Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Merlin knew not when his fixation had taken root. There were so many moments, a hundred in a single day, that no beginning could be named with certainty. When he roused Arthur from his bed at dawn, when he drew the garments up along those limbs, when he buckled the leather and set the sword at his side, when he helped him to the saddle, when he bound his wounds with linen, when he tended him in the steam of the bath, at every turn they waited before his eyes, unavoidable, commanding his notice until his thoughts slid from duty and would not be gathered again.

Arthur bore a body that spoke of kingship, shoulders broad as ramparts, a chest hewn like seasoned oak, arms with the taut strength of a bow at draw, an ass rounded and hard with the labor of war. Yet none of these ruled Merlin’s gaze as the thighs did. Those thighs, thick and firm, pillars that bore the kingdom’s weight as columns carried stone and spirit alike, rising strong toward the sky. Work of divine craft they seemed, as if a god at the forge had poured bronze to cast them in living flesh. They held a saddle with the force of destriers surging across the lists, and when Arthur stood, they planted him with the deep certainty of ancient oaks, roots sunk in ages. Cloth strained over them, braies tugged near to parting whenever he left the mattress at first light, whenever he swung himself to mount, whenever he took his ground on the training yard, knees flexed to meet the rush of steel.

Merlin found his stare returning again and again, a willful thing that slipped its leash. He told his eyes to look away and felt them slide back, fastening upon those columns of flesh until breath shortened and thoughts ran hot. He imagined the press of them, the sheer breadth and heat, the living weight against his palms. More than once he dreamed of setting teeth to that strength, to know it was not quarry-stone but blood and pulse and mortal heat. He pictured the way they might close, a relentless embrace from which he would not seek release.

That morning, as so often before, Merlin stood at the edge of the training field, his gaze held upon Arthur and the knights as they bent themselves to practice. Such moments had grown scarce since Uther’s passing and Arthur’s crowning, yet the king still sought to prove his body as tireless as his crown was heavy. He would not suffer softness in himself, nor permit neglect among his men. Merlin waited with the patience expected of him, ready to bring forth a pitcher, to carry a weapon, to hold a shield when bidden. Until such summons came, he stood watch, and that place gave him freedom, a guise of service that let his eyes drink their fill. Arthur trotted across the trampled earth, his thighs flexing with each step; he turned aside the heavy strikes of his companions, his stance broad and braced; he leapt in place with small motions, keeping the chill of October from seizing his limbs. Every motion offered new cause for Merlin’s eyes to cling, and he clung without thought of reprieve.

Other labors waited for him elsewhere, but none bore weight enough to wrench him away. He questioned not what it meant, for such questions pressed upon him with more force than he dared meet. He had never known a fixation so fierce, nor such a chain upon his gaze. He could not tell whether it was those two vast columns of flesh alone that bound him, or whether it was the shape entire, the form of a man that held him, or Arthur himself whose body drew him with such heat. His feelings knotted within, tangled, and he knew not how to name them. There was no one he could have told. He had known before that certain men might draw his eyes as surely as certain women, yet he had placed no weight upon it. He had little ground to boast of in love or in sex. He had sought a few embraces, had felt pleasure once or twice, yet most often it had been strange and uneasy.

But the hardness that took him in the dark, when thought turned to Arthur’s thighs, this was no fleeting spark. It was a blaze that scorched his veins, that drove his body hard against the mattress until every muscle shook with strain, his balls swelling until they throbbed near to breaking, his mouth crushed into the pillow to stifle the sound lest Gaius hear. He pictured himself lost between those thighs, his waist caught and crushed within their span, or his face pressed deep until he drowned in the heat of them. He dreamed of driving his fingers into the dense flesh, of forcing them apart, of feeling the breadth fill his hands, of surrendering to their weight and power until nothing remained of him but shuddering need.

— “Merlin!” 

The call came sharp, breaking through his thoughts, and he started with a jolt, his body wrenched back from the dream it clung to. From the tone this was not the first time his name had been called. Shame surged with the blood that already burned in him, for his length strained hard and painful against the coarse cloth of his breeches. He shifted, tugging the hem of his tunic to cover himself, though it did little to ease the ache. His legs moved quickly, carrying him across the ground toward Arthur.

