Archive of Our Own

“It ignites the passions,” she said, her throaty voice knowing and touched by a hint of mischief. Gwaine glanced up from his terrifically comfortable position pillowed on her lap into her smoky, kohl-rimmed eyes and accepted the bottle into his palm.

“I hardly think I need it, sweetheart,” he grinned. She tsked him, shoving lightly at his head.

“With this, your virility will be unmatched. You will please your woman for hours.”

“You’re my woman,” Gwaine mumbled, rolling around so he could wrap his arms about her soft waist and tickle at her thighs. She laughed, shoving him off with an indulgent skritch to his scalp. After a long moment, Gwaine hefted himself up onto his elbows and eyed her sideways. “And how much more will this potion run me, milady?”

“For a brave knight of Camelot?” she said, slinking off of the bed and towards the chest banded in iron and riddled with locks in the corner of her room, shameless in her nudity. Gwaine watched appreciatively; she cast an arch look over her shoulder. “I will make you a very special price.”

Merlin habitually ignored Arthur’s varying states of arousal when he arrived in the mornings to feed and dress and clean up after his king. It was morning, after all. Merlin woke up the same way, often as not. He’d even taken to showing up tardy from time to time, finding he was better prepared to deal with Arthur’s grumpiness after greeting the day with a slicked palm and the pleasant lassitude that followed.

Which was why he sympathized a little today, having got off very well just before dawn. Arthur wasn’t even fully awake when Merlin arrived, just sitting up in bed, and the pull of sheets across his lap was telling.

“Morning,” Merlin said, cheerily throwing the curtains wide. Arthur grimaced, squinting his eyes. “There’s ham, bread, some lovely cheese and an apple. I’ve taken the liberty of slicing your apple; I know how you dislike the seeds and bruises.”

“Yes, and I know how much you like to nick my food. Very subtle, Merlin,” Arthur grumbled, tossing off the covers. Merlin glanced down and then quickly looked away; he didn’t want to get caught staring and then suffer a telling-off for being too punctual.

Arthur didn’t look comfortable, but if he was that…primed…then Merlin could probably get away with ducking out early and skip the sweeping this morning. Arthur might not even notice. He might already be thinking longingly of the minute Merlin would close the door behind him and he could take himself in hand, and — there was a chance Merlin was over-analyzing the situation.

“Would you like the light armour today?” Merlin said, ignoring Arthur’s earlier implication of thievery. Who was to say how many slices a whole apple should make, anyway?

“No. I have council this morning. I’ll wear the red doublet.”

“Ah, I’ve taken it out to be cleaned,” Merlin said.

“Alright,” Arthur said slowly, “then the other red jacket.”

“There’s only the one,” Merlin rifled through the wardrobe, withdrawing with a brown long-coat. “You may have a black one in here somewhere?”

“I don’t care!” Arthur snapped, stamping his booted foot. He’d put on breeches while Merlin wasn’t looking. “Just pick something. Something suitable,” Arthur added, voice tight. His erection was no less noticeable pressed against his placket, Merlin saw. Funny, his sense of sympathy over the matter seemed to have wandered away.

He chose a red tunic and the only overcoat he could find. Arthur didn’t wait for Merlin to hold the jacket open for him, instead snatching it in one hand and a piece of buttered bread in the other before stomping to the door. “I want that doublet back in my rooms by the end of the day, Merlin,” he said, already halfway into the hall.

Merlin made a face, muttering, “Maybe I’ll just magically remove the stench from your clothes from now on, sire.”

“And don’t forget to sweep!” Arthur called over his shoulder, just before the door slammed behind him.

Merlin had forgotten all about Arthur’s morning problem by the time lunch rolled around, which was why he attributed Arthur’s flush and stormy expression to the usual battery of court malfeasances he was forced to endure. Merlin leaned in to Arthur’s ear as he set down his meal — bread, chicken, sauce, a few greens he knew Arthur would ignore.

“Don’t worry, it can’t be that much longer now, can it?” he whispered. Arthur jumped. Merlin looked at him askance; Arthur, King of Camelot, did not startle.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Arthur hissed back, distracted.

Merlin opened his mouth, unsure how to proceed, until his eyes followed the path of Arthur’s arm to his crotch and he said, simply, “Oh.”

