[FIC] The Apprentice’s Tale (Arthur/Merlin; NC-17)

[merlinmusesmod]

Author: treacle_tartlet
Title: The Apprentice’s Tale
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin, past Merlin/Will, background Gwen/Lancelot, mistaken Arthur/Morgana.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Merlin, in the wake of his breakup with Will, allows himself to be dragged off to the Midsummer Festival, an annual week-long SCA camping event run by the Barony of Camelot. Here he meets Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Albion -handsome, popular, and a complete prat. Merlin hates Arthur, Arthur hates Merlin; it is all perfectly simple, until it isn’t anymore.
Warnings (if any): More sex than is strictly necessary for plot-advancement.
Total word count: 10,500
Original prompt number: 48 - Submitted by piscaria
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC and Shine TV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's/artist's notes (if any): For readers unfamiliar with the Society for Creative Anachronism, I have tried not to fill this with obscure terminology, but some was unavoidable. This handy SCA Glossary should help clear things up! Additionally, heartfelt thanks to blamebrampton for hand-holding, encouragement, and fact-checking.
Beta(s): The lovely leashy_bebes and the phenomenal phoenixacid.

“Oh, thank Christ that’s over,” Merlin said, flopping dramatically into a chair next to Gwen.

“I know! My feet are killing me,” she said, and swung round to put said feet into Merlin’s lap.

The feast was drawing to a close; the last remove had been served and the last round of dancing had begun. Merlin and Gwen had spent most of the evening fetching and carrying for Their Highnesses, Prince Arthur Pendragon and Princess Morgana ferch Gorlois of Albion. Merlin was as yet unsure exactly why he had been pressed into the Prince’s service, but he suspected Master Gaius was behind it and intended to have words with the old herbalist as soon as he could find him. He looked around the Great Hall (not actually a hall, so much a vast canvas pavilion), but there was no sign of Gaius.

In his defence, Master Gaius did usually have Merlin’s best interests at heart. That was why he had invited his new apprentice to accompany him to the Barony of Camelot’s Midsummer Festival, a week-long camping event held around the solstice each year. Merlin had only been playing in the Society for Creative Anachronism for a year and hadn’t attended an event outside the Canton of Ealdor. He’d been a bit overwhelmed at the scale of Festival. Accustomed as he was to feasts at which fifty or sixty people might be in attendance, he’d been taken aback by the sight of close to nine hundred people spread out over several acres of sprawling campsite. Even with a map, Merlin kept getting lost, so he tended to stick close to Master Gaius. This, of course, meant being put to work, which was not really what Gaius had lead Merlin to expect. Whenever he complained about this state of affairs, Gaius would just point out that, left to his own devices, Merlin would be sitting at home watching crap television and pining over Will.

“It’s been six months, Merlin,” Gaius had pointed out one afternoon when he’d dropped by on the flimsy excuse of loaning Merlin a medieval Herbal he’d recently acquired. “You can’t spend the rest of the year moping about indoors, it isn’t healthy.” He had proceeded to extol the many and various benefits of attending Festival and Merlin, in a weak moment, had agreed to come along.

Camping.

He really hadn’t thought it through at all.

Merlin had been brought up by his mother, who was a wonderful woman in many regards but who was not much given to outdoor pursuits. Merlin, as a result, was a majestically inexperienced camper. He’d had to borrow all his kit from a friend of Gaius’s, including an ancient and malodorous tent. This tent had long ago been dubbed the Anti-TARDIS, on account of being tall, boxy, and blue, and being far, far smaller on the inside than it appeared from without. Merlin had grown to loathe and detest it very quickly.

Another side-effect of hanging around Gaius all the time was that the old man kept volunteering Merlin for things. On the second day, he had signed Merlin up for cleaning the port-a-privies and restocking them with toilet paper and soap (Merlin had regarded this as unnecessarily cruel, but Gaius had said it was character building and pointed out that somebody had to do it). The next evening Merlin had found himself accompanying a young man called Hugh on a Constabulary shift (this had actually turned out to be quite enjoyable - a constable’s duties seemed to consist of wandering about the campsite making sure the rules were being adhered to and accepting alcoholic bribes from people who were contravening them).