When the training was ended, Merlin walked at Arthur’s side toward his chambers, where it fell to him to prepare the bath and set out fresh garments. He marked with a care sharpened by habit that Arthur bore a faint limp, the sort that spoke not of true injury but of some small strain. Within the chambers Merlin moved about his task with the ease of long practice, setting the towel within reach, placing the soap upon the stand, laying the garments neatly across the chair. He went back and forth with the buckets of hot water, his arms straining with the weight, the steam rising around him. He had always borne a strange bond with Arthur’s baths, half loved, half hated. They granted him closeness, more than any other duty. They placed him near enough to touch the skin he had no right to touch, near enough to watch the play of strength in the body he told himself he ought not to see. When Arthur was clothed, he could look with a servant’s eye, disguise his hunger beneath the veil of duty. But when Arthur was naked, Merlin felt the line grow thin. To stare then would make him a thief of sight, a pervert, and he could not have borne to be caught in that theft. Yet even so, his chest grew tight with the quickening, and his eyes betrayed him in small glances, stolen in haste, that still burned when he shut them at night.

He hated too the endless toil of carrying those buckets, the dull ache in his shoulders, the sting in his palms, when he could have filled the tub in a breath with his magic. Yet such ease was denied him. Not yet. He told himself the time would come, that one day he would stand before Arthur with the truth laid bare, that he waited only for the moment when Arthur would be ready to hear it. But deep within he knew that it was not Arthur’s readiness he feared but his own. To carry such a secret for so many years, to bind it so tightly round his soul, was to forge a chain he no longer knew how to break. When the last bucket was tipped into the bath, he let a whisper slip from his lips, too soft for Arthur to hear, and the water rose warm and full, the heat held at just the right pitch, more than the buckets alone could have made. Arthur had stripped himself bare by then and stood waiting, his body plain in its strength, the thighs that haunted Merlin broad and close before him. Merlin stepped near to give him a hand, guiding his foot over the rim lest it slide. His eyes betrayed him in that moment, for he saw the muscles clench with the lift, saw them tighten and swell, saw them bend with strength as Arthur lowered himself into the bath. The sight struck him in the gut, heat flooding through him even as Arthur sank down with a long sigh, his body easing.

— “How is it,” Arthur asked, his head tipped back, his voice loose with the first touch of comfort, “that the water is always at the perfect heat? Warm enough to bite at the skin chilled by the wind, yet never so hot as to scald?”

Merlin forced his lips into a small smile, though his heart still pounded from the sight of those thighs. 

— “It is one of my hidden talents,” he said.

Arthur’s mouth curved with quiet amusement, a smile that made Merlin’s chest twist all the more. He took up the linen cloth, dipped it in the water, worked the soap into lather, and pressed it gently to Arthur’s chest. His hand traced the swell of muscle beneath the skin, followed the rise and fall of breath, lingered where the ribs gave way to the strength of the torso.

— “Have you other hidden talents?” Arthur asked, his tone light, as if the thought amused him.

Merlin’s hand moved with care, his mind flashing back to the faint limp he had marked on their walk 

— “I can also ease your aches,” he said, the words careful. “If there is pain.”

Arthur opened his eyes then and fixed him with a look that searched for truth. 

— “And who told you I was in pain?”

— “Call it intuition,” Merlin answered, forcing his hand to keep moving, though every nerve in him was strung taut. 

The soap trailed over Arthur’s skin, the cloth circling slow. Arthur’s body sank deeper into the tub, his shoulders loosening. His eyes shut once more. For a time there was only the sound of water shifting, the soft drag of cloth. 

— “There is a tightness in the right thigh. A pull, no more. Likely from a misstep in the yard.”

Merlin’s hand faltered, the cloth stilling for a heartbeat before he forced it onward. His pulse beat harder, rushing in his ears. This was no chance he could let go. 

— “After the bath,” he said, “I might work it with walnut oil. It would ease the strain.”

Arthur’s lips curved again. 

— “Very well,” he said.

When the bath was ended, Arthur rose, water coursing down the length of his body in heavy streams, and reached for the towel Merlin held out as he stepped once more across the rim of the tub. Droplets traced his skin, slipping from shoulder to flank, sliding over his thighs as he rubbed himself briskly. He crossed the chamber and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, still bare, though the towel he drew across his loins gave the appearance of modesty. He stretched his right leg before him, long and strong, the muscle shifting beneath the skin, and lifted one brow in wordless command. Merlin let out a faint huff, rolling his eyes, though the tightness that seized his chest belied his mockery. He bent to the chest where he himself had stored a vial of walnut oil, knowing it would be needed eventually, and took it forth. Whatever Arthur had expected in that moment, it was not the sight of Merlin sinking down upon the carpet between his spread thighs, knees pressing into the rug. Surprise touched Arthur’s face for an instant, but Merlin gave him no space to speak. His heart drummed so hard within his breast that the sound filled his ears. He pulled the stopper free, tipped the vial, and let the thick oil pool into his palm. He rubbed his hands together until the liquid grew warm against his skin, his fingers shining slick with it. Then he set both hands to Arthur’s thigh, one on either side, the flesh still damp from the bath, the heat of it rising through the sheen of oil. His thumbs pressed inward, forcing into the dense muscle he had dreamed of. The resistance beneath his grip gave way beneath the pressure, his hands sinking deeper, and Arthur drew in a breath close to a groan.