Arthur caught his gaze and quickly flattened his hands on the table, his jaw twitching. “Get out. Go, Merlin.”

“Are you alri—”

“Oh, will you bloody leave off? Go!” Arthur snarled, looking quite mad. Merlin bobbed a bow for appearances and snuck out of the hall, a dip in his brow.

By his mental calculations, it had been at least seven hours since breakfast. And with his highly developed instinct for trouble, Merlin detected a fiasco on the horizon.

He let himself into Arthur’s chambers stealthily. The lights had gone low, which meant he’d either be re-trimming the candles so Arthur could brood the night through, or he’d be snuffing them early. But Arthur was nowhere to be found in the main chamber.

Merlin set down the dinner platter and hesitated. On a normal night he’d drop things and smile too much and ask lots of inane questions to provoke Arthur into some sort of decompression of his emotions, usually in the form of extra chores for Merlin or the rare thrown boot. But tonight… well, it was different. He didn’t even know if Arthur was upset. And he also didn’t want to be the one to keep interrupting the king’s attempts at relief, if that was what Arthur was really doing; that way lay the stocks, Merlin was sure of it. However, if it was nearing sunset and Arthur still hadn’t found release, something simply had to be wrong.

On the other hand, maybe it was just a case of extreme virility, and Merlin was only assuming Arthur had maintained a twelve hour erection? Maybe his timing had been coincidental and Arthur was merely annoyed at him because he kept popping up every time Arthur, uh. Popped up.

And now he thought of it, that seemed far more likely. Merlin didn’t think Arthur was still the sort of man-child to crow over his sexual rapaciousness, but he knew Arthur was the sort of man to resent being perceived as unable to control himself. And if Merlin was doing all the seeing but Arthur was doing none of the telling, then it would only look like Arthur was either aroused by Merlin’s proximity alone (unlikely) or just a sexual deviant who leched after everybody. Or it would look so to Arthur’s mind.

So it would probably be best for all parties if Merlin followed his saner instincts and let Arthur navigate his feelings alone tonight. There was always tomorrow to poke fun at the little incident. After all, it wasn’t like Merlin could just let it go unmentioned, could he? It’d be far more suspicious if he didn’t say anything, and the only thing Arthur would take worse than lighthearted teasing was silent understanding. And Merlin would probably find himself elbow deep in horse manure for weeks for his efforts, and only after being skewered in delicate places by Arthur’s sharp blue eyes and taking a thorough tongue-lashing…

Right. Which was why he was just going to quietly let himself out. He would leave and come back early tomorrow and normality would resume. Just as soon as he turned around and walked away.

Merlin scrubbed his hands through his hair and turned in place, torn. He was about to buck up and march out when he heard a low, pained noise from the antechamber and literally spun on his heel.

“Arthur?” he said, skidding into the room.

Arthur had curled himself into a tight ball of misery on the servant’s cot, knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t look around when Merlin approached, just gritted out, “Get Gaius.”

This time, leaving was much easier.

“Arthur, you have to show me what the problem is,” Gaius said gently, laying his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. With his face crushed into the thin pillow so his golden hair haloed him like a nimbus, Merlin had a very strange double sense of the Arthur he saw now and the Arthur Gaius must have known for years, had treated through young fevers and broken bones and more. He felt a strange swell of affection for a small Arthur he’d never met, no doubt equally stubborn and proud.

Arthur turned over with obvious reluctance, unbending like an arthritic until he lay flat, board-stiff on the cot. Merlin sucked in a breath.

“It won’t go away,” Arthur told them, like a report, with the same steely resolve that had seen him through the worst interviews with his father.

“You’ve tried?” Gaius trailed off.

“Yes,” Arthur said. Short.

“I see,” Gaius said, reaching into his pack. He withdrew two empty glass vials. The first he set against the crook of Arthur’s elbow, a process they both appeared familiar with. Merlin watched Gaius draw a small lancet over the inside of Arthur’s arm, catching a thin stream of blood in the open vial. He stopped it with a wad of beeswax and tied a small square of cloth to the cut on Arthur’s arm when he’d collected about an ounce, and then held out the second glass. “I’ll need a seminal sample as well,” he said.

Arthur swallowed. “I,” he began, flush intensifying. He swallowed again. “I don’t know that I can.”

