating from looking at farming reports.
“Careful, Merlin, that’s a big word there.”
“‘Candour?’ Two syllables, my lord. I can think of a few larger words if you’d like. Infuriating. That one’s five. Egotistical. Also five. Exasperate. Tyrannical. Obstinate…”
Merlin rambles on and Arthur gets to his feet, moving to lean against a bed post. He watches Merlin with an appraising look, seeming unaffected by his offhand treason.
“How’s your knee walking coming along?” he asks when Merlin finally shuts up. He sounds, looks casual, standing there with his arms loosely crossed, the sleeves of his tunic rumpled around his forearms. But there’s a hint of hardness in his eye that gives Merlin pause.
“Splendidly,” says Merlin, wary.
Arthur smiles. “Show me.”
Merlin pauses his work to give him a dirty look, then turns back to his laundry.
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” warns Arthur. “I’m your prince.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned once or twice.”
“Merlin,” he says sharply, displeased now. He grabs Merlin’s arm when he doesn’t respond, hoisting him to his feet. Merlin pulls back against him instinctively, but Arthur’s hand circling his bicep doesn’t feel all that unpleasant. It’s a tight anchor that keeps Merlin’s feet on the ground and makes his head go the slightest bit foggy all at once.
Arthur spins him so they’re face to face, and he doesn’t let go. He squeezes tighter, eyes searching Merlin’s face. Whatever he’s looking for, Merlin’s certain he won’t find it. The knowledge kills him a little more every day.
He lets go finally, takes several steps back, and Merlin’s hand goes to his arm, rubbing mindlessly. Arthur watches, somehow looking just as casual as he had done before manhandling Merlin.
“I see you, you know,” says Arthur suddenly. “I see the way you go red when I scold or yell at you. All humiliated.” He smirks like just the thought pleases him. Meanwhile, Merlin’s forgotten how to breathe.
“And when I praise you,” continues Arthur, eyes moving over him ceaselessly. “So pleased.”
Merlin stares, helpless. Arthur’s not supposed to say these things aloud. He’s broken a sacred unspoken rule by doing so, and, prince or not, Merlin will never forgive him for this, he thinks in this moment. Not for honing in on Merlin’s deepest, truest desires; for voicing them and mocking him so mercilessly.
Arthur stares back.
“The command was,” he says slowly, “‘Show me.’”
By this point the blood in Merlin’s veins has turned to ice. By this point he feels cornered, hunted, and he certainly has no choice in the matter—doesn’t particularly feel like revisiting the dungeons or the stocks—so he does what Arthur says and gets to his knees, one at a time, face hot.
“Good,” says Arthur, soft. It’s just a crumb, but Merlin’s starving for it. “Now come.”
There’s a good several feet between them. Merlin looks at the stretch of flagstone then back up to Arthur’s face. He doesn’t dare speak, not even to plead, but he imagines his burning red face and desperate eyes get the message across: Please don’t make me.
“Come here,” Arthur repeats. The smirk from earlier is gone. Arthur looks down at him seriously, like he’s trying to get across something important, if only Merlin would just listen.
So he walks himself slowly on his knees to come before Arthur. It amounts to no more than five paces, but the stretch of time it seems to take him to get there is immeasurable; never-ending.
It’s the most wretched, degrading thing Merlin’s ever been forced to do in his life.
Yet in his trousers his cock throbs, filling up fat and hard.
Both of these things are true at once. He doesn’t think about his erection; can hardly notice his body’s reaction when he’s knelt at Arthur’s feet staring at the ground, wanting to cry from the embarrassment of it, trying hard to pretend he doesn’t exist.
Even more embarrassing is his automatic flinch when Arthur touches him suddenly. He puts his fingers to Merlin’s chin, tipping his head up so Merlin has no choice but to look at him. So Merlin looks, not caring if Arthur sees the angry tears shining in his eyes.
But Arthur is—he’s not laughing cruelly, or looking sickeningly entertained.
He looks at Merlin like he’s done something right.
