Chapter Text
Merlin wasn’t the only one gawking like a country-born yokel from the far-end of nowhere when their victory party finally marched into the heart of Cair Paravel the day after the battle. Though he hid it well and would forever deny it, even Arthur found himself more than a little awestruck by the royal palace in all her glittering splendour.
According to Mr Beaver, the castle had been uninhabited since long before the witch had ever conquered Narnia, but there were neither signs of decay nor neglect. Walls that should have crumbled away decades ago continued to stand tall and strong. Glass windows that should have been shattered by storms or darkened by the filth of age instead gleamed bright and new in the early afternoon light. Furniture, portraits, and other decorative treasures that should have been plundered by scavengers (or at the very least plastered with dust or eaten away by pests) remained unmarred and thoughtfully arranged so as to best impress an audience (and impress they did). And as for the interior architecture—never mind that the ceiling murals should be cracked and faded or that the carefully carved mouldings should be in desperate need of replacement. The sheer detail involved was truly astonishing: not even the great Roman artists and architects of years gone by could have conceived of anything so grand. That all this had remained intact despite so many years of abandonment spoke of powerful magic.
Strangely, Arthur found he was okay with that.
Of course, there was not a great deal of time to puzzle over the marvels of what would be his new home. There was a coronation to contend with. The prophecy would not be complete until two “Sons of Adam” sat on the twin thrones. Good job that nearly losing Merlin had made Arthur realize what a fool he would be not to take this opportunity to give them both a chance to enjoy what they never could back home: an open and equitable relationship. Otherwise, the Narnians would have been out of luck.
Almost as soon as they had arrived, Arthur and Merlin were dragged away in opposite directions by some very persistent nymphs, who—for all their incessant giggling—were rather intimidating in their determination. When they pulled Arthur into a sunny room and immediately set about tearing off his clothes, he barely managed a word of protest (“Do you mind? You will remove your hands from my person at once!”) before being silenced by four sets of narrowed eyes that made him feel like a badly behaved child. After that he kept his mouth shut and allowed them to deposit him in a hot bath and scrub him down (though he put his proverbial foot down when one of them got handsy with the family jewels), mentally bracing himself with the amusing thought that Merlin must surely have been undergoing the same treatment. Anything that got Merlin’s dander up and made his face go all red and embarrassed couldn’t be all bad. Ah, if only he could see his face!
The royal blue and gold velvets they deposited him in were not of a fashion he was accustomed to, but Arthur had to admit that the cut accented his assets quite nicely. Merlin certainly seemed to agree when they found themselves unceremoniously thrown into a cosy parlour adjacent to the throne room to wait for their grand entrance, just a few short hours after they had been parted.
“You, ah,” Merlin started, licking his lips nervously, eyes dark and appreciative as he stared, “look... very... distinguished.”
Arthur’s lips quirked predatorily. “You think so?”
It was at this point that Merlin realized his error and hastily tried to backtrack. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he replied with a frown and a derisive sniff (Morgana was obviously a bad influence). “If ‘distinguished’ is synonymous for ‘prat,’ that is.”
Arthur grinned, glad to see Merlin was back to his mouthy self. He’d been unexpectedly quiet since his near-death the day before. Experiences like that could have strange effects on a man, Arthur knew, but he worried just the same. The poor boy hadn’t even reacted much beyond a tired smile and a few tentative kisses when Arthur had declared that they would stay, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was true. It seemed it was finally sinking in.
“Why, Merlin,” Arthur said, plopping down on the sofa beside him, deliberately pressing their thighs flush together and throwing his arm around hunched shoulders, “is that any way to talk to your soon-to-be husband?”
“Husband! What are you on about?” Merlin sputtered, eyes bulging. Too easy.
“Oh,” Arthur drawled, “didn’t you know? As far as all those people waiting for us to walk down the not-so-proverbial aisle are concerned, our prospective crowns are as good as wedding bands.” That wasn’t even a lie, really. They really hadn’t been terribly discreet. Assumptions had been made that Arthur... may or may not have been less than inclined to dissuade.
“What? I don’t... What?”