— “Does it pain you?” Merlin asked, his breath brushing the bend of Arthur’s knee.

Arthur’s head tipped back slightly, but he shook it. 

— “No. Continue,” he said, settling on his forearms, his voice roughened. “Do not hold back.”

The mass of muscle beneath Merlin’s hands was vast, thick beyond the span of his fingers, so that his grip could not encircle it. He bore down harder, pushing with the weight of his own body, his thumbs carving deeper into the flesh. The oil spread beneath his palms, slicking the skin, while the flesh flushed red where his fingers dug hard. Arthur groaned again, louder, followed by a hiss between his teeth as if the relief burned even as it soothed.

— “Here,” Arthur muttered, his hand falling low, pressing near the crease where thigh met groin. “It is here, and behind.”

Merlin seized the leg at once, his grip strong as he lifted, setting the calf upon his shoulder. He pressed forward, folding the knee with careful force, guiding the limb until it yielded to the bend. His thumb ran slow along the inner line of the thigh, tracing the tender flesh upward until it pressed deep into the hollow near the groin. Arthur’s body fell back against the bed, his shoulders striking the coverlets, his head thrown upon them. 

— “There,” he breathed, the word breaking with his voice. “Just there.” The sound that followed was softer, heavy with release. His lips curled faintly. “Your fingers are magic.”

Heat swept through Merlin at the words, blood rushing to his face. He knew Arthur spoke with no thought of double meaning, yet the weight of it struck him full. His breath grew unsteady, his heart hammering so fiercely that his hands trembled even as they pressed on. He forced himself to keep the rhythm, pushing the knee forward once more, then easing it back, kneading the flesh with all the strength in him. The third time Merlin pressed the leg forward, the towel slipped, shifting just enough that, from the corner of his eye, he caught the outline of Arthur’s cock, still half veiled. His chest clenched hard, his breath caught fast in his throat. He wrenched his gaze away, forcing it down to the task before him, though his thumb had already pressed higher, driving deep into the crease of the groin. The muscle against his cheek contracted with sudden force, alive beneath his skin, and it cost him all his strength not to sink his teeth into it, not to taste what had haunted his nights. His breath struck the reddened flesh in waves, hot upon the oil-slicked skin, and every beat of his heart drove him closer to pressing his lips where he dared not.

He urged the limb into a sharper bend, drawing the rear of the muscle taut beneath his hold. The towel slipped further, sliding down Arthur’s thigh until one heavy ball spilled into view, pressing against the root of his cock, a crown of golden curls framing the base. The sight struck Merlin, and his whole body shuddered. Arthur was hard. The thickness of musk rose, pungent and raw, flooding Merlin’s lungs, his pulse hammering in his ears. He bit his lip to keep from groaning aloud, his teeth digging until the sting cut through the haze, but still his hand lay firm across the groin, forgotten, lost in the storm now consuming him.

— “Merlin.” Arthur’s voice came low, the sound vibrating through the air between them. 

Merlin could not tell if it carried demand or doubt, command or plea. It mattered little. He was already drowning, his senses smothered in the weight of Arthur’s thigh pressed against his face, the heat, the scent, the very body that had filled his thoughts in darkness for so long. The thin thread of restraint frayed and broke. His tongue left his mouth and traced a slow, burning path along the inside of Arthur’s thigh. The faint bitterness of walnut clung to the oil, but beneath it came the salt of skin, the taste of heat and flesh. He reached the hollow where thigh met groin and set his teeth there, biting down hard enough to mark, to claim, but not enough to wound. Arthur’s body arched up, a sharp cry torn from his chest, pitched between shock and the first pulse of pleasure. His breath fractured. 

— “What… what are you doing?” His voice cracked as it fell from his lips.

Merlin gave him no answer. He loosed the flesh from his teeth only to let his tongue trace higher still, gliding across the ridge until it circled the ball that had slipped free. His mouth closed around it, tongue moving, and Arthur swore, his hips jerking. He pushed himself up onto his forearms, chest heaving with ragged breath. Merlin’s hands trembled with urgency as he seized the towel and tore it down, ripping it from Arthur’s lap until it fell forgotten to the floor. His mouth lowered, his tongue sweeping broad and flat from the very root upward, dragging along the full length of Arthur’s cock, leaving a gleaming trail of wet heat until he reached the crown. The taste filled his mouth, salt and flesh and the faint musk that had undone him. Arthur’s voice broke into a deep sound, body convulsing against the coverlets. His hands clutched tight at the bed beneath him, knuckles whitening with the force.