Merlin doesn’t know how it happens. Arthur’s still holding his chin; maybe he drags his thumb up on his own accord or maybe Merlin’s mouth opens, a gentle part, as he gazes up at his master. But Arthur’s thumb is on his bottom lip, stroking, and then it’s pushing into his mouth, where Merlin can close his lips around it and lap at it with his tongue.
Arthur groans as Merlin sucks at his finger, going half-lidded.
Hearing a sound like that from Arthur—seeing his eyes flutter, making them flutter—all at once Merlin realises how hard he is, how much he wants. He releases Arthur’s thumb with a slick pop.
“Please touch me,” he says in a rush, abandoning all thought and reason.
Arthur lets out a wild laugh. He reaches for Merlin’s scarf, pulling him to his feet for the second time this afternoon. Merlin wonders if he’s about to be at the mercy of the guards standing watch in the corridor. But Arthur stalks forward, backing Merlin into the table.
“It’s you who should be pleasuring me, you know.” His hands come to Merlin’s hips, palming the pointy bones there. Dangerously close to the tent at the front of his trousers. “Would you even know how?” asks Arthur, shifting in close. His voice goes gentle, almost soothing. “Have you ever bedded anyone, Merlin?”
Merlin’s breath catches. He shakes his head once, fast.
“No?” Arthur leans in, nosing into the little hairs curling around Merin’s ear. “No ugly milkmaid, no neighbour boy?” Merlin shakes his head again. The motion makes Arthur’s lips brush his neck. He presses a dry kiss there, then says, smile in his voice, “Certainly no prince.”
“No,” Merlin agrees, desperate to get on with it.
Arthur squeezes his hips. “You’re a virgin,” he says, voice low. “It shows. No one’s taught you to behave.”
“I will,” he gasps, “I will.” Behave, he means. He says it mindlessly, but deep inside he knows the truth, and the truth is that he wants to. He wants to be good for Arthur.
He wants Arthur to make him behave.
His prince nods, pleased. “I know you will,” he says, then he’s kissing Merlin, bunching his shirt up so hard in his fists it pulls tight around Merlin, pulls him impossibly close.
Kissing Arthur is so Arthur the obviousness almost surprises him: his smell, the angles of his face, the taste of the peach he’d had with his lunch. Merlin feels like he knows it already. The thrill of pressing up against the line of Arthur’s body, which is just as hard and muscle-y as it looks. The shape of Arthur’s large hands wandering his skin. Of course this is what kissing Arthur feels like.
This is what it feels like to swallow Arthur’s moans, to rub against his hardness. This is what it feels like when Arthur twines his fingers through Merlin’s hair and pulls, just hard enough to tip his head back, hold his neck taut, make him catch his breath.
“What to do with you,” he muses, holding Merlin’s head still like that while Merlin’s hips hump helplessly forward on their own accord.
“Sire,” whines Merlin.
“You’ll take what I give you, won’t you?”
“Please, Arthur—yeah, yes I’ll take it, please give it to me, just—would you touch me? Please, just—”
He writhes like a wanton whore, but there’s no room for shame, not right here, right now, with Arthur cupping him firmly through his trousers. No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever held him tight by his hair and gently kneaded his cock, making him leak through the fabric.
“You want me to wank you?” says Arthur into his neck.
Merlin groans, gripping Arthur’s shoulders. He could rub off against him just like this, if Arthur would let him, in ten seconds flat.
“Calm down,” Arthur tuts. “Don’t want to finish before we’ve even begun.”
He strips Merlin of his clothes carefully, methodically. Ignores Merlin’s bobbing cock to nudge him to the edge of the table. Hooks his hands behind Merlin’s thighs to lift him and set him on the surface there. Merlin braces his hands on the wood, slightly behind him, and Arthur covers them with his own, pressing down.
“Leave your hands here,” he orders, waiting for Merlin to meet his eyes and nod.
Merlin wonders if Arthur does this with all the servants he sacks. Somehow he doesn't think so.
Arthur takes his cock in hand then, finally, and it’s glorious, so different from Merlin’s own hand; from the mattress and pillow he abuses nightly. So much better. His hips nearly lift right off the table in his eagerness for more.