Arthur smirked mischievously, sliding one hand down Merlin’s own velvet-clad chest, admiring the way his lover’s breath hitched at the touch. “You make a beautiful bride,” he said slyly. “It’s too bad you can’t wear white. I would have liked to ravish your pretty virgin arse. I would have been so sweet to you.” Probing fingers slid up the hem of Merlin’s tunic to playfully toy with the fitted waistband of his trousers.
Merlin flushed, jaw going slack. “Arthur, you fucking tease... You know I’m not a virgin...”
Well. Turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it?
“Though,” Arthur conceded, “pale blue and silver suit you. They bring out the colour of your eyes. And I’m much too grateful to whomever taught you how to how to repress your gag reflex to care that you’re less than pure.”
“Arthur...”
Arthur leaned in so that their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. “Gods above, Merlin... I want you so bad. Right here, right now.”
“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin moaned, “yes.”
Their lips met—
And the horns outside the parlour door blared triumphantly.
They pulled back, disgruntled, annoyed, and with a terrible sense of déjà vu. Granted, this time it was their own fault (or, more accurately, Arthur’s fault) for starting something they couldn’t finish, but it still grated.
“Drat! Foiled again,” Arthur grumbled, combing a hand through his hair. Merlin echoed the sentiment. “That’s our cue.”
Rising to their feet, they stepped toward the door and paused to take a breath. Merlin fidgeted with hem of his tunic, expression strained and uncertain. Arthur reached out and grasped his hand.
Merlin looked at him, blue eyes wide, and Arthur offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Are you doing this for me?”
“No. I’m doing this for us.”
Aslan’s deep tones resonated throughout the throne room, calling them forth. The parlour door swung open.
Hand-in-hand they ventured out to embrace the dawn of a new life.
Merlin’s palm was clammy with sweat and his grasp was tight enough to hurt, but Arthur neither flinched nor let go as they stood, the tall stone thrones at their backs, before Aslan and the masses that would soon be their subjects, and repeated the vows that would bind them forever into the service of Narnia. Thankfully, Narnian traditions turned out to be considerably less dramatic than Camelot traditions, and it was not long before Aslan was calling forth the crowns.
Mr and Mrs Beaver emerged from the wings, each balancing a shining crown—one gold, one silver—on a plush, red pillow. A pleasant-faced, curly-haired faun followed them (“Mr Tumnus,” Merlin whispered under his breath, and Arthur valiantly refrained from throwing a fist when Merlin offered the newcomer that smile).
“To the glistening eastern sea,” Aslan said, “to the great western woods, I give to you King Arthur the Magnificent.” Mr Tumnus lifted the golden crown from Mr Beaver’s pillow, bowed lowly first to the Lion, then to Arthur, and then placed it on Arthur’s head. The weight was foreign, but not unwelcome. Magnificent? He liked the sound of that. Arthur shot Merlin a smug look, eyes laughing at Merlin’s heavenward sigh of despair.
“To the radiant southern sun, and to the clear northern skies, I give to you King Merlin the Wise.” Arthur sucked in a breath and muffled half-hysterical laughter as Mr Tumnus repeated the process and placed the silver crown on Merlin’s head. Merlin refused to look at him, cheeks glowing pink.
“May they both rule as they love: with fair hands and strong hearts,” Aslan finished, and indicated that the two young kings should take their thrones.
In unison, they sat. The crowd erupted into cheers. Their prophecy had been fulfilled.
“Long live King Arthur! Long live King Merlin!”
“So,” Arthur commented as the feasting and festivities began, “I hear I’m magnificent.”
Merlin snorted. “Oh, yes, sure. A magnificent arse, maybe.”
“You think I have a magnificent arse? Huh. Maybe you are a wise man, after all.”
“... Shut up.”
Arthur absolutely was not jealous. He hadn’t been jealous of Prince Brat and he wasn’t jealous now. He was merely being protective. There was a difference.
What did they really know about this Mr Tumnus fellow?
Sure, the faun had warned Merlin about the witch and been turned to stone for protecting him, but... Well, Arthur didn’t like the way he looked at Merlin, laughed with Merlin: all over-exuberant friendliness and tactile affection.