Merlin lifted Arthur’s other leg and laid it across his opposite shoulder, until his head was held fast within the circle of both thighs. Pressed close on either side by living columns of flesh, Merlin bent forward and opened his mouth, lips parting to take Arthur in. The swollen crown pressed against him, brushing across his lips before sliding over his tongue. He drew him deeper, inch by inch, until the weight filled his mouth, the taste sharp upon him, salt and musk bursting thick across his tongue. The shaft dragged wet against the roof of his mouth until the tip struck hard at the back of his throat, choking him with its breadth. His jaw slackened, muscles stretched wide, his neck straining as he forced himself to bear the intrusion. He swallowed, the movement convulsing around Arthur’s cock, pulling tight as it filled him to breaking. The roughness of golden curls scraped against his nose, the musk thick, burning into him with every ragged breath until it drowned his senses.

Arthur’s hand clenched in his hair, dragging him closer. His voice broke with Merlin’s name, both curse and prayer. His hips surged forward, body driven by hunger, forcing Merlin further down. Merlin tried to pull back, to claim a breath, but Arthur’s calves crossed hard behind his neck, thighs flexing until they crushed against his cheeks, imprisoning him in heat and flesh. One sharp pull wrenched him deeper, the length driving into his throat until his eyes rolled back, face taut with strain. A guttural groan burst from him, muffled by the thick shaft that silenced his mouth, the vibration trembling through Arthur’s flesh until it struck deep in his belly. Arthur’s hips moved, thrusting forward with strength enough to shake him, every push flexing the muscle of his thighs against Merlin’s head, tightening the trap. His voice came low and ragged, forced through clenched teeth. 

— “Three times…” he gasped, hand knotted in dark hair, “strike me three times if it is too much.”

Merlin’s answer came in a low groan rough and muffled around the length that filled him, the vibration running down Arthur’s cock. He swallowed hard, throat convulsing in spasms as it struggled against the thickness, yet he forced it to obey, pulling him deeper still. His assent was clear in the way he opened to him, in the way he gave himself wholly to the invasion, body fixed only upon taking what Arthur drove into him. Arthur’s breath faltered at the feel of it, his whole body straining with the edge of desire. He began to move with rhythm, driving slow at first, sinking to the root, filling Merlin’s throat until the muscle closed around him with every swallow. Each thrust forced deeper, the broad head slipping past the tongue, pushing to the point where breath came hard and thin. Arthur’s voice broke again. 

— “Your mouth… your mouth is magic too. I would come in your throat.” His hips jerked harder, pace quickening, driven by the raw pleasure that surged with every stroke.

Merlin’s face burned with heat, his brow wet, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes from the strain. He gave no signal to end it. His ears rang with the rushing thunder of Arthur’s blood, the sound pressed into him by the thighs that closed hard on either side of his head, sealing him in the furnace of Arthur’s body. He surrendered to it, letting himself be taken, throat stretched wide again and again, the only air that entered him pulled sharp through his nose. Saliva poured from the corners of his mouth, wet trails dripping down his chin, mixing with the salt of the fluid already spilling from Arthur’s tip, slicking his tongue. His own cock raged in his breeches, hard to the point of pain, every throb a lance of fire. To feel Arthur’s thighs clutching his face, to be filled so deep, to be stripped of every choice but to serve, every part of it intoxicated him. He had given his mouth to men before, had tasted them, yet always at his own pace. Never like this, never held down, never used so fully. The surrender, the helplessness, the fierce grip of those thighs crushing against his ears, it broke him and exalted him at once. He shook with it, trembling as the fire of submission mingled with the taste of Arthur’s flesh, with the pulse of him heavy in his throat, with the sweet violence of being consumed by the act. Arthur’s voice broke apart above him, ragged and raw, the words spilling between gasps, torn between curse and prayer.

— “Fuck… oh gods… Merlin… I’m going to come…”

The rhythm of his hips faltered, the drive collapsing into jagged thrusts, his body convulsing as pleasure overtook him. His thighs clamped hard around Merlin’s skull, muscles spasming, each contraction crushing against his cheeks as the storm consumed him. Merlin shut his eyes against the force, his face buried in heat, his groan muffled by the hardness filling his throat. The first rush came sudden, striking the back of his tongue. Thick and scalding, it filled his mouth, and his body seized with the taste of it. He swallowed by reflex, throat clenching tight around the shaft, only for another torrent to follow, and another, until he was drowning in salt and musk. Each convulsion of Arthur’s cock forced more into him, pressing deep until his chest heaved with the strain, his whole body trembling as he forced himself to take all that poured into him. His throat worked helplessly, gulp after gulp, the muscles fighting against the thickness even as he commanded them to obey.