On this particular evening, the third of Festival, Gaius had heard that one of the Prince’s attendants had been taken to the local hospital after a blow to the head on the battlefield. He had offered Arthur the use of his apprentice for the evening, for reasons known only to himself. Thus it was that Merlin had spent the last four hours serving food to High Table, refilling Arthur’s goblet, washing his dishes, and standing behind the thrones holding a candlestick so the Court Herald could see what he was reading. All of which would have been perfectly bearable if Arthur Pendragon hadn’t been such a bloody prat. On the upside, he had met Lady Guinevere (one of Princess Morgana’s ladies-in-waiting) who had quickly become a friend.

Merlin leaned over Gwen’s feet and picked up his tankard. It was filled with lukewarm mulled wine. Merlin had an inkling that an evening involving a pint of wine was not an evening that could end well.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he grumbled. “At least Morgana’s nice to you.”

“Well, we are friends. Was Arthur really that awful? I thought he liked you.”

“He kept flicking my ears!”

“It’s a sign of affection,” Gwen assured him, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a fit of giggles. “If you were a girl he’d be pulling your pigtails.”

“He hates me,” Merlin muttered into his wine. What was Gwen wittering about?

“Not true.”

“I hate him.”

“Also not true,” Gwen said. Merlin was trying to formulate a suitable response to this obviously untrue statement when the leather pouch on his belt started to vibrate. He surreptitiously opened it. His mobile phone was lit up like a Christmas tree and humming violently. New message from Will. Merlin hesitated only briefly before deleting it.

“One of your admirers?” Gwen asked casually.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. One of many,” Merlin answered, sarcastically.

“How many?” she asked.

“Dozens, Gwen, dozens. Honestly, it’s a miracle I can walk at all after all the action I’ve been getting this week.”

“Really?” She sat back up, eyes a-gleam. Honestly, it was not healthy, the level of interest she’d taken in his love life.

“No,” he admitted glumly.

“Not a sausage?” Gwen pouted.

“Filthy wench.”

“It’s part of my charm. And don’t try to change the subject. Have you really not been laid?” she asked, topping up both their tankards with cider. Merlin shook his head glumly. “Merlin, that’s appalling. You can’t not get your leg over at Festival, it’s against the rules!”

Merlin was in the middle of framing a devastatingly witty retort when a great cheer arose at one end of the pavilion, accompanied by almost as many people groaning in protest. One of the cooks had emerged from the kitchen tent brandishing aloft a clove-studded lemon. Merlin slumped down in his seat, and Gwen clapped delightedly.

“Oh, it’s that time of the evening!” she exclaimed. “Five pounds says those Vikings in the corner start singing ‘The Hammer Of Thor’ any minute!”

As though on cue, a Viking called Sven clambered up onto a chair and, holding his drinking horn aloft, began to sing.

“I searched the world for the perfect brew,
Let's wallow in blood and gore;
Now all I've got is a drunken crew,
And here's to the hammer of Thor!”

A dozen of his gleefully drunk friends joined in the chorus.

“AXE TIME, SWORD TIME, BEND YOUR BACK TO THE OAR!
WIND TIME, WOLF TIME, HERE’S TO THE HAMMER OF THOR!”

Even a newcomer such as Merlin had heard the song often enough to know the chorus, and he happily sang along. Gwen rolled her eyes but couldn’t help joining in as well. At High Table, Arthur and the baron seated next to him were singing along as well.

The cook, meanwhile, sauntered down the length of the Great Hall, her impressive bodice-bound décolletage jiggling slightly with each step, before she stopped in front of a knight called Sir Alaric and handed the lemon to him, to the noisy delight of everyone watching. Sir Alaric grinned, and plucked a clove from the lemon with his teeth. In accordance with the traditions of the game, he held it in his mouth for a moment to freshen his breath, and then dropped it into his goblet.

“Th’art a goodly wench!” the knight announced, as much to the Hall at large as to the lady. She laughed, and presented her cheek for a kiss which Sir Alaric made a show of giving her. She then retreated, giggling, to the kitchen tent and Alaric ambled across the Hall to give the lemon and a chaste kiss on the fingertips to a blushing young lady in magnificent Elizabethan garb. She in her turn used the lemon to garner a kiss from the Saxon lord with whom she had been flirting all evening. He gave the lemon to the girl sitting next to him, along with a peck on the cheek, and turned back to his Elizabethan paramour. And so the game went on, the lemon making its way around the hall on a string of kisses. Merlin couldn’t decide whether he wanted it to make its way to him or not.