He was reminded unnervingly of Lancelot, who had also ingratiated himself much too deeply into Merlin’s good graces for Arthur’s peace of mind. Great and powerful sorcerer or not, Merlin was still very tender-hearted and unaccustomed to reading other people’s intentions.
If Mr Tumnus didn’t remove his hand from Merlin’s shoulder and keep his grubby hands to himself...
As if sensing the train of his thoughts, the faun darted a speculative glance across the room to where Arthur was settled at the banquet table, stabbing pensively at a plate of fish—with despair, he had come to the disheartening conclusion that ruling over a kingdom of talking beasts meant that there would only be one kind of meat in his future, and it wasn’t going to be nice, red, and bloody. Mr Tumnus cocked his head, turned his attention back to the man beside him, and slid his arm over Merlin’s shoulders to whisper something into the boy’s ear that made Merlin throw his head back and laugh uproariously. The sound drifted through the din of the crowded room and rang in Arthur’s ears.
Arthur swiped up his wine goblet, drained it, and waved over one of the dryads going around with wine-pitchers. He confiscated the whole pitcher.
Merlin wouldn’t really... With a faun... Would he?
“I need to get drunk.”
“If drinking yourself silly is the goal, I think you’ve been doing a right commendable job of it thus far.”
Arthur lowered his goblet, blinking. “Ah, Merlin.” How had Merlin reached him so quickly? He glanced toward the balcony on which he could have sworn Merlin had been entertaining his dear Mr Tumnus just moments before and then back down at his drink. Huh. The Narnian wine must have been a good deal more potent than he’d thought. Nonchalant (he was not sulking, not at all), Arthur asked, “Bored of your friend the goat already?”
Merlin smiled back, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “How many times do I need to tell you that you don’t need to worry about me leaving you? Mr Tumnus and I are just friends.”
“Like you and Lancelot are friends?” Arthur sniffed snidely. He poured another goblet of wine—but Merlin, not at all wisely, yanked both the goblet and the pitcher out of reach before he could react. He glowered.
Merlin glowered right back. “That came out of left field. For goodness sake, nothing happened between Lancelot and I, and nothing ever will!”
“Does Lancelot know that?”
“The same goes,” Merlin continued, ignoring him, “for Prince Hector and Mr Tumnus and everyone else! Your jealous insecurities are becoming less endearing and more annoying. I know you’ve been burned before, but I’m not like those others. Stop doubting me.”
“It’s not you I doubt,” Arthur mumbled and refused to meet Merlin’s accusing gaze. “It’s everyone else.”
“Arthur,” Merlin said, grabbing Arthur’s face and forcing him to look up at him, “I love you. I pseudo-married you today. And you know what? You owe me a pseudo-honeymoon. I think the festivities can continue well enough without us. How about we go back to my room, and I’ll show you how happy you make me, and why no one will ever measure up to you? It about time we finished what you began earlier, yeah?”
Arthur’s mouth went dry.
All he could manage was an eager nod.
They received quite a few knowing looks as they left, but no one said anything, and no one stopped them.
All through the castle hallways, there were stolen kisses, greedy touches, and hungry looks; so great was their enthusiasm, that Merlin lost all sense of direction (not that his had ever been particularly keen to begin with), and Arthur’s senses were muddled enough that they had to backtrack twice. They were both giddy with lust and affection when they finally stumbled through Merlin’s bedroom door, all irritation from their earlier argument forgotten.
This time no one was pinned to any doors or walls; instead, they ended up tripping over Merlin’s staff, which had carelessly been left lying on the floor near the doorway (how very like Merlin to toss his things about so carelessly), and falling to their knees on the plush rug in the middle of the room. The incident didn’t even slow them down. They both might be sporting bruised knees come the morrow, but for now the only aches they had any concern for were related to the blood pooling in their groins.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasped into his mouth, hands scrabbling over the velvet spanning Arthur’s chest, needful, “I’ve wanted you so badly. It’s been so long.”
“Too long,” Arthur agreed, nipping playfully at his lover’s bottom lip, already plump and swollen. With both hands, he cradled Merlin’s neck, holding his head steady and refusing to let him go. There would be no interruptions this time, no surprises. All the creatures of Narnia could come bursting through the door after them, and he would only grant them a show not to be forgotten. All that mattered was the man in his arms: Merlin’s pulse, quick and strong against his palms; Merlin’s fingers, now fumbling to release the clasp of Arthur’s cloak; Merlin’s lips, so sweetly parted in happy welcome. This was his. No one would take this from him.
