Archive of Our Own

The fall hadn’t been much at all. Quite typical of any walk through the woods with Merlin; one minute he’s standing at your side and the next he’s tripped over a root and is face-first in the underbrush with a shriek loud enough to wake the dead.

“Merlin!” Arthur watched the stag he’d been following for an hour bound out of sight, then whipped back towards Merlin. "What is it now?"

Gwaine was already at Merlin's side, gingerly pulling Merlin from a massive thorn bush. He circled Merlin and shook his head, a deep frown marring his forehead. The look was a splash of icy water on Arthur's hot temper. Kneeling behind Merlin, Gwaine touched the back of Merlin’s knee to get a better look.

“That’s got to sting.”

Merlin scrabbled away from the touch. “Don’t.”

Gwaine looked to Arthur, his voice flat like he was reporting on a patrol. There was nothing worse than Gwaine gone serious. “Thorns all up his legs and arse. His breeches are already soaking through with blood.”

Arthur eyed the offending bush and scowled at the inch long spines covering the branches. He tipped his head to check the position of the sun, though he already knew. “We’re too far from Camelot to make it back before nightfall.”

Merlin snapped his head up, eyeing Arthur liked he’d grown a second head for suggesting it. “I’m not getting on a horse.”

“If you needed medical attention, Merlin --”

Gwaine stood and leaned in so that his lips almost brushed Merlin’s ear. “I could drape you across my saddle.”

The leather of Arthur gloves creaked around the handle of his crossbow. “That will not be necessary.” But neither of them were looking at him.

Merlin was scowling at Gwaine. “I’m not getting on a horse.” He took a step forward and winced; Gwaine caught his elbow. “I packed a few of Gaius’s ointments. I’ll just go –“ He stumbled again.

Arthur moved, but Gwaine was a step closer.

“Fine,” Arthur huffed. “Fine,” he said again because it felt good to do so as he watched Gwaine gingerly pull Merlin’s arm around his shoulder. One hand curled at Merlin’s hip. Arthur spun, cursing ever having suggested this stupid trip. “We’ll make camp at the clearing by the stream and give you a chance to heal. In the morning we’ll decide whether to continue the hunt or get you back to Camelot.”

Arthur set up camp – something he hadn’t done since he was fifteen and along with his father and the knights to gather some experience – while Merlin and Gwaine slowly made their way through the woods. Very likely touching far more than necessary. He jabbed at the fire with a long thick branch until sparks scattered the ground by his boots.

They arrived flushed and a bit breathless, and Arthur rushed over to relieve Gwaine of his burden. Protesting the entire time, Merlin finally allowed himself to be laid face down on his bedroll.

Gwaine turned to Arthur, saying, “We’ll need to work quickly. The light’s fading fast.”

As Gwaine jogged to the stream to wash his hands, Arthur got his first look at Merlin’s injuries. There had to be couple dozen pin-like thorns spearing Merlin’s breeches, several of them surrounded with spots of blood.

Arthur knelt so he could put a hand to Merlin’s forehead and see if an infection had started already.

Merlin batted his hand away. “In my pack,” he rasped, “the clay pot with the clear ointment. You should recognise it.”

It was easy enough to find. The clay pot was familiar, and when Arthur opened it the scent memory – rosemary, mint, lavender – brought him back through the years, to the dozens of scrapes and cuts he’d acquired in battles and tournaments. Merlin had tended each, rubbing this ointment onto Arthur’s chest, his back, his thighs. Each time, Merlin had been achingly close, separated from him only by a barrier of propriety.

It smelled of denial and longing.

“That's not necessary!" Merlin squeaked and Arthur turned to see Gwaine insisting that Merlin’s breeches would have to come off. Arthur’s cheeks heated, realising for this first time what would be needed to see to Merlin’s injuries.

Gwaine slapped at Merlin’s hand. “Yes, it will.”

“Really,” Merlin said, slapping him back. “It's not. You two go off and kill something and I’ll take care of this.”