A red haired young lady, blushing furiously, was dragged before Prince Arthur by a gaggle of her friends. Merlin watched with some trepidation, sure he was about to see the poor girl humiliated in front of the whole Hall. He was surprised, however, when Arthur accepted the lemon with good grace and, smiling, kissed the girl’s proffered hand. Merlin could see why people were charmed by Arthur, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the way the prince had treated him all evening. If anything, it made him feel worse. What on earth had he done to make the prince treat him like that? To add to the confusion, half the time Arthur seemed to be flirting with him. As if on cue, Arthur looked up and caught Merlin’s eye, and winked. Merlin flushed and looked down at his tankard. God, he was so confused.

“You see?” Gwen said smugly. “He’s been watching you for the last ten minutes.”

“He’s probably devising new ways to humiliate me,” Merlin said.

“Oh, I think it’s more than that. I think he’d like to give you that lemon,” Gwen said, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

He stared at her. “Exactly how much have you had to drink?”

“Shhh! He’s coming over. With the lemon!”

Arthur walked as though he ought to have a soundtrack, Merlin thought as he watched the Prince make his way across the Hall. He was handsome, Merlin admitted to himself. Well, to be honest he was bloody gorgeous, but that didn’t make up for him being such an insufferable arse. He did have a nice arse, though. Merlin’s heartbeat sped up.

Arthur came to a halt in front of Gwen.

“Lady Guinevere,” Arthur said, bowing. “You are indeed an adornment for our Great Hall this evening. Sir Lancelot has talked of little but your beauty all evening.”

Gwen blushed at this pretty speech, and at the mention of Lancelot. Arthur held out the lemon, which she accepted. She extended her left hand for him to kiss, and as Arthur pressed his lips to her fingertips he glanced at Merlin. Merlin couldn’t decide whether Arthur was mocking him or coming onto him, and in light of this he thought the best course of action would be to beat a hasty retreat. He stood up abruptly.

“Gwen, do you want another…oh, BUGGER!” In his haste, he forgot that Gwen’s feet were still in his lap. As he stood, her knee hit the edge of the table and sent her mulled wine flying. Of course, instead of spilling harmlessly onto the floor, it splattered the hem of Arthur’s white linen tunic. Arthur straightened up and glared at him.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he said sarcastically. “I was just thinking that this tunic was a boring colour.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, Your Highness! Um…” Merlin gestured helplessly.

“No, no. It’s nothing less than what I’ve come to expect from you.”

This was a bit harsh, Merlin thought. He’d only dripped a little bit of carmeline sauce on the tablecloth, after all. Well, and dripped candle wax on the back of Arthur’s hand during court. But Arthur was already striding away across the Hall, and Merlin could only watch him go.

“Well, I think that pretty much debunks your theory, Gwen,” he said miserably.

“Pft, don’t worry about it. He’s not really angry - he gets quiet when he’s really angry.” She patted his hand consolingly. Merlin just shook his head.

“I think I’ll head to bed,” he said. She pouted.

“Have it your way, but you’re never going to get anywhere if you keep skulking in your tent.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned the dismal state of his sex life to her. He blamed the mulled wine.

“Have fun with Lance!” he said, and gave Gwen a small shove in the direction of the table where Lancelot was sitting. She grinned and waved the lemon at him as she made her way over there.

The cool night air was a welcome relief after the warm fug of the Hall, and Merlin took a few deep breaths as he made his way across the Village Green (a broad empty space ringed by merchants’ stalls, which often doubled as a list field for tourneys). He’d just reached the other side when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Where are you off to, Merlin?”

It was Arthur. Of course it was Arthur.

“I’m going to my tent,” he replied. Arthur said nothing, just stood there, leaning against the supporting pole of one of the merchant tents. He looked at Merlin expectantly.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to accompany you?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, and suggestive little smile curled the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Merlin sounded quite cross, he realised, but he was deeply confused (as he always seemed to be when Arthur spoke to him). Surely he hadn’t heard correctly. Arthur’s expression changed to one of disdain.

“Well, Merlin, someone has to wash my tunic!”

“Oh. Oh, right. Um…”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. You’d probably only make it worse.” And with that, Arthur turned on his heel and stomped off, leaving Merlin wondering what the bloody hell had just happened. He shook his head, and continued on his way back to his tent. Arthur made him feel off-balance, it was true, but he felt a peculiar urge to please the arrogant sod. He wanted Arthur to smile at him, he realised. God, this was just what he needed - a crush on a man who felt nothing but contempt for him in return. Shit.