“Yes, yours,” Merlin moaned, and Arthur dizzily realized he must have spoken aloud without realizing it. “Take me. Now, Arthur. Right here on the rug. I want to feel you in me.”
Arthur’s throat worked convulsively as he peppered kisses down Merlin’s jaw and pulled Merlin’s body more firmly toward him, until their bodies were perfectly in line. Merlin’s cock was hard against his. Even through the fabric, he could tell Merlin was slick and leaking—ready, so ready.
In his mind’s eye, Arthur could see Merlin wriggling out of his clothes and lying back on the carpet, legs open, inviting. If he asked, Merlin would probably even prepare himself, long fingers reaching down past his cock and balls to slowly tease himself open while Arthur talked him through it. They would both be more than ready when Arthur finally lost control and replaced those fingers with his own cock, making sure to rub down against Merlin’s matching erection with every slow thrust. It had been a while, so he’d have to be cautious. His self-control would be tested, but Merlin would be mewling so prettily, hands hot and sweaty on his shoulders, that it would be worth it to take his time, to make it last—
But that wasn’t how it was going to go. Not this time.
Arthur wanted something else: something he had been thinking about for a while, but had never gathered the courage to ask for. He’d been nervous—both about the act itself and about Merlin’s possible reaction. What if he didn’t like it? What if he wasn’t any good at it? What if Merlin thought less of him for it? On the other hand, what if Merlin became dissatisfied with the status quo? What if he wanted what Arthur hadn’t offered? He’d seemed well-pleased thus far, but what if he was simply hesitant to mention it? Merlin was too kind and too good sometimes. It wouldn’t have been out of character for him to keep silent about something he wanted if he thought speaking up would make Arthur unhappy. Gradually, Arthur had been sorting through his conflicting desires and had come to the conclusion that he was being a right idiot about it. He’d actually meant to say something sooner, but, well...
The timing had never been right.
If the timing wasn’t right now, then it would never be right.
“Actually, I want to do something a little different tonight,” Arthur said, haltingly. Sensing Arthur’s unease, Merlin wrapped his arms around his neck and lowered them both to lay side-by-side and eye-to-eye on the rug, the plush tufts tickling Arthur’s cheek. Blue eyes flecked with gold considered him solemnly.
“You can ask me for anything, you know that right?” Merlin asked.
“I—yes.”
“And you know that I won’t agree to something I’m not comfortable with out of some twisted sense of obligation? That everything I do, I do because I love and trust you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then have a little faith in me and ask. If there is something you want, then I want to know about it, and we can decide things from there. You can expect the same courtesy of me, right?” Merlin laughed, dimples showing. “I didn’t hesitate to ask if I could tie you to your favourite chair and ride you, now did I? Even though I thought it was embarrassing?”
“No.” That had been a good time. Bondage wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before, and he hadn’t expected to like it, but he had. It wasn’t something he wanted to do regularly; however, it was an interesting change of pace, and he’d be willing to do it again if Merlin asked. Not being able to touch his lover may have been utter torture, but seeing Merlin taking Arthur’s cock into his body with such shameless abandon had been positively exhilarating.
“So?” Merlin prompted. “Tell me.”
“I want you to fuck me this time,” Arthur said in a rush, hurrying on when he saw Merlin’s eyes go wide. “It’s sort of our wedding night, you know? And I want this night to be special for the both of us, so I’m offering you what virginity I have. Please, Merlin, I really want this. Won’t you fuck me?”
“No,” Merlin said, shaking his head, expression flickering strangely.
Arthur’s heart plummeted, cheeks going red. He felt a little sick. He told himself it was from relief, in which case relief felt an awful lot like disappointment. “Oh.” Arthur tried to roll away, but Merlin’s hands squeezed at his shoulders and held firm.
“You misunderstand me,” Merlin scolded gently. “I’m not going to fuck you. Not for your first time. I’m going to make love to you.”
“I... You... What?”