“Listen to you,” murmurs Arthur over his grunts. “You’re something else. No one’s touched your sweet little thing before, have they?”
Merlin sobs, mortified by Arthur’s words and wanting more than the clutch of his dry fist.
“Like a dog in heat.”
He twitches into Arthur’s tight grip, feeling it build already.
Is this how normal people have sex? Through the haze of insults disguised as something sweeter?
Arthur stands between his legs looking focused at the task at hand. His own cock is hard in his breeches, Merlin can see. He reaches for it, because he wants badly, so badly, to be allowed to touch Arthur. But he’s not. Arthur lets go of his dick to slap his hand away, hard. Merlin reaches to touch himself, then, chasing relief, needing to keep the friction—and earns another, harder slap. He hisses, retracting his stinging hand.
“Merlin,” Arthur scolds, exasperated. “What’s the one thing I told you to do?”
“Hands,” gasps Merlin. He presses them back to the table, tilting his hips up, hoping for Arthur to touch him again, and he does—setting a slower pace than before, and it’s torture, driving Merlin barmy.
He’s good this time, better, and leaves his hands right where he’s meant to. But Arthur lets go again after a minute, just as Merlin’s orgasm begins to crest. He moans at the loss, face crumpling in frustration.
Arthur continues on like that, setting an excruciating pace and letting go each time just as Merlin gets close. Soon enough he’s slick with precum, helpless to do anything but pant for air and try to keep his eyes open so he can watch. The sight of his peasant cock in Arthur’s royal hand is unfathomable.
“Stop teasing,” he manages when Arthur does it once more. The need to release himself is bordering on painful now. Arthur just gives a soft laugh, flicking a finger at the head. It makes Merlin whimper. “Arthur, please.”
Arthur takes him in his hand once more. “Is that really all you can take?” he asks, conversational.
“Yes,” sighs Merlin, hips lifting clear off the table, “don’t stop—fuck,” he snaps when Arthur stops again. “Please don’t—please, come on.”
He doesn’t even realise he’s moved his hand, but Arthur’s got it in a flash, crushing Merlin’s fingers in his own.
“Your hands, Merlin,” he growls. “Can you not follow one single bloody order?”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, please.” Merlin’s insides feel all screwed up. “I need—I need to come, please.”
Arthur scans him, thoughtful. “I like it when you beg me,” he says quietly.
Merlin’s not above begging. “Please.” When Arthur releases his hand it returns to its spot on the table, chastened. “Please let me, please, I’m gonna—oh god, please, please—”
Arthur steps forward and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Merlin’s lips. “Let’s have it, darling,” he says, and he strokes Merlin one final time, just once down and back up, then he pulls his hand away and Merlin shatters completely.
He’s crying and coming, tears streaming down his cheeks as he babbles things he’d die for having said were he not already dying from the lack of touch, of anything, on his cock, which pulses again, again, again.
“Please Arthur,” he cries, “I love you, I love you so much.”
He sags forward and Arthur envelops him, stroking at the skin of his neck, his back, so tenderly it makes Merlin cry harder. “I know, pet,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. God. Beautiful. You’ve no idea, have you? Well done. That was lovely, Merlin. You were lovely.”
It’s too much.
“Don’t,” Merlin chokes out when he finally has half a breath. “Don’t mock me.”
Arthur pulls back. “I’m not,” he says, startled. “I wouldn’t.”
His eyes are big. It makes him look young, human again, like the bullheaded prince Merlin knows, not the man who just took him apart completely.
Coming down in Arthur’s arms like this isn’t what he expected from the way the rest of it went. He’s overwhelmed and embarrassed and confused and his cock aches, so he gives into his tears and Arthur holds him, petting his hair and whispering assurances that make Merlin shake even harder, until Arthur encompasses every one of his senses: he’s all Merlin sees, feels, smells, hears, tastes.
All he could ever want.
He suffocates his sobs in Arthur’s tunic, the one he knows he’ll wash tomorrow.