“You leave just one thorn, one part of a thorn in there and it will work itself under the skin and get infected. You won’t be able to sit in a chair for a month, let alone ride a horse.”

Arthur nodded. There was a real danger for an infection. “He’s right. You can’t see well enough to be sure.” He placed the pot of ointment beside Merlin’s bedroll.

“See! Even Arthur thinks I should take your breeches off!”

“Gwaine!” Merlin snapped.

“Just lightening the mood. We’re all anxious for a good look...“

“You're impossible.” Merlin buried his head in the crook of his arm. The ear peeking through was beet-red.

“Would you rather Arthur do it?” Gwaine smirked, saying to Arthur he already knew the answer.

Merlin tucked his head in further and muttered, “No.”

Gwaine looked to Arthur with a raised eyebrow and Arthur’s forehead began to hurt from scowling so fiercely.

"That's settled then." Gwaine made no attempt to hide his smug grin as he met Arthur's eye. Then looking down at Merlin's backside, he softened his voice. "Now hold still. This is going to hurt."

Merlin cried out as Gwaine plucked first thorn from his upper thigh.

"Wait." Arthur dug out a wine skin. Kneeling at Merlin's side, he uncorked it. "It'll help."

Merlin's eyes cracked open and he blinked at Arthur and the offered skin. With a slow nod, he lifted himself enough to drink deeply. Wiping the ruby streaks from his chin, he said a hoarse, "Thanks."

Gwaine began again, not wasting any time as he nimbly moved from thorn to thorn without hesitation. The litany of curses spilling from Merlin's pinched-tight mouth got progressively more inventive and made Arthur wonder just how many nights Merlin had spent at the Rising Sun to acquire such a vocabulary.

When he'd finished, Gwaine sat back on his haunches, and double checked his work. Merlin's breeches were blood-stained, ink-black splotches in the fading light. Gwaine stood, shaking his head and going off to wash Merlin’s blood from his hands.

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice was barely more than a whisper.

Arthur hadn't moved from Merlin's side, but had to crouch to hear him over the breeze fluttering the autumn leaves in the forest around them.

"I'm sorry about the stag."

"Yes, well," Arthur cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light, "You are very creative in your need to ruin my hunt."

Merlin's snigger sounded raw.

"Have more wine. We still need to apply the salve and it's going to sting at first."

After another healthy swig, Merlin fumbled with the laces of his breeches, still lying flat on his belly. The offer to help died in Arthur's throat and his cheeks heated as though he'd said the words.

Gwaine was surprisingly without innuendo as he worked to shimmy Merlin's breeches down his hips and off. They were tossed aside, ruined. Then Gwaine soaked a soft cloth in a bucket he must have filled at the stream.

The first touch of the wet cloth stole Merlin's breath in a drawn-out hiss. The fast-moving stream had to be frigid on Merlin's too-hot skin.

"He just needs to wash the blood away to look for any fragments." Arthur bent to whisper it like it was secret. His hand was at Merlin's elbow before he even realised he'd placed it there. Merlin's hand closed over his fingers and his mouth twitched into a smile as though the touch grounded him.

Arthur looked up and Gwaine's eyes met his. Twilight had fallen and the fire played with the shadows on Gwaine's face, adding a warning of mischief to the upturn of his lips.

"It's looking better already," Gwaine commented, dropping the rag back into the bucket. "Don't you think, Arthur?"

Merlin's hand was warm on top of his, not moving even now that Gwaine had stopped. Arthur wondered if he'd fallen asleep, but as Arthur leaned forward to survey the injuries, Merlin's hand tightened.

Merlin's pale arse was speckled with pin-picks of blood at each entrance wound. One at his upper thigh dripped blood in a long streak between his legs but otherwise he looked fine. Clean wounds. He squeezed Merlin's arm.

"It looks good. It'll heal well as long as you rest tomorrow and stay off your ar – off your injuries."

Gwaine snorted, then grabbed for the pot of salve. "Sure you don't want to do this part, princess?" Arthur scowled, cheeks suddenly burning and Gwaine smirked.