Above him, Arthur cried out, voice torn to pieces, his hand fisted in Merlin’s hair so hard that sparks of pain seared his scalp. His body bucked with the violence of release, chest arching, every muscle locked and trembling. His thighs clamped tight again, then loosened in shuddering spasms around Merlin’s head, imprisoning him even as they shook with exhaustion. The flood did not cease, spilling hot in heavy waves, and Merlin swallowed all, his throat burning, his own body shuddering as though the climax coursed through him as well. Never had he known such force, never such surrender, the power of being filled and the helplessness of being held in the grip of another’s body. His throat clenched still around the cock pulsing between his lips, milking the last spurts until the streams thinned, until the shaft softened heavy upon his tongue. The great thighs that had trapped him fell away, slackened by spent strength, sliding down from his shoulders to rest limp against the bed. Arthur collapsed back with them, falling into the coverlets, breath spilling rough from parted lips. 

Merlin let him slip free from his mouth, the shaft dragging wet across his tongue before it fell from between his lips. A slick strand of come trailed from his chin, dripping onto his chest. He swallowed hard, the burn of salt still thick in his throat, before bowing again to his task, mouth and tongue sweeping across the softened length. His tongue swept across the shaft, licking slow, gathering what lingered. He circled the crown, drew the flat of his tongue down the length to the very root, cleaning him, though Arthur’s body jolted with every touch. The spent flesh twitched and flinched beneath his mouth, overstimulated. He lingered, lips and tongue coaxing every last tremor from him, savoring each spasm that shook the cock against his tongue, every shiver that passed through Arthur’s frame. Arthur groaned, his voice raw with the sting of overuse. His hand twitched in Merlin’s hair, caught between pulling him close and pushing him away. 

When Arthur’s cock was clean enough, Merlin did not stop. His mouth descended further, tongue sliding over the weight of one sac, then the other, lavishing them with long caresses until Arthur’s breath broke again above him. Merlin lingered, lips closing around the tender flesh, savoring the salt and musk that clung there, letting the taste burn into him. Only when his hunger drove him further did he draw back to seize Arthur’s legs again. His hands clasped hard behind the knees, and he pressed forward until they bent high against Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s body shuddered, the sinew of his thighs straining in Merlin’s grip, his teeth clenched as he forced the words past them. 

— “What are you doing?”

Merlin pushed still harder, parting the thighs wide, and the secret place was laid bare before him. The tight ring of muscle revealed itself, flushed rose, circled with fine curls of gold. He bent at once, burying his face in the place he had dreamed of, pressing the flat of his tongue against the closed entrance. The taste struck him, clean from the bath and masculine, and he licked again, slower, letting the wet stroke of his tongue cover it entire. Arthur’s muscles jolted in his grasp, thighs trembling against Merlin’s hold.

Merlin devoured him. His lips and tongue worked ceaselessly across the ring, circling, teasing, spearing the pointed tip inward until the clenched heat gave way. Arthur writhed under him, melted into the coverlets, gasping, moaning, reduced to broken sounds as Merlin pressed deeper with each thrust of his tongue. He lingered, licking until the muscles slackened and softened, until the ring fluttered beneath the wet insistence. Only then did he withdraw, but not before sweeping one last stroke across the swollen flesh, leaving it twitching, wet from his mouth. 

He caught one leg high and rested it across his shoulder, freeing a hand to grope for the vial lying near. He poured thick oil over his fingers. This time his hand went between the thighs, smearing the entrance until it gleamed. He pressed one finger forward until the heat gripped him, tight and suffocating. Arthur hissed, his face twisting, his hips jerking to recoil. Merlin soothed him at once, his other hand stroking the trembling thigh, his lips pressing against the flesh over his shoulder. 

— “I am the court physician’s apprentice, remember? Trust me, Arthur.”

Arthur’s chest heaved, his body taut as drawn bowstring, yet he forced himself to breathe, to loosen. Merlin pushed deeper, his finger sliding inside, wrist turning until the heat swallowed him further. He twisted, searched, pressed, until he struck the hidden knot. Arthur’s cry ripped through the chamber, his back arching, his body quaking with the sudden rush of pleasure. Merlin worked him mercilessly, curling, driving his finger against that spot until Arthur was undone beneath him, gasping, sobbing out ragged cries. 