“You have to try,” Gaius said, getting to his feet. “We’ll give you a moment to yourself, highness?” He ushered Merlin into Arthur’s main chamber by the arm, his expression worried.

“Is he going to be alright?” Merlin asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Gaius said, keeping his voice low. “It’s not a common ailment. This is very serious, Merlin. If we can’t return him to normal soon there’s a risk his condition could do him significant damage, both physically and otherwise.”

“Otherwise?” Merlin said.

“The longer this persists, the more he’ll strain his reproductive system. He could become infertile, and if no other alternative presents itself his treatment options are severe and limited.”

“And if he can’t have children—” Merlin said, hushed in dawning horror.

“It risks the succession.” Gaius nodded. He looked back at the partially closed door to the antechamber, considering. “I think…you may be able to help.”

“What do you need me to do?” Merlin said immediately. He felt prepared to ride for days, to wade through the foulest bracken to find some obscure herb that might help create one of Gaius’ remedies.

Gaius, however, inclined his head to the door. “You could offer a hand.”

It took a moment to process the suggestion, and Merlin simply had to conclude he’d misunderstood. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Part of the problem may be in his mind. If Arthur can’t stimulate himself, it might easily be fixed with an unfamiliar touch,” Gaius said, utterly reasonable. Merlin shook his head.

“It sounds an awful lot like you’re suggesting I stroke Arthur’s penis for him,” he whispered, a little wildly. Gaius returned his shrill panic with an eyebrow. “Why me?” Merlin said, sharp electric tingles skittering up and down his spine and snapping in his gut.

“If you imagine I would fare more successfully in this endeavor than even you, Merlin, then I’m afraid there are bigger threats to the future of this kingdom than Arthur’s condition,” Gaius said tartly.

“Alright fine, but why not, I don’t know, a maid or something? Gwen cares for Arthur, I’m sure she’d be glad to help!” Merlin said.

“This is hard enough on him as it is without volunteering other unsuspecting people for the job,” Gaius said severely. “How do you think Arthur would feel to have one of his subjects see him in this state?”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped miserably. “He wouldn’t be able to look Gwen in the face, after,” he said.

“Merlin,” Gaius chided softly. “He trusts you. You already know. What could it cost you to try?”

A lot, Merlin thought, imagining the way Arthur might recoil, or calmly accept the help and then never speak to him again afterward. But Merlin had risked their friendship for less, and he already knew that when it came to Arthur he’d brave almost anything.

The only difference was that today they’d be face to face, not defending against all-comers back to back, and Merlin couldn’t reasonably knock Arthur unconscious without feeling like the most base and unscrupulous of violators.

Great.

Arthur glanced around when Merlin sloped back into the room. He looked drawn, and frustrated, typically not a promising combination for conversation between them, to say the least of reluctant propositioning. But Arthur only furrowed his brow and waited expectantly when Merlin sat down on the cot by his hip.

Merlin rubbed his palms over his thighs, at a loss for where to start. “Any luck?” he tried. Arthur’s only response was to flourish the empty phial. Merlin’s stomach seemed to jump sideways, partly out of disappointment and partly out of anxiety. “Okay,” he breathed, scooting forward a little bit. “Before I say anything, I just want you to know that this was…not my idea. Emphatically not my idea. Just. Know that, okay?”

“I think we’re on the same page,” Arthur said, and when had his voice gotten so hoarse and low? Minutes ago, when he was trying…?

Oh God, Merlin wasn’t going to come out of this conversation unscathed.

“It’s just that Gaius thought it might be mental, you know, so in his professional medical opinion it makes sense. Which I have no objection to, mind you, it’s just that I didn’t suggest it either, yeah?”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupted him.

“Yes?” Merlin said.

“Spit it out.”

“What if…I tried?” Merlin said, only stumbling a little before forcing the words free.

“You?” Arthur said, blank. “You want to collect my sample?”

“I didn’t say want!”

“You’re offering, though?” Arthur’s eyes were inscrutable, his lips thinning. Merlin nodded before he realized Arthur was resisting a smile. He was—the ass was laughing. “Alright,” Arthur said, his tone strained around his perfectly gracious syllables.