Merlin’s smile could have shamed the sun. “You’re pretty dumb sometimes. Good thing you’re pretty.”
“Who are you calling dumb, idiot! Also: I am not pretty,” Arthur blustered, but he was smiling too—and this time relief really was washing through him. “And what’s this business about ‘making love’ to me? I’m not some girl, you know. You don’t need to—”
“Shut up,” Merlin said, affectionate, and helped Arthur to his feet. “We’re taking this to the bedroom. I’m not going to despoil you on a rug. You deserve a proper bed.”
“Again, I’m not a girl,” Arthur sniped, though he let Merlin lead him by the hand into the adjacent bedroom without resistance. He would never admit it, but he was sort of glad Merlin was making such a fuss about this. “You’re ridiculous,” and Arthur loved him for it.
Merlin saw right through him, of course, giving Arthur a cheeky bow before moving to light a few candles. Suddenly nervous, Arthur perched on the side of Merlin’s bed, enjoying the soft down that sank beneath him. “I think your bed is softer than mine,” he noted with a frown, though he could have been mistaken. He hadn’t been allowed much time to explore his own quarters earlier.
“You can just share mine, if you like,” Merlin offered generously, face glowing soft and golden in the flickering light. “It might be a tight fit, but if you can try not to snore—”
“I do not snore!”
“Oh, yes, you do! You snore like— like a bear!”
“Do not!”
“Do too!”
“Well, in that case, why don’t I just leave now?” Arthur threatened, mock-lurching toward the door. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your beauty rest. Heaven knows you’ll need it!”
As expected, Merlin cut him off at the door, silencing Arthur’s half-hearted protests with a thorough snogging. Arthur could feel Merlin’s lips smiling against his mouth and couldn’t help an answering smile of his own.
Good grief. Arthur was a girl after all. Merlin was obviously a bad influence.
Once they were both properly breathless, Merlin pulled Arthur back toward the bed. Settling back down, Arthur decided that he was more than ready to move things along and made to remove his tunic.
Merlin’s hands on his stopped him.
“No,” Merlin said, “let me,” and he grasped the hem of Arthur’s tunic and slowly lifted it over Arthur’s head. Then he sank to his knees and, eyes firmly locked with Arthur’s, began to untangle the laces of Arthur’s boots.
Merlin’s face was level with Arthur’s groin. He couldn’t have failed to notice the obscene stretch of velvet over Arthur’s crotch or the way the gold fabric had darkened several shades, wet with pre-come. But he made no show of noticing. His gaze never shifted from Arthur’s face, expression primal and yearning; not even when he urged Arthur to brace himself on his hands and pulled his trousers down, Arthur’s cock slipping free, twitching in unmistakable demand.
All his life, Arthur had been dressed and undressed by servants. Before Merlin, it hadn’t meant anything. Now it made him feel cherished.
When Arthur was fully nude, Merlin urged him up onto the pillows, where he lied waiting and exposed. Through lidded eyes, Arthur watched as Merlin made short work of his own clothes, admiring the long, lean lines of him—and the prominent bobbing of the hardness that would soon be inside of him. Not for the first time, Arthur was grateful that Merlin’s length and girth, although respectable, were not particularly intimidating. He could do this.
Crawling up Arthur’s body, Merlin settled between Arthur’s legs so that his mouth was a handbreadth from Arthur’s cock, opened his mouth to suck him down—and paused just before making contact.
“What are you waiting for?” Arthur exclaimed, frustrated, and thrust his hips up helplessly, only to be pushed back down.
“Wait a second,” Merlin said, and scrabbled over the side of the bed to search through the nightstand drawers.
Oh, Arthur realized with a groan, lubrication.
A few painful minutes later, Merlin turned sheepishly back to him, hands empty. “Um,” he started, and mumbled something that could have been an entirely different language for all that Arthur understood it.
“Repeat that,” Arthur demanded, “in English this time.”
Merlin liked his lips. “I, um, can’t find anything to, er, ease the way.”
Arthur took a few calming breaths and counted to ten. Then, “Merlin,” he said, more angry with himself for not having foreseen this than with Merlin, who looked miserable and still as painfully hard as he, “don’t panic. We’ll just have to content ourselves with a little frottage and see about acquiring some oil tomorrow.” He was disappointed, but right now anything would be better than having to content himself with his own gods-forsaken hand again.