~*~

Master Gaius, Member of the Order of the Laurel, master of the Herbalists Guild, Festival site chirurgeon, and occasional combat marshal, was a very busy man. Being Master Gaius’s only apprentice, Merlin was very busy too. He’d barely had time to watch any of the fighting, or attend any of the collegia that were being run, because he’d been occupied with all the fetching and carrying he was expected to do, and the washing up, and the cooking, and the fact that Gaius had made Merlin clean the leech tank in preparation for his ‘Bloodletting in Medieval Medicine’ collegium.

It was now the second to last day of the event, and Merlin had so far only managed to attend one class about enameling, and even then, he’d been so tired that he kept nodding off.

Merlin spent the whole of the second last day of Festival energetically avoiding Arthur. He did quite well, considering that Gwen and Gaius appeared to have entered into a fell conspiracy to try and force the two of them to talk to each other. It all came to a head that evening, when Gwen dragged a protesting Merlin to the Tavern. She and a group of her friends were determined to make the most of the last couple of nights. To this end, they were attired in their best wenching garb and armed with a tablero set and copious packets of sherbet.

“Since when is sherbet period?” Merlin asked.

“Sherbet is documentable as far back as 1577, when it was invented by the Duke of Northumberland to please Queen Elizabeth,” answered Gwen’s friend Lady Myfanwy.

“Really?”

“No,” she laughed. “But you can’t play the Sherbet Game without sherbet.”

“What’s the Sherbet Game?” Merlin made the mistake of asking. Myfanwy demonstrated. It was, Merlin decided, the most fun he’d ever had with his face buried in a girl’s cleavage (even if he did end up with powdered sugar in his hair).

In the Tavern, the cider was plentiful and cheap. There were trestle tables and bench seats arranged in rows, at which gentles were gathered in groups large and small. The Vikings had commandeered almost a whole row to themselves, and were onto the fifteenth verse of the seemingly endless ‘Hammer of Thor’. Half the Tavern was joining in to sing the chorus, and the other half booed and threw things. At another table, a lady wearing an elaborate Tudor dress was flirting with man in twelfth-century bliaut. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, and Merlin decided not to examine too closely the pang of jealousy he felt. Honestly, he didn’t care what the Princely Prat was doing.

All right, he did care, but just a little bit, and surely that was a sign that it was time for another drink.

He bumped into Morgana at the bar.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said.

“Oh, pft. Don’t bow, Merlin, no pointy hat tonight! Why are you here, anyway?” She gestured with her goblet, and slopped mead onto the bar. Surrounded by beautiful, drunk girls, Merlin thought. If only I was interested in seeing them naked, I’d be set.

“Um. Doing a crap job of stopping Gwen making a tit of herself,” he nodded in the direction of their table, where Gwen was trying to balance her tankard on her cleavage while Lance looked on, deeply impressed. Morgana laughed.

“May I join you?”

“Of course!”

Morgana was wearing a houpplande with such a voluminous skirt that Merlin had to move benches out of the way so she could reach the table.

“You are a darling,” she said, plonking herself down across the table from Gwen and Lance (the other girls had abandoned them for, variously, the Bardic Circle, House Attilium’s Pirate Party, and Sir Miles’s tent). Having arranged her skirts to cause minimum obstruction in the aisle behind her, she fixed Merlin with accusing glare. “No, but why are you here? I thought you were going to the Blue Feather cocktail do.”

“Well, I…what? No, why would you think I was going?” Merlin was confused. Not that he wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to go to House Blue Feather’s famous cocktail party. Blue Feather was the SCA’s LGBT-orientated household and their parties were legendary.

“Oh, didn’t Arthur catch up with you? He was going to take you along,” she said. “It’s probably for the best. You’re very sweet, and he would only have taken advantage of you.”

Merlin blushed, and drank a large mouthful of cider that he probably, in retrospect, didn’t need. Several things were confusing him at this point. Why on earth was Arthur at the Blue Feather cocktail party, and why was Morgana so laid back about it? Why would Arthur have wanted to take Merlin along? He felt, for the umpteenth time since arriving at Festival, that he’d missed some vital piece of information that was obvious to everyone else. His confusion wasn’t being helped by the fact that he felt distinctly jelly-legged and floaty. Morgana giggled.

“Or perhaps you wouldn’t mind being taken advantage of.”

“Um,” he said, blushing again.

“Well, that settles it. I’ll take you myself!” she announced, standing up.

“Wait, what? Where are we going?” asked Gwen, momentarily distracted from canoodling with Lance.

“We’re taking Merlin to Blue Feather. Come on.”