Well. It was better than being punched in the face. Merlin rolled his eyes, reaching for the hem of Arthur’s tunic. His laces were undone and the shirt was the only thing preserving his modesty. It felt wrong to look while they did this, somehow, so after a moment of hesitation Merlin slipped his hand beneath the fabric, navigating by touch. He kept his eyes firmly focused on the little glass bottle in his other hand, ready to spring away the second Arthur breathed a hint of discomfort.

Merlin’s fingertips picked up the heat of Arthur’s skin before they even made contact. He released a held breath and drew his knuckles across the underside of Arthur’s erection, studiously ignoring the way Arthur went still and very quiet at his touch. Merlin searched the length of Arthur’s shaft with the pads of his fingers, equally disturbed by the softness and warmth of him as he was by the rigidity, the way the skin was pulled impossibly tight. It had to be uncomfortable. Merlin knew he had never been so hard, himself. That Arthur endured this all day with nothing worse than what had appeared to be his usual impatience made Merlin wonder if perhaps he had a more imaginative relationship with Arthur’s faults than he thought.

“Are you going to do something, Merlin, or are you planning on admiring me all night?”

On second thought, perhaps Merlin had a better grasp of Arthur’s flaws than he gave himself credit for. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were so eager for me to touch you. Besides, it’s different with someone else.”

“Hobby of yours?” Arthur said silkily, making Merlin flush all the way to his hairline. It was a great moment for a snappy comeback, so of course he could only chew uselessly on false denials and embarrassment and, even more humiliating, the usual excitement that accompanied their verbal spars. Desperate for a distraction, he took Arthur fully in hand, shocking a gasp out of him.

It was different from this angle, strange and a little thrilling to pull without feeling sensation tingle over his own body. He’d only just gotten a hang of his rhythm and the little flick of his wrist he liked to do over his own crown before Arthur gripped his shoulder hard and a thread of fluid seeped out of his slit. Merlin fumbled the vial up and gathered as much of Arthur’s precome as he could, his arm working until he noticed the slickness that eased his strokes, slipping between his fingers with faint wet whispers.

He startled away as if he’d been slapped, almost dropping his hard-won specimen. Arthur was breathing raggedly through his nose, hands clenched around the thin frame of the cot. His prick was an angry red flag between them, gleaming in the guttering candlelight.

“Sorry,” Merlin blurted, flailing backwards off the bed onto his rump. “Sorry, I—” The beeswax wasn’t cooperating, or maybe it was his hands that were shaking and not the rest of the world. Face flaming, his body in sudden turmoil, Merlin barely paused to nod before tripping out of the room and slapping the vial into Gaius’ hand as he blew past.

When he finally made it back to his room, he threw himself into bed and screwed his eyes shut. His fingers were still just wet enough to slide perfectly once, twice, three times over his cock, and after that it didn’t matter if his hand went tacky right in the middle of the fourth pull, because he was coming all over his fist.

The following morning, Gaius only had enough information to conclude that Arthur had been poisoned, though he didn’t know how or to what purpose, as the king’s condition clearly wasn’t lethal.

Even so, it was enough to get Arthur to promise to stay in bed for at least a day, barring any visits save those from Gaius or Merlin. Not that Merlin appreciated the privilege, as his responsibilities only amounted to bringing Arthur his meals and trying really, really hard not to stare or acknowledge why he was there or look like he was still tormented every moment over what had transpired between them the night previous. Arthur wasn’t taking it well, but that could’ve just as easily been a side-effect of his unceasing priapism. He only picked at his food, leaving most of it to Merlin’s guilty indulgence while he paced, his heavy sleeping robe gaping every few moments to expose him while he walked.

At this point Merlin didn’t think it would matter if he partook of Arthur’s wine, too.

“Merlin,” Arthur said sharply, making him jump. “Come here.”

“Yes?” Merlin approached, keeping as much distance between them as was seemly. He had to resist scuttling back when Arthur stepped forward. Arthur noticed anyway, of course he did, and rolled his eyes before catching Merlin by the wrist.

“I need your help,” Arthur said, dropping his voice. Merlin breathed an internal sigh of relief. This was more familiar territory. He leaned in, indicating he was listening. But Arthur didn’t say anything else, just got all pursed and red. He still hadn’t let go of Merlin’s arm.