“Um, well, yes, that’s an option,” Merlin said, chewing his lip, “but I had a thought.”
“A thought? Will wonders never cease?”
“I could, uh—” Merlin paused, dubious. “If you didn’t mind, that is...”
“Oh, just spit it out, would you? The night’s not getting any younger!”
“I could try oiling you up with— with magic.”
Oh. That was unexpected. And strangely hot.
Arthur hadn’t thought he could get any harder, but he did.
He really didn’t care to analyze what that might mean.
“If you think it’ll work,” Arthur shrugged, parting his legs wider, “be my guest.”
Merlin’s mouth shaped into an “oh.” Then, shaking himself, he returned to his prior position between Arthur’s legs, this time swallowing Arthur down to the root without so much as a by-your-leave. Arthur gasped, hands flying to tangle in Merlin’s mussed hair. Merlin choked a little, pulled off enough to catch his breath, and took Arthur back in, this time more easily. Ye gods.
Arthur was too distracted with the wet, hot suction working on his cock and the hand squeezing gently at his balls to notice when a single digit pressed against the tight ring of his arse. He did notice, however, when something cold and slick suddenly filled him. Instinctively jerking up, he broke free of Merlin’s steadying grasp and came so suddenly that Merlin started coughing and choking, pulling back with an unpleasant grimace.
“Give a man some warning, would you!” they shouted simultaneously, panting and huffing—Arthur still coming down from his unexpected orgasm, cringing at the foreign, wet sensation when he moved, and Merlin still trying to catch his breath. Their glaring eyes met, held.
Arthur’s lips twitched first, but Merlin was the one who burst into a fit of laughter.
“Sorry,” he gasped, “sorry!”
Shaking his head, Arthur softened and pulled Merlin back up to plunder his mouth, tasting himself in the kiss. “Idiot,” Arthur snickered. Merlin trembled with humour over him and reached down to press one hand back between Arthur’s legs.
The first finger felt odd.
Arthur had expected it to be odd, of course, but, well—it was even odder than he had anticipated. It didn’t hurt, not really, but he was all too cognizant of the fact that something was going in to a place where things had only ever come out. Merlin was watching him studiously as he fingered him, his finger moving fairly smoothly thanks to the thick fluid Arthur’s insides had been coated with. Had Arthur shown any discomfort, Merlin would have surely stopped.
Arthur only frowned and demanded another finger.
This would get better. He knew that well enough from being on the other end.
The second finger burned a bit going in, but it was a minor ache that quickly faded. In fact, he forgot all about it when Merlin finally—
“Ah!” Arthur cried, hands fisting in the blankets and head falling back into the pillows, unable to control himself. Vaguely, Arthur noticed that his arousal had fully returned, but he was more concerned with the sparks zinging through his nerves. So, that’s what his male lovers had always made such a fuss about. No wonder they hadn’t minded being buggered. That was... That was...
“Good,” Merlin said, audibly gloating, “you’re sensitive.”
“Do that again,” Arthur commanded, imperious.
Merlin obeyed without argument.
Soon Arthur was begging for a third finger. Then for Merlin’s cock.
The insolent bastard ignored this orders, stretching Arthur with such care that Arthur was near tears with want by the time Merlin finally deemed him good and ready for the next stage. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Merlin admonished in response to repeated threats and pitiful pleas. “You’ve always carefully prepared me. Why should I show you any less courtesy?”
Merlin could be quite the sadist when he wanted. And, oh, he wanted.
“So, how do you want to do this?” Merlin asked, when he finally pulled his devil-fingers free.
Arthur blinked at him, uncomprehending.
“I mean, do you want to be on your belly or on your back when I take you?”
Oh. “B-belly will be easier,” Arthur replied, rolling over without prompting to present his arse. Merlin slipped a plump pillow under Arthur’s hips, hands trembling a little. It seemed he was losing some of his cool at last. “In me. Now.”