— “What is that?” he managed between groans, his body twisting helplessly under the assault.

— “Your prostate,” Merlin answered, voice harsh with his own desire. “It serves many purposes, but touched so, it can break a man with pleasure. You could come from this alone.”

He added another finger, stretching him wider, oil slicking his hand. The heat clenched around him, fighting, but he pressed deeper, his thrusts widening, coaxing the muscle to soften. Arthur cried out again, body twisting, voice breaking to fragments as Merlin ground against that same place, over and over, until he shook in abandon. A third finger followed, sliding deep, spreading him more, the tight ring loosening under the assault. Merlin thrust inside until Arthur’s breath hitched, until the muscle gave way beneath him. Only then did he pull back, careful, leaving the entrance twitching, slick and swollen. He bent low once more, tongue sweeping across the opened ring, tasting the heat, licking until the muscle fluttered against his mouth. Rising from the floor, his knees ached with the strain, his body burning from the torment of holding back. His cock pressed hard and swollen against his breeches, the cloth dark with wetness where his lust had seeped through. He gave it no relief. Instead, he urged Arthur higher on the bed until his head met the pillow.

In haste he tore off boots, pulled down breeches, dragged scarf and tunic away, until he stood bare, cock heavy, glistening with the sheen of his own need. He kept the vial in hand as he climbed upon the bed, slipping between the thighs he had worshipped so long in silence. He guided them around his waist, locking them against his sides until their strength pressed into him. Arthur was a mess, sweat coating his flushed skin, his cheeks scarlet, his pupils black with lust, his lips parted with harsh breaths. His eyes found Merlin’s, glassy with shock and pleasure. Merlin tipped the vial, oil running over his hand, stroking his cock slow, his eyes fixed to Arthur’s. With his free hand he caressed the inner thigh, spreading it wide once more. His tip pressed to the entrance, smearing oil across the swollen ring. Arthur’s voice broke in a ragged whisper, his attempt at command weak. 

— “I am your king.”

Merlin’s eyes burned into his. 

— “You may be my king, but your hole is begging to be filled with my cock.”

The swollen crown pressed hard against the tight ring, the heat searing him before he had even entered. The muscle clenched fierce as iron, fighting to bar him, and for a breath Merlin near lost command of himself. His body cried out to drive forward in one harsh thrust, to bury himself to the root, but he ground his teeth until his jaw ached, forcing the hunger back. He pressed slower, the head breaching at last, the ring catching and squeezing so fierce it felt it would tear him apart. A groan rumbled from him, rough and broken, his brow pressed against the damp heat of Arthur’s chest. Beneath him Arthur gave way with a cry that split the chamber, his back bowing from the bed, muscles trembling with the force of invasion. His eyes clamped shut, teeth bared, his thighs quaking, knees near closing, but Merlin’s hands dragged them wide again, forcing him to take more. He pressed deeper, every inch a struggle, the heat gripping merciless, spasms clutching around him until his cock throbbed under the brutal squeeze. The burn carved itself upon Arthur’s face, lips breaking on a moan that cracked toward a sob. A tear traced his temple into the tangle of his hair, and Merlin bent to catch it with his mouth, lips shaking as they pressed to the damp line. He longed to murmur for him to breathe, to ease, yet the words caught hard in his throat, for he could not stop, could only drive further into the fire.

Arthur’s body seized around the thickness that split him, his frame twisting beneath Merlin’s hold, his arms pushing weak against him. Pain screamed through him, every nerve aflame, yet beneath the torment a darker ache stirred, hips faintly lifting, betraying need in the midst of anguish. His cry cracked sharp again, caught between agony and hunger. Merlin groaned low, every pulse dragged deeper into that suffocating clutch, the grip so fierce it near stole his breath. His cock swelled against the impossible tightness, every spasm pulling him further in. When the last barrier gave way, he gasped, sinking deeper, swallowed by heat entire. Arthur’s scream burst against his ear, his body locking rigid, hands twisting helpless in Merlin’s grasp. Every muscle drew taut with the intrusion, yet still he did not speak the word that would end it.