“Sire?” Merlin said.

“I need to relieve myself,” Arthur said, a little rushed. Panic lanced briefly through Merlin’s chest, but then he caught the direction of Arthur’s gaze – behind the changing screen, where the chamber pot was kept out of sight, and the butterflies in his stomach died down. But now he was just confused.

“Okay?” Merlin said, feeling as though he was being taken out on a limb. Arthur huffed, gritting his teeth.

“I can’t like this,” he hissed. Merlin glanced down and back up so fast he felt his neck pop. Oh. “Please, Merlin,” Arthur said, voice low, as if each word was a source of pain for him. His hand loosened around Merlin’s wrist enough for their hands to clasp awkwardly together, Arthur unwilling to quite let go and Merlin too shocked to pull away.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, uh. Alright,” he surprised himself, and blamed the fact that he was unaccustomed to hearing Arthur plead for anything.

They shifted at the same time, which was somehow embarrassing. But while Arthur paused, Merlin forced himself to just do it, to wrap his hand around his king’s cock. Because helping Arthur was not only his job but his bloody destiny, and if he couldn’t bring himself to listen when he was asked then what kind of friend was he?

Neither of them wanted this, of course; only through some gross miscarriage of circumstance would this ever happen between them — twice — and if they were going to get through it in one piece then Merlin couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t back off. He couldn’t lose Arthur’s trust over something so…stupid.

Which was all fine and good, but maintaining that clarity of intent became a tad difficult when Arthur went all quiet on him again, the both of them watching Merlin’s pale, pale fingers twist around Arthur’s flushed, red prick. His skin was so taut, parchment dry under Merlin’s palm. The strangest impulse struck him from nowhere, to drop to his knees and carefully wet Arthur’s length with his mouth, to bathe him with licks and kisses until the pressure eased, to tease the poison from Arthur’s body with his tongue. His stomach somersaulted and the instinct passed, if not the idea. Merlin spit into his hand and resumed stroking, stopping to do it twice more before he could develop an uninterrupted slide. By that point Arthur was moving with him, an almost unnoticeable rhythm in his hips, breathing irregular, shallow.

“Yes, just,” he said, setting his hand on Merlin’s forearm. Gooseflesh bloomed under Arthur’s touch, following the path his fingers took as they slid over Merlin’s wrist, covering his hand, adjusting Merlin’s grip and the cadence of his strokes into something long and luxurious, less determined. “Like this,” Arthur said, soft into the air between them, which — hello — had gotten startlingly close.

A cyclonic force seemed to pin Merlin in place, made escaping the drag of Arthur’s proximity impossible, its vortex spinning between them so when they swayed, disoriented in sensation, it was closer together. Arthur’s hand was hot over Merlin’s, his eyes hooded, brows drawn down in concentration or frustration or both. And Merlin wasn’t thinking when he leaned in, so careful, and brushed his mouth over the tense line of Arthur’s brow, because if he had been thinking he might’ve just kept his mouth to himself, mightn’t he?

Arthur stared at him, shock writ large over his features.

“You’re thinking too hard about it,” Merlin said, voice a flat (terrified) croak. He cleared his throat. “I mean, try thinking of someth—someone else.”

“Alright,” Arthur said, which was worrisome. “Who would you suggest?” he asked, which was even worse.

“I don’t know!” Merlin spluttered, because yes, he did. Recommending someone for the dubious honor of the king’s stroke fantasy seemed like it would rate just as poorly as volunteering her to stand there in his place. Which, in asking, may have been Arthur’s point.

“Who do you think of?” Arthur asked, transformed with sudden curiosity.

“No one!” Merlin responded, too quickly. Gwen. Freya. “Nobody specific, I mean.” The Lady Vivian’s breasts. The Lady Elena’s breasts. Gwen’s mouth. Gwaine, though it was only the once and kind of sprung up on him unexpectedly right before he was about to spill, so, right, that didn’t really count, obviously.

“The bar wench from that tavern, the one where we found Gwaine — she seemed quite keen,” Arthur said offhandedly.

“Alright, I admit it. My thoughts have been occupied by no one else since,” Merlin agreed, squeezing a little tighter on his upstroke. Arthur laughed, breathless, tilting closer and bracing himself on Merlin’s shoulders as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Solid build on that one,” he hummed into Merlin’s ear.

