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*
He has noticed by now that Arthur likes Merlin having him against fur rugs.
Which is a shame. Arthur's bed has a very cosy plush to it.
But it's Arthur, and he's the king of Camelot. He gets what he wants.
(Except when Merlin likes to tickle him into submission, flailing between Arthur's legs and yelping when smacked on the bum; or he fucks him into brain-melting oblivion—still between Arthur's legs, but they feel much nicer pushed back with Merlin's hands.)
There's probably some rubbish about primal instinct, or tradition, or subject to an elusive fetish Merlin didn't have the damnedest about.
But he can't imagine that at the moment—the perfect, golden crease of Arthur's buttocks against the firelight, watching the salve and Merlin's emptied come begin to drip out and streak Arthur's skin and his thighs, or how warm he had been for Merlin. A living, enveloping friction of heat.
No, absolutely. Merlin's definitely not imagining it.
Because he's far too busy being anxious and pacing around to moon over his dearest person—not that Arthur's ego needed more stroking.
"Are we sure about this… ?"'
Merlin slows himself, making sure to stop in front of the crackling fireplace. It's freezing during the evening in the bedchamber otherwise and Arthur's all contently wrapped up in the gray-brown furs he stole. His throat burns like Merlin's getting a stomachache. And really, Arthur needs to stop looking so calm while Merlin feels like his head might spin off.
"Well?" he asks, trying to not raise his voice.
Arthur gazes up from staring wordlessly, absently licking his lips. He had been running his eyes hungrily over Merlin's darkly-haired legs and his compact torso, over the expansion of bare skin—like he's a feast, not a panicking man.
"Merlin, I'm the king," he says flatly. "I'm always sure."
"Augh, you know what I mean!"
Merlin rubs his hands over his forehead, tilting his face up and hears Arthur mutter something about delicate petticoats.
"You're going to appoint me Court Sorcerer, honestly?"
One of the furs drops from Arthur's shoulders, revealing his unlaced tunic. He scratches at his underarm through the silky, white material.
"The ban on magic will be repealed," Arthur tells him. "As soon as I convince the members of my counsel that it's the right decision." Arthur's brow finally goes stern and Merlin's just relieved he's taking this serious decision seriously. "Sir Lanval agrees that it's been put off for too long since I've been given the crown. They'll see sense, I promise you."
It would be reassuring except Merlin isn't a clotpole. Arthur is.
"You mean the old cankered bats who supported Uther's decision to slaughter whole households for over twenty years?" Merlin blatantly ignored the warning growl from Arthur. "You think they'll see sense?"
"Then I'll make them."
"No, Arthur. Doing this by force won't give us any peace."
Merlin sighs aloud, dragging his hands over his face. It doesn't help, doesn't allow him to feel better. It kind of hurts with his nails scraping him.
The meeting of the King's counsel was tomorrow morning. Arthur had the half-arsed notion to calling this without Merlin's opinion on the matter. The lords were likely hoping Arthur was calling it to announce a marriage proposal with a neighboring, allied kingdom—not to announce that Arthur's whelp of a manservant was a great sorcerer and needed the proper title.
"Everyone will just assume I enchanted you into loving me, anyway," he adds, cynically. Arthur hums in response, peering away.
"Come to think of it, that suspicion has crossed my mind… "
When he catches Merlin glaring, Arthur's familiar, amused smirk fades into a deadpan look. "Merlin, for gods' sake, I don't believe that," he says. Arthur reaches for Merlin's hand, interlocking their fingers and tugging him in. But when Merlin lets out a sharp exhale, eyes bleary with thought, Arthur softens his clasp.
"What is it?" he asks, gazing up.
"Make the announcement an execution instead."
Arthur puffs up, eyes rounding. Losing his grip on Merlin.
"Are you out of your—?" he yells, interrupted by the sensation of Merlin parting his naked legs, dropping into a kneeling position over Arthur.
"Listen to me, Arthur, " Merlin insists, now face-to-face with him. One of Merlin's hands touches over Arthur's collarbone, feeling the tension and onset of genuine fear strung up inside him. "It needs to be more than just your counsel when this happens," he explains. "Open the doors to as many people as you can to. I'll confess to my crimes of using sorcery as your manservant and then swear my allegiance to you, if I'm pardoned."
"I'm not executing you," Arthur tells him, expression furious. He remains so even as warm, spindly fingers fondly trace a sliver of a pearly scar.
Merlin nods, eyes on his collarbone.
"I know. So you'll pardon me and demand that my magic be bound to Camelot and to you as the king. To only be used in your name." He watches the recognition build, flushing out Arthur's enmity. "It'll be the next step. The first person with magic who is accepted at your side."
A charade, he doesn't say.
We'll be lying, but for the good it would do.
Arthur's nostrils flare, lips thinning, as he tries to process the information.
"You think doing this will ease their minds?"
"I think in doing this I can prove for certain all the good magic does. That it isn't to be feared and not anyone who has it."
"Show that your magic protects the kingdom," Arthur says, figuring it in. Merlin grins at him, his resolve strengthening. "And then, I appoint you Court Sorcerer after that trust has been laid out for all to see."
The warlock leans in, pressing a spirited, hard kiss to Arthur's face.
"I don't know why I ever thought you were a thick-headed dolt," he says, conversationally. "You're a lot smarter than you look."
The 'ah-ha' impressed look from Arthur reminds him of their early years-insulting banter, rough and playful shoving, longing glances when the other wasn't paying attention. But it may have just been Merlin.
They tussled back onto the furs when Arthur throws an arm around Merlin's neck, squirming them down together. It's sensually warm while buried under Arthur, feeling the human-sized pressure on top of Merlin. The soft, white fabric of Arthur's tunic rucks up and Merlin pulls it off, curling his arms to an embrace and breathing Arthur's musk in.
"I don't want to lose you," murmurs forlornly into black tufts of hair. Arthur's own hands cradled and open to Merlin's cheeks.
"I am with you," Merlin reassures, mouthing to Arthur's throat. "But I need you to believe in me. You need to believe in the world we will create."
The words spasms under Merlin's chapped lips, rumbles out the words.
"I am with you."
Something flutters in Merlin's chest, high and marvelously tender.
*