Merlin longed to whisper an apology, to murmur that he had not meant to bring pain, yet the words caught bitter in his throat. They would not suffice, and his truth could only be spoken in the press of his body. He drew back, hips pulling slow, before driving forward again, the grind forcing his cock deeper into the crushing heat that resisted and clutched him. Arthur broke with the motion, his muscles clenching vicious about the intrusion, every spasm dragging Merlin further inside. His hands clawed at Merlin’s back, nails raking deep until fire stung across his skin, before sliding lower to seize the flesh hard at his hips. He dragged him closer, forced him deeper, his grip violent with need, turning torment into invitation. Merlin bent low, lips crushing against Arthur’s in a kiss raw and desperate, tongues meeting in hunger, the passion carrying his unspoken apology. Arthur’s body shook beneath him, torn between fire and ache, yet he opened still, giving himself even as pain writhed through him. Merlin pressed again, deeper, and the sound Arthur gave broke into a strangled moan, sweat running down his temples. 

Every thrust wrenched another tremor from him, his body convulsing under the force, yet his hips lifted faintly, answering need with need. Merlin groaned with the clutch that gripped him merciless, the muscle dragging every pulse from his cock until his breath tore ragged. He lost himself in the rhythm, thrusting forward again and again, his lips breaking against Arthur’s mouth. Their kisses turned frantic, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, every press harsher, every moan rising higher until it broke into guttural sound. Arthur’s thighs clung with bruising strength, dragging Merlin closer, holding him captive in the fire that consumed them both. Merlin felt every contraction, every tremor inside him, the brutal truth of Arthur’s body taking him. He gave himself to it wholly, to the heat, to the storm of sensation, to the truth that Arthur was his.

The rhythm broke into frenzy, every thrust landing with brutal force, their bodies striking together in wet sounds that echoed through the chamber. The air grew thick with the musk of sweat and sex clinging heavy to their skin. Merlin’s breath rasped harsh, his muscles burning as he drove harder into Arthur, chasing the breaking point. He shifted his hips, pressing deeper, and the next stroke struck straight upon the hidden place inside him. Arthur’s cry tore high from his throat, his body jolting as if struck by lightning, his spine bowing clear off the bed. His face twisted, eyes squeezed shut, pain and pleasure blurring until it left him trembling. Merlin felt the shock tear through him, the quake of Arthur’s body clenching tight around his cock, and pressed harder, angling again to strike that knot without mercy. Each thrust wrung another cry from Arthur, his voice cracking, breaking into sobs of pleasure. His body shook beneath Merlin, muscles convulsing around the thickness inside him. The grip was savage, dragging groans from Merlin’s chest, his jaw clenched hard against the rush of sensation. He felt himself pulled too near the edge, but he forced himself to hold, to deny his body, refusing to fall before Arthur shattered first.

Merlin spat into his palm and reached down, wrapping his fist tight around Arthur’s cock. The heat of it struck him, swollen and hard, throbbing fiercely against his grip. Arthur’s voice cracked again as Merlin worked him fast, sharp strokes that matched the punishing rhythm of his hips. The assault twisted him into chaos. His thighs shook violently, his back arched high until his head pressed deep into the pillow, his cries rising with every stroke. The bed shuddered beneath them, the frame groaning. Merlin’s breath scorched against his ear as he drove into him, every stroke harder, pounding into the clutch that gripped him. Arthur’s cock pulsed hot in Merlin’s hand, slick spilling over his palm, wetting his fingers as he worked him harder still. Arthur’s body convulsed around him, clenching and loosening in frantic spasms until release struck. His frame bowed tight off the bed, throat torn wide on a scream. His cock jerked in Merlin’s fist, spilling in hot streams that streaked his stomach, splattered his chest, dripping down his trembling skin. Each violent spasm shook him harder, tearing his body into convulsions, his eyes flying wide, pupils dark, his mouth trembling. His hips bucked helplessly into Merlin’s hand even as his body clamped savagely down on the cock buried inside him, squeezing so viciously that Merlin faltered in rhythm, near undone by the grip. Merlin’s gaze devoured him, drinking in every shiver, every violent twist of muscle. Arthur lay wrecked beneath him, shattered by climax, trembling in ruin, radiant in collapse.

Merlin’s body trembled, his jaw clenched so hard it throbbed. Every muscle quivered with the strain of resisting, fighting to prolong the moment. Yet the grip around him was merciless, spasms surging in relentless waves, every contraction dragging him deeper into Arthur’s clutch. The thrusts that followed were savage, driven deep, Merlin’s hips slamming forward as his body gave in. Release struck him like fire, crashing through every nerve until his vision blurred white. His cock pulsed within the suffocating clutch, jerking again and again, spilling thick heat into Arthur’s body. The rush emptied him in brutal waves, his heart stumbling in his ribs, his arms shaking with the force of it. Beneath him, Arthur stiffened at the sudden flood, his insides clamping hard around the intrusion, the heat spreading with every heavy burst, coating the raw walls within. Merlin groaned against his mouth, lips pressed to Arthur’s as his hips faltered, his body shuddering with broken thrusts until he was drained. 