He tried to look away, not wanting to see Gwaine's hands gently working the salve into the soft flesh of Merlin's arse. He tried to focus on Merlin's tight grip on his hand, the hitch of his breath as Gwaine's hands worked intimately over Merlin's skin.

Arthur shifted, trying to hide just now uncomfortable he was becoming. He bit his lip but the pain did nothing to distract him from just how erotic this scene was becoming. Merlin’s breath had turned ragged, sounding less pained and more... well.

Not that Arthur could talk.

Gwaine, the bastard, added more salve, covering Merlin thoroughly, his thumbs ever so slightly spreading Merlin’s cheeks with each upward stroke.

Arthur couldn’t see, not without breaking Merlin’s hold on him, but he could tell by the heat in Gwaine’s eyes as he flickered his gaze down that each slide of his hands from the top of Merlin’s thighs to the dip of his lower back gave Gwaine a secret glimpse of what lay hidden between those cheeks.

It wasn’t long before the pretense of a ‘medicinal’ massage was gone and Gwaine’s thumbs made their journey unmistakeably buried in Merlin’s cleft.

Merlin’s breath caught and Arthur snapped.

“That’s enough!” Arthur moved to stand but Merlin held him fast.

“It’s helping distract him from the pain,” Gwaine said, his hands not stopping their work. “Isn’t it, Merlin?”

There was a sound, but Merlin’s face was buried deep in his arm, muffling his reply.

“Merlin?” Arthur frowned, confused, the furious racing of his heart not helping his thought process in the least.

“Yes. I said yes.” Merlin looked up, face flushed. He went on, not meeting Arthur’s eyes, voice cracking, “It’s distracting.”

“There, see?” Gwaine smiled, full of lots of perfect, straight teeth.

“I -- I don’t approve!” Arthur fumbled for words, trying to find his conviction. “He’s had wine and he’s been injured. You are taking advantage.”

Gwaine laughed but finally stilled his hands. “Merlin, what do you say to that?”

“Don’t --” The firelight caught Merlin’s eyes as he met Arthur’s gaze and held it in a charged silence. He turned to look over his shoulder at Gwaine. “Don’t stop.”

Arthur huffed, bowing his head unsure what to think, where to put his eyes.

“Arthur? Maybe your conscience would be happier if you were helping.” Gwaine reached out grabbing Arthur’s hands, coating his palms in salve.

“Oh God.” Merlin pressed his forehead into his bedroll, shifting about until he reached down and -- Oh -- he wasn’t faring any better than Arthur was on that score.

Arthur let Gwaine pull him down until he was suddenly settled between Merlin’s knees. Arthur thought Gwaine would move away, maybe take Arthur’s spot at Merlin’s elbow. Instead, he settled behind, close enough that Gwaine’s erection was obvious, pressed against Arthur’s back.

“Distract him,” Gwaine whispered, a warm breath at Arthur’s neck. Then he guided him, hand over hand on Merlin’s arse. Arthur bristled at the implication and sent a sharp jab into Gwaine’s ribs.

“I think I can figure it out, thank you.”

Gwaine muttered something that might have been, “About time.” But Arthur opted to ignore him.

Merlin’s skin was chill. The wet, slick of the salve had cooled quickly in the night air without Gwaine’s hands working it warm. He trembled at the first touch. Arthur could see him fighting to keep still, despite vibrating with pent-up adrenaline.

Arthur shifted closer, hoping to share a bit more body heat and maybe reassure Merlin that he was there. He started at the plump rise of Merlin’s arse at the top of his thigh, spread his hands wide and pushed up.

Merlin’s moan shot right to Arthur’s cock, which was now pressing eagerly at his laces. He fought to ignore it, but Gwaine’s heavy breath tickling the damp hair at his nape wasn’t helping in the least.

With a deep inhale, he began to move again. The salve tingled the sensitive webbing between Arthur’s fingers, that familiar prickle of healing and soothing so often applied with the current roles reversed.