Merlin’s hands grasped Arthur’s hips a little too tightly, angling him, and finally he felt that delightful pressure he’d been shamelessly sobbing for the last quarter of an hour. Merlin’s cock was bigger than his fingers, and it hurt rather a lot, initially.
But Merlin was in no hurry, and soon Arthur was grunting and pushing back on his lover, impaling himself without restraint.
“Is—is it good?” Merlin panted behind.
“Yes,” Arthur groaned, and “more,” and “harder.”
He loved this, loved having Merlin like this, and he didn’t know why he’d waited so long to try this, because it was better than he’d imagined, better than anyone had ever said. Each thrust sent Arthur’s cock rubbing against the silk coverings of the pillows, the sensation cool and soft in contrast to the concentrated thrust-jab-thrust of Merlin’s hips. Sometimes Merlin struck that spot inside him, sometimes he didn’t, and Arthur thought Merlin was perhaps being a mite too cautious with him, but it was good. Every thrust was so good. And yet.
It wasn’t quite right. Good, but not perfect. It could be better, if...
“Merlin, please— I want— I need—”
“What do you,” Merlin panted, strained and desperate, “need, Arthur? Tell me. You have to tell me,” and Arthur could only imagine how his pupils must be wide and blown, how his skin must be glowing with exertion, how even his unruly hair must be damp with sweat.
“I want to see you,” Arthur gasped, shuddered, pushed back hard and fast. “I want to see your face.”
“I want that, too,” Merlin breathed against his neck, going still. Arthur nearly cried with want when Merlin pulled free, but he was flipped onto his back in an instant, Merlin sinking back inside him with an expression of utter awe and adoration.
And this.
This was better.
He’d always loved the way Merlin looked at him when they fucked, like Arthur was the most amazing thing in the world, and how had Merlin managed to get so lucky? Now was no different. Seeing such open devotion in his friend’s face, Arthur couldn’t help but think that he was the lucky one.
Reaching up, Arthur cupped one of Merlin’s cheeks, delighting in the way Merlin leaned into the touch. “You’re lovely,” he whispered, and Merlin leaned down and kissed him in response—another reason this position was better. He quite liked the way Merlin’s tongue slid into his mouth, eager and pleading. Merlin made such delicious whimpering noises when Arthur stroked along the underside of his tongue.
The sensation was even enough to make Merlin thrust madly into Arthur’s arse for a few glorious moments before he came back to himself and curbed his desire once more—how frustrating! He wanted to feel Merlin moving so hard in him that he felt it in his very bones, so deep that he would feel him for days to come. He wanted the pleasure-pain to wash over him and sweep the world away. Damn it, he wanted Merlin to lose control the way Arthur was losing control!
Arthur parted their lips with a low groan, messy with spit and loving it. “I’m not made of glass,” he growled. “You won’t break me.”
“No,” Merlin refused, chin taking on a familiar stubborn tilt. “You may think it’s okay now, but believe me when I say it’ll hurt like the dickens later if I’m rough when you’re not used to it.” Merlin continued to roll his hips, too deliberate, too mindful, too tender. Honestly. Even Arthur at his very worst wasn’t this cruel.
Arthur glared. Obviously he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.
Hands stroking down Merlin’s sides with deceptive sweetness, Arthur brought his hands to rest on Merlin’s hips, gripped tight enough to make a point, and rolled them both over with such swiftness that Merlin was flat on his back with Arthur smugly straddling him before the poor fool even knew what was happening.
“Spoiled brat,” Merlin said, when realization dawned. “You just have to have everything your way, don’t you?”
Brows raised in challenge, Arthur braced himself on his knees, lifted himself so that Merlin’s cock nearly slipped out, and slammed himself down again—hard.
Merlin made a pathetic sound.
Much better.
It took a few tries to get the angle right, but before long Arthur had set a rhythm that was stimulating his prostate on every downward stroke, riding Merlin with merciless vigour. Merlin made a few choked sounds that might have been protests, but the fingernails digging desperately into Arthur’s thighs betrayed the other man’s need.
Neither of them lasted long after that.
Merlin came first, spilling his thick essence inside of Arthur with a gibbering shout, very real tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, which Arthur was happy to lick away as he stroked himself to completion and spilled convulsively between their bellies in long spurts.