With a gasp he drew back, pulling free, the withdrawal scraping against muscle stretched near breaking. Arthur clenched hard at the loss before falling open, his body slackening into the bed. The seed spilled in its wake, warm fluid sliding free, streaking between his thighs, dripping down to stain the coverlets. Arthur gasped at the shock, his hips jerking faintly as the wet heat slicked his skin. Disbelief crossed him, his legs shifting wider. His hand dropped down, brushing over the mess that smeared his flesh, fingers dragging across the wetness. A groan broke from him as he felt the swollen ring stretched, twitching, slick with oil and come. His fingertips lingered there, tracing the tender circle, catching the thick fluid that seeped out to coat them, the touch drawing another sound from deep in his chest. Merlin collapsed beside him, chest dragging air in ragged pulls, his eyes glazed, his lids heavy. Yet his gaze never left Arthur, fixed with consuming hunger on the sight of him wrecked, touching himself in stunned awareness of what had been poured into him.

— “I cannot feel my legs,” Arthur muttered. 

Merlin’s shoulders quivered, his lips pressed tight in a vain attempt to hold it back, but the tremor of laughter shook through him regardless, tugging at the corners of his mouth until he nearly choked on it. Arthur turned his head, his face creased in a scowl meant to reclaim dignity, though the sight of him flushed, wrecked, and spent robbed the expression of all force.

— “I do not see what is amusing, Merlin. You have broken me. I am defective now.” His lips pulled into a pout, boyish and absurd upon a man who had moments before thundered with cries enough to shake the chamber.

Merlin’s composure shattered at the sight. Laughter burst free, loud enough to shake his chest until his ribs ached. Tears burned hot against his lashes, spilling until his vision blurred. He pressed a hand hard against his face, gasping for breath, but still the sound tore from him in helpless waves. Arthur’s expression faltered at last, the stubborn set of his mouth trembling before the corner of his lips curled upward despite himself, his breath breaking into a reluctant huff until he smiled outright.

— “Well,” Merlin managed, words torn between ragged breaths of laughter, “at least your thigh does not pain you now.”

Arthur arched a brow, then bent his right leg with cautious effort. He drew it up, flexed it once, twice, thrice, testing its strength. The muscle quivered faint beneath the strain, but it held. He let it fall again, his chest lifting with a sigh torn between weariness and concession. 

— “You speak truth,” he admitted at last.

— “I told you I had a hidden talent,” Merlin said, a glint of mischief sparking bright in his eyes.

Arthur snorted, the sound rough but edged with mirth, his lips curving despite himself. 

— “I had not thought that talent would prove to be fucking me until I could scarce walk.”

Merlin’s laughter spilled free again. His whole body shook with it, his grin wide and unrepentant. 

— “I am full of surprises.” His hand slid down, settling over Arthur’s thigh. His fingers curled deep, nails pressing into heated flesh as he squeezed the muscle hard enough to feel it tense beneath his grip. His voice dropped low, roughened with hunger and confession. “I could not resist any longer. Not with these thighs.”

Arthur tilted his head, his lips quirking into a crooked smile. 

— “I had begun to notice you were fond of them.”

— “I am sure they have the strength to crush my skull like a nut,” Merlin said, wonder and desire lacing through the roughness of his tone.

Arthur laughed, his chest shaking with it. 

— “You are weird,” he said, but the word softened.

Merlin bent without warning, teeth sinking into the thick curve of muscle. Arthur jolted with a cry sharp and startled, his body jerking taut against the sting. The sound broke into laughter, spilling free as Merlin released him, lips glistening where they had marked. Merlin’s mouth traveled upward, hot and wet, dragging his tongue slow across Arthur’s skin. He licked at the streaks of come that smeared across his chest, gathering them with unhurried strokes that left Arthur writhing between laughter and tremors. His lips moved higher, over the heave of his chest, across the strong lines of his throat, until he pressed his face deep into the hollow beneath Arthur’s jaw. He inhaled sharply, drawing in the salt of sweat and the heavy musk of their mingled bodies. Arthur’s arms came around him, closing tight, crushing him against his chest until Merlin could feel the frantic thrum of his heart beneath his ear.

— “Next time,” he murmured, his tone near a growl, “it will be I who…”

Merlin cut across him, his reply eager. 

— “Oh yes. Please. I want to feel your thighs strike against mine as you drive into me.” 

His voice roughened at the thought, mouth dragging close to Arthur’s ear, his words trembling with hunger. Arthur froze, his breath catching in his chest.

— “Oh gods…”

The End