“And an excellent judge of character,” Merlin smiled.

“Too bad she was so farsighted. Such defects run in the blood, you know.”

“I guess our children would just be forced to avoid arrogant prats by sound rather than sight,” Merlin sighed, and Arthur bit down on Merlin’s shoulder to muffle his reaction, a laugh warped at its peak by a small, shocked sound and the momentary tensing of Arthur’s entire body.

Merlin stared down at the thin streaks of white lining his palm and the hem of his tunic for a long moment while Arthur recovered his breath enough to mutter, “God, keep going, Merlin—”

“You’re, you—did you?” Merlin spluttered, thoughts tripping all over each other in their haste to make it to his mouth.

“Almost,” Arthur grit, catching Merlin’s hand in his own and pumping his cock fast and brutal within their joined grip. Merlin jumped when Arthur grunted like he’d been hit in the gut with a mace, and again when hot, hot spill flowed over their hands, a thick, wet prize seeping between their fingers.

Arthur’s slit had hardly stopped pulsing before he was stumbling away, making Merlin’s stomach lurch unpleasantly before he saw Arthur disappear behind his changing screen. Realization hit just before the reluctant and then suddenly forceful stream of Arthur’s piss sounded a hollow patter in his chamber pot.

Merlin glanced down at his hand, the sticky mess cooling to a milky web over his palm and fingers. He startled again at a low animal noise from behind the screen, head jerking up to stare as Arthur moaned, and then again, the sound of his relief stifled in a way that suggested he’d caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Merlin was hit by a wave of vertigo so intense his knees wobbled and he had to steady himself against Arthur’s chair. He didn’t know if Arthur still needed him or even wanted him to linger in his chambers, but Merlin had an immediate and pressing need to be...alone. Far, far away from the sounds of Arthur’s muffled sighing.

He let himself out of Arthur’s rooms quietly, weaving his way through the corridors with his soiled palm cupped close to his chest beneath his clean hand. Gaius was thankfully nowhere to be seen when Merlin slipped through the door, and he practically sprinted to his room, kicking his own flimsy door shut behind him. What was he doing? He hardly knew himself, curling his fist protectively around Arthur’s seed while he shed his shirt and tugged the belt at his waist until it loosened and his trousers crumpled around his boots, which he toed off with clumsy impatience.

He dropped to the thin pallet of his bed, slowly uncurling to an open stretch on the rough linen sheets. For a long moment he simply looked down the length of his own body at the hot, heavy pink curve of his prick against his belly, his sticky hand lying loose by his hip.

It was silly to pretend the state he was in had nothing to do with Arthur, so he let himself ponder over it. His breath shortened at the recollection of the noises Arthur made when he— the strange intimacy of overhearing such obvious...satisfaction. And the feel of Arthur in his hand, slick and rubbing like a hot, blunt creature nosing for his affection. And Arthur’s face as he began to — Merlin bit his lip and squeezed his clean fist around the root of his cock, hips tilting with the tingly wave of lust crawling up from his bollocks — to come.

Merlin lifted his other hand, eyeing the gooey white puddle that hadn’t quite dried yet, hugged as it was against the heat of his skin. He closed his eyes and muffled his palm around the head of his cock, catching his breath at the touch of slightly cool wetness, realizing his heart was galloping in his chest and his blood was throbbing in his prick at the exact same moment that his door slammed wide admitting a harried, red-faced Arthur.

Merlin immediately snatched his hands away. At Arthur’s arrested expression, he blurted, “It’s not what it looks like!” and tried to surreptitiously scrub his palm off on the rough fabric of his cot.

“It looks like you’re having a wank,” Arthur said slowly, then appeared to collect himself and shook his head. “Where’s Gaius?”

“Out?” Merlin said, torn between the urge to cover himself with his scratchy blanket and the futility in doing so. Arthur had already seen everything anyway, and would probably mock Merlin’s redundant attempts at modesty.

Arthur swore and, to Merlin’s horror, stepped into his room and shut the door behind him. “It came back!” he hissed.

“What came back?” Merlin said. He was certain he’d never had a more surreal conversation. What sort of person barged into a man’s room, acknowledged a wank in progress, and then continued to hang about? Obviously, the King of Camelot. And then it only got more strange when Arthur began to unlace his breeches. “What are you doing?”