“Wow,” Merlin grunted when Arthur had finally seen fit to crawl off of him to collapse at his side, messy and sated. That pretty much summed up everything.
Minutes passed. Just as their breaths had begun to even out, Arthur said, “Merlin, you must promise me something.”
“Yes, Arthur. Anything.”
“Never keep secrets from me again.”
Merlin was quiet for a few moments, causing Arthur to suspect he might have had the audacity to fall asleep, but eventually replied, “Alright. I promise.”
And Arthur believed him.
Arthur stirred from his drowsing leisurely, peering at the man at his side through lazy lashes, not quite comprehending what he was seeing.
Unaware of his gradually waking audience, Merlin was alternately dipping a quill in an inkwell on the nightstand and scribbling in a book Arthur recognized as the one Father Christmas had gifted Merlin with; in itself, this was not so strange. Writing in a diary when he should have been lost in a post-coital haze seemed like something Merlin would do merely to drive Arthur crazy. What was unusual about it was that the ink was somehow being absorbed by the page. Each stroke faded as Merlin moved to make another, the page reverting immediately to its original, clean state.
“Why won’t the ink stick as it should?” Arthur asked groggily, voice thick with sleep.
Merlin glanced at him in surprise, grinned, then registered what Arthur had said. “What do you mean?”
“The ink. It keeps disappearing.”
Puzzled, Merlin studied the book in his lap and passed it slowly to Arthur, cheeks pinking suspiciously. Arthur accepted the offering with a sigh, sitting up to take a better look. Nothing.
“Am I supposed to be seeing something?”
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Merlin pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Father Christmas did say the book would keep my secrets. Maybe...” He leaned against Arthur’s shoulder, their naked skin pressing together, and pointed sternly at the book. “You will reveal yourself to Arthur, book,” he commanded, turning at the last to offer a shy smile, “for I keep no secrets from him.”
Arthur’s throat knotted, and he had to look away from Merlin or risk doing something entirely unmanly (like throw himself on him with a cry of “Ravish me now!”—not at all a sensible idea, since his arse was raw and sore, and he was beginning to think Merlin might have had the right of it when he’d refused to be rough with him earlier). Returning his attention to the book, Arthur found that words were appearing on the page. Two words at the head of the page caught his particular attention, nearly making him swallow his own tongue in shock.
There, in bold letters, was a declaration that required no explanation: LUBRICATION CHARM.
“Gods have mercy!” Arthur exclaimed. “What in the world are you working on, you lunatic?”
Merlin launched into a rambling explanation on the mechanics of his magic, the benefits and disadvantages of instinctual magic verses practical magic, and concluded with a leering declaration that proper lubrication was very important, so it was his solemn duty to the betterment of mankind to devise a practical spell of fine quality. “The consistency was off with the one I tried earlier,” Merlin finished airily. “It was much too thick. I think a proper word-spell could fix that—and maybe even enhance the experience.”
Arthur stared dumbly.
Merlin slipped an arm over his shoulders, and conspiratorially whispered, “Of course, this endeavour will require lots of experimentation.”
Dryly, Arthur cocked a brow, voice amused, “Will it?”
“Yes,” Merlin nodded, slipping a hand under the blankets to massage at a part of Arthur’s anatomy that was suddenly very awake indeed. “I know it’s a lot to ask that you help me advance my studies this way, but I really feel it would be best to test by trial and error.”
“It’s, um, a tall order,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “but, I suppose, if it’s for the sake of mankind’s advancement, then I have no choice.”
“Your sacrifices will not be in vain,” Merlin said, cheeky. He pulled Arthur on top of him, wrapped his legs brazenly around Arthur’s waist, and set about inspiring in Arthur a whole new love for science.
The book tumbled to the floor with a thunk, momentarily forgotten.
Aslan paced along the shore, the ocean’s waves lapping gently at his paws, and cast his gaze to the castle above. He had done what he could.
Now all he could do was wait and hope the lessons he had hoped to impart would stick, that when the time came for them to leave Narnia behind, the Sons of Adam would be ready to face what awaited them. Destiny was not set in stone. There was always a choice.
With one last slow smile, Aslan returned to the sea from whence he’d come.