“Yay!” Gwen leaped up and grabbed her goblet.

“Do I get a say in this?” Merlin asked.

“NO!” they chorused. Merlin looked to Lance for support, but the useless git just shrugged.

Merlin quickly found himself being guided (in much the same way that prisoners are guided to their cells) out of the Tavern, flanked by Gwen and Morgana who each had an arm around his waist. Lance was in charge of the drinking vessels and was following a step or two behind.

There was something that was still troubling Merlin.

“Hang on. Wait.” He stopped walking and caused a minor pile-up.

“What is it, Merlin?” Morgana asked severely, crossing her arms and looking for all the world like an incongruously clad Mary Poppins.

“Well, um. We’re going to the Blue Feather cocktail party, right?”

“Yes,” she said with exaggerated patience. Merlin suspected she might be tapping her foot but it was impossible to tell beneath her skirt.

“Because you think I want to…”

“We know you want to…”

“And you also think he wants to…”

“Yes. He’s been complaining about you for days. It’s a sure sign.”

“Right. But isn’t he, I mean, aren’t the two of you…?

There was a pause, and then all three of them burst out laughing.

“What?” he demanded, bewildered by the mirth.

“Oh, Merlin,” Morgana gasped in between fits of giggles. “Arthur’s my brother.”

“Your brother?” Well, that explained a lot. Morgana took a few deep breaths to calm herself, then smoothed her dress and took Merlin’s hand. She tugged gently, and they resumed walking. Gwen and Lance followed, Gwen still giggling intermittently and Lance shushing her.

“Half-brother, but yes. He needed a consort to enter the Coronet Tourney lists,” she said by way of explanation. “Corpora doesn’t allow same-sex couples to rule, so you see, even if he could find some nice boy,” she gave him A Look, “who was willing to put up with him, they couldn’t step up together.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Merlin said, frowning.

“No, it’s not.”

They heard the cocktail party some time before they arrived at the campsite of Clan Blue Feather. Several voices were raised in song - not anything period, Merlin noted with a small smile, but Camelot, from the Broadway musical of the same name. They rounded a tent and entered the campsite in time to see Arthur take to his feet, tankard aloft, and bellow “CAMELOT!” The others gathered around the fire merrily joined in the chorus of “Camelot! Camelot!” Merlin was amused to note that, in addition to a blue feather boa draped across his shoulders, Arthur had a bright pink cocktail umbrella stuck through a slice of lemon on the rim of his tankard.

“Beloved sister!” Arthur exclaimed, interrupting the singing. “Margarita?”

“Oh, please!” She replied, handing him her goblet. “Splishy-splashy!”

Despite Merlin’s best efforts at hiding behind Morgana’s voluminous skirts, Arthur caught sight of him.

“Merlin! Are you hiding from me?” Arthur grinned good-naturedly. Merlin waited for the punchline. None was forthcoming.

“No! No, I was just…”

“S’all right. Margarita?”

More alcohol would be a mistake, Merlin’s very sensible inner voice informed him. “Sure! Thanks.” He held his tankard out, and Arthur’s fingers brushed lightly against his as the Prince filled it with the drink mix. Merlin drank a mouthful. It was eye-wateringly strong.

Arthur suddenly stood up. “I need some fresh air. Are you coming?” This was addressed to Merlin.

“We’re outside,” Merlin pointed out.

“No questioning Royalty! We’re going for a walk!” Arthur wrapped the boa loosely around Merlin’s neck and tugged gently. Merlin hesitated, unsure what exactly do to. He strongly suspected that following Arthur would lead to trouble, but he’d spent most of his life being cautious and the last six months being fucking miserable and celibate and oh, bugger it. He allowed himself to be coaxed towards the edge of the campsite. Arthur flashed him a grin, warm and honest and terribly sexy, and Merlin knew he was doomed.

The whoops and cheers of Clan Blue Feather followed them out into the laneway between rows of tents. Arthur, rather disconcertingly, slipped his arm about Merlin’s waist to guide him through the camping area. The raucous sounds of the cocktail party faded. As they passed individual campsites, people called out greetings to the prince, or invited him to join them. He declined, polite and charming, and Merlin could see why people forgave him for being an arse. He was personable, and had a great memory for names and faces; each person who spoke to him was greeted by name, and his replies were always delivered with a smile even as his arm tightened impatiently about Merlin. The evening had taken on a slightly surreal quality, and Merlin wondered if perhaps he’d actually just fallen asleep with his head on a table at the Tavern and was dreaming all this. Surely in the real world he would not be obediently following the Pointy-hatted Prince of Prats to…

“Where are we going?” Merlin asked.