“Put your legs down— I’m not trying to impale myself on one of your bony knees.”

“Arthur!” Merlin squeaked, scrambling up against the headboard as Arthur climbed onto the foot of his bed between his ankles.

“Look, we’ll help each other out,” Arthur said, tugging Merlin back down the bed by his calves. Before he could say another word Arthur had settled himself in the cradle of Merlin’s thighs, their cocks glancing and then slotting together in a brush of friction that had Merlin spluttering and Arthur grunting.

“Oh,” Merlin said, dropping his head back to his pillow and gripping a handful of Arthur’s shirt, “that came back.” He panted, wriggling under Arthur’s weight. “So this will make it...go away?”

“I’m sure it can only come back so many times,” Arthur said, then rocked up against Merlin and stole his breath for a long moment.

“I don’t know how many times I’m good for,” Merlin admitted, biting his lip and trying very hard not to do something inadvisable like wrap his legs around his king and hump like a senseless dog.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur said without heat, pressing Merlin down into the mattress with little rolling motions of his hips.

Of all the absurd, unexpected things Merlin had endured since Arthur’s condition became his personal concern, Arthur laid out on top of him working their cocks together dwarfed every last one. Even allowing for Arthur’s efficient, colourless thrusting and prohibitive weight, Merlin was fairly certain he had never approached an orgasm so quickly as he did in that moment. He had to control his breathing, he had to keep his hands fisted by his sides, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and focus on tamping down the molten pleasure beginning to coil at the base of his spine because he could hear his bed bumping the wall and Arthur’s ragged breaths and feel the heat and sweat between them and he was seconds from making a complete fool out of himself.

And then Arthur began to rut more firmly, erratically, and he gripped Merlin’s shoulder to steady himself and Merlin abruptly went over. Which, as it turned out, proved stimulating enough for Arthur, because he slipped around in the mess on Merlin’s belly for a few more quivering jerks before panting to his own copious finish.

He very kindly slumped to the side, which was a nice enough gesture even if the bed was so small it simply meant he was settled up tight to Merlin’s flank, putting at least one of them in danger of flopping off the side entirely. And while Merlin stared at the ceiling and contemplated the last echoing flutters of pleasure low in his belly with deep dismay, Arthur caught his breath and rolled his neck and eyed his cock mistrustingly.

“So,” Merlin said. “That seemed. Effective.” Arthur slapped the top of his head. “Ow! What?”

“You have an unfortunate habit of speaking too soon,” Arthur said darkly.

“I was just saying— before you, you know, couldn’t. And now,” he gestured to his own stomach. He looked like he’d spilled a lit candle all over himself — one of the big pillar candles with the wick lost deep in its shell of wax. He glanced up, meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, pressing his lips tight together. He sputtered, and Merlin stared at him for a moment as he began to laugh. But it was a short distance between them and Arthur’s amusement didn’t have far to travel to be catching; soon they were lolling giddily against each other, making Merlin feel as if he had a gut full of little anxious, effervescent bubbles.

It wasn’t so unreasonable that he should be aroused by his king, Merlin thought. He was the king, after all. Not that Merlin was the sort to go lightheaded over titles. Not least because he’d hardly cared when Arthur was a prince, so what difference did a new crown make? Never mind that there was almost a kind of...of figurative patina to the Arthur he knew now compared to the Arthur he’d first met. A kind of shift in gravity — a wryness to him that had nothing to do with status and everything to do with experience.

Merlin wandered into the kitchens to collect Arthur’s breakfast, hardly noticing that the cook wasn’t bearing down upon him like an angry bull as she usually did. Or that Gwaine had somehow managed to sneak himself past her notice, because if Cook didn’t like Merlin, she went to bed each night wishing a pox on Gwaine’s head.

“Morning,” Gwaine said, cheerily dancing away from the center table where the plates were being made up for the nobility, tucking something that fit into the palm of his hand in his tunic. Merlin narrowed his eyes at Gwaine’s innocent grin and cast a leery glance over Arthur’s breakfast, looking for conspicuous empty spaces. Fortunately there were none, meaning he wouldn’t have to try to wrestle an extra leg of chicken from the under-cook, the miserable skinflint. None of this rightly explained Gwaine’s inevitably portentous presence in the kitchens, but in the years he’d lived in Camelot Merlin had learned that, sometimes, the less he knew the better.