Merlin’s body submitted, melting beneath his hands until the only sounds Arthur could hear in the clearing were Merlin’s soft sighs, Gwaine’s pants and Arthur’s own thundering pulse.

He wondered if Merlin ever got hard massaging a cramp from Arthur’s thigh, or sitting astride him while working on that stubborn knot in Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur had, always lying stiffly on his bed, feigning sleep until his arousal subdued enough to allow him to rise. Now he wondered at Merlin’s frequent quick escapes after those sessions, when before he had simply been too grateful to be alone to question it.

Gwaine was still pressed to his back, his knees straddling Arthur’s waist. It was impossible to forget about him; heat radiated off him like a roaring fire. When his hands moved down Arthur’s forearms, his strong fingers joining Arthur’s as they worked, Arthur couldn’t say he was surprised. Not even disappointed.

Especially not when Gwaine directed Arthur’s thumbs to the tight furrowed muscle of Merlin’s hole.

“Distract him properly.”

The instant Arthur’s thumb brushed the tender, wrinkled skin, Merlin cursed. Not the angry, pained vitriol from earlier, but a breathless, wanton curse that made Arthur need to hear it again.

He circled Merlin’s hole with his thumbs, a teasing slow swirl that had Merlin clutching his hair in hands and arching his back in a way that meant Arthur was doing it right.

He vaguely noticed his own laces being loosened, then Gwaine’s hand found its way into Arthur’s breeches. And -- God -- the tingle of the salve on his cock was a sensation he wasn’t likely to ever forget. He gasped, wishing it back the instant it escaped because Gwaine would never let him live this down. But the grip was tight and Gwaine’s fingers were slippery. Another gasp stole from Arthur as Gwaine twisted his fist around the head.

He would not finish before Merlin, though. He pressed in one thumb and watched it get swallowed bit by bit by Merlin’s eager little hole. Merlin squirmed, shifting back for more. Arthur wondered how the salve felt inside and, as Gwaine dug a slicked thumb into Arthur’s slit, he decided it would be amazing.

They moved together, an awkward push-pull of Arthur pumping a thumb (soon replaced by a couple of fingers) into Merlin’s arse, Arthur being tugged in sure, steady strokes by Gwaine and Gwaine rubbing his crotch furiously on Arthur’s breech-covered arse. It was messy and off-rhythm and brilliant.

Merlin tumbled over the edge first, muttering delicious profanities into his own arm as he finally went taut. His entire body shuddered for a heart-beat, before he rocked his hips into his bedroll and spent himself.

The rhythmic clench around Arthur’s finger was blindingly erotic. He pressed deep, imagining that squeeze around his cock as he slumped forward, spilling onto Gwaine’s hand and Merlin’s thigh.

If he hadn’t been boneless and quite comfortable, nuzzling the base of Merlin’s spine as he caught his breath, Arthur might have protested Gwaine rutting at his thigh like a dog. Instead, he waited it out in silence, until Gwaine cried out finally and the combined weight on Merlin’s back earned them both a shove.

Afterwards, Merlin’s mess of a bedroll was given up for lost. Arthur watched Gwaine set up his own bedroll and usher Merlin over to it, saying bedrolls were luxuries he wasn’t used to anyway.

Arthur just rolled his eyes, put the two clean bedrolls together, and grabbed Gwaine’s arm. “Idiot,” he said, as he shoved Gwaine down to one side of Merlin and settled himself on the other. “He needs the body heat, anyway.”

Gwaine’s grateful smile made it feel like they were no longer in competition, but agreeing to share something which already belonged to them both.

“Took you long enough,” Gwaine said before wrapping an arm around Merlin’s back.

“Don’t think I’m not capable of putting you in the stocks just because you are a Knight of Camelot.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Idiots,” Merlin said fondly.

As Arthur faded off to sleep, Merlin warm at his side and Gwaine’s knuckles brushing his hipbone in lazy strokes, the air was filled with rosemary, lavender and mint.

To Arthur, it smelled of contentedness and new beginnings.