As Merlin jogged back above-stairs (past a gaggle of knights consisting of Elyan, Percival and one of the newer recruits, a young Sir Dinadan — and what were they doing all huddled up against the door anyway?) he let himself imagine how things between him and Arthur would proceed. Gaius would certainly find a cure for Arthur’s condition soon, and that could only be a good thing, because of course Merlin didn’t want Arthur to be compromised, no matter how non-threatening said condition seemed as he became more...acquainted with it.

And then?

Merlin set out Arthur’s meal, returning the mild conspiratorial grin aimed his way over a piece of bread with one of his own.

Well. He didn’t have time to worry about that; there was no shortage of work to be done and daydreaming about impossible things wouldn’t help him to protect Arthur, to build Albion, or even to avoid general mishap, he noted, slopping all over himself with the mop water in his distraction. It was a lovely day out, and normal Merlin would be thinking longingly of skiving off work to take a dip in the river, not trying to come up with plausible excuses to crawl into the king’s bed. Normal Merlin would be entertaining clever ways to play tricks on Arthur for making him mop the armoury for the second time in a week. Normal Merlin —

— would have noticed Gwaine in the kitchens near Arthur’s plate without appearing to have taken anything which was just plain impossible unless Gwaine had —

“— drugged Arthur’s food!” Merlin groaned, dropping the mop and almost braining himself on the corner of a table when he tripped over it racing out of the armoury.

He was wheezing by the time he reached Arthur’s rooms, stumbling inside only to find Arthur sitting in his chair looking...rather resigned.

“‘Lo,” Arthur sighed. Merlin walked carefully around his chair and paused at the sight of Arthur’s cock standing tall from the tangle of his laces. “Breeches were uncomfortable,” Arthur said by way of reluctant explanation when Merlin continued to look at him.

“Here,” Merlin said, kneeing Arthur’s legs a little closer together between his own. He didn’t crawl onto Arthur’s lap as gracefully as he might’ve intended, but Arthur grabbed him about the hips to steady him anyway, which was a far sight nicer than being tumbled promptly to the floor. “Want me to help you with that?” he asked, his gaze lingering in the general area of Arthur’s belly.

“In a moment,” Arthur said, and when Merlin looked up he saw the humour in his king’s eyes — that patient, indulgent look that usually meant Merlin was about to be lightly punched or wrestled or have his hair ruffled in a truly irritating fashion.

So when Arthur cupped him about the neck and pulled him in for a nipping, playful kiss, Merlin was a very special breed of surprised but every possible shade of pleased.

Yanna eyed the slender young man who had knocked on her door with a heavy measure of skepticism.

“What can I do for you?” she said, endeavoring for a polite tone. One never knew whose pockets were deepest by their looks alone — this stripling might be the son of a wealthy merchant, even a lord. Stranger things had happened in her time.

“You know my friend, Sir Gwaine,” he said, fidgeting on her threshold.

“I do.”

“He bought something from you— a potion.”

“He did.”

“I’d like to buy that potion,” he said, his stance firming like he’d resolved himself to the task. Yanna gave him another calculating look.

“How much?” she asked, beckoning him inside to wait by her low table.

“Your whole stock.”

Yanna threw her head back and laughed, turning away from her iron-bound chest to gaze at this strange visitor with new fondness. “You cannot afford this amount, my friend.”

“No,” the man agreed, drawing a fat pouch from his shoulder pack and tossing it on her table. Solid gold coins spilled from the top in a musical cascade, making Yanna’s eyes go wide. “But the king can.”

Merlin hauled his purchase carefully, using a touch of discreet magic to cushion the bottles against breakage. He didn’t envy the knights the weeks ahead; per Yanna’s instructions he had enough potion to last a full-grown man three doses a day for an entire year. And that would be more than enough for Arthur to regularly distribute to Gwaine and Elyan and Percival and Dinadan (with the full, happy cooperation of the kitchens) well into the winter months.

So if Merlin palmed a bottle for himself, to keep in the royal chambers just in case, well. Who was to know?