“My tent, you idiot. We’re nearly there.”

“Oh. Right.”

At the Royal Encampment, a small group of shadowy figures was seated on deckchairs arranged around a fire. A bottle of whiskey was being passed around, and low, slurred voices were engaged in a discussion of the latest Dr Who episode. They looked up as Arthur and Merlin approached, calling greetings (which were returned) and offering alcohol (which, Merlin was relieved, was declined). Arthur introduced him, but Merlin was paying more attention to the fact that Arthur’s hand had moved further and further down Merlin’s back until it was cupping his arse. He was thankful for the voluminous fabric of his tunic, which disguised the interest his prick was taking in proceedings.

Then Merlin really noticed the tent - a huge Anglo-Saxon geteld made from offensively bright blue canvas, it stood nearly seventeen feet tall at the apex and dominated the campsite. It loomed in such a way that Merlin had at first assumed it was part of the landscape.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s…”

“ARTHUR’S ENORMOUS ERECTION!” chorused the good gentles by the fire. Arthur laughed and steered him towards it.

“Compensating for something?” Merlin asked as Arthur untied the tent flap. The prince, far from being insulted, chuckled.

“Not compensating. Advertising.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and followed Arthur into the tent. The interior was dominated by a bed - it was rather battered, and clearly designed to be easily dismantled and reassembled, but it was undeniably…

“A four-poster bed. You have a four-poster bed. In your tent.”

“Yup.” Arthur came up and wrapped both arms around Merlin, manhandling him in the direction of the bed and nuzzling his neck.

“What kind of person goes camping with a four-poster bed?” Merlin demanded, trying to ignore the sudden burst of panic in his chest. What on earth was he doing? Jesus, he was in Arthur’s tent, and they were about to… “Is that a chandelier?”

“Yes, Merlin, it’s a chandelier, but I didn’t invite you here to discuss the furnishings.”

“Mmph,” Merlin replied. It was all he could manage, because Arthur had pushed him down onto the bed and was kissing him. Merlin just lay there for a moment, feeling spaced out and thinking, oh, my god, I’ve forgotten how to kiss!. And then he remembered. He opened his mouth to admit Arthur’s tongue, and Arthur moaned his appreciation.

“God, Merlin,” he whispered between the kisses he planted along Merlin’s jaw and down his neck. “I’ve wanted to get you in here all week.”

“Why were you being such a prat, then?” Merlin asked, running his hands through Arthur’s hair and pulling him back up to kiss his mouth.

“Because you were ignoring me!” Arthur raised himself up on one elbow, glaring down at him.

“I was ignoring you because you were being a prat!”

They stared at each other, then Arthur laughed and buried his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck. The last of Merlin’s inhibitions melted away, dissolved by alcohol and laughter and the suddenly overwhelming need to get Arthur naked. There was a period of rather frantic movement as they tried to divest each other of their clothes without breaking the kiss. Merlin at last succeeded in unlacing Arthur’s braies and tugged them down.

“You really are advertising, aren’t you?” he asked. He wrapped his hand around the hard length of Arthur’s really rather magnificent cock and stroked it, squeezing gently. God, it felt good. Arthur groaned loudly.

“Ssh! People might hear you!” Merlin whispered, and stopped moving his hand.

“Merlin, everyone knows what we’re doing in here.” Arthur thrust his hips insistently, and pulled Merlin close for another kiss. He reached down and ran his hand along Merlin’s achingly hard prick.

“Ohhh,” Merlin moaned. Fuck, but it felt good to have someone else’s hand on him. He rolled Arthur over onto his back, and straddled him. Arthur made a small surprised noise, then reached to cup Merlin’s arse. He squeezed Merlin close and thrust his own hips at the same time, rubbing their cocks together. Merlin was thankful for the amount of alcohol circulating in his veins, because it was dulling the sensations a little, preventing him from coming straight away and embarrassing himself.

“Stop, stop,” he whispered urgently. Arthur looked disappointed. “Oh, no! Not stop stop, just, um…do you have a condom?”

Arthur huffed in relief and twisted away from him, stretching to reach for something beside the bed. It was a small, ornately carved wooden chest, which when opened proved to be filled with condoms and a tube of lubricant. The thought of Arthur using the contents of the chest with someone else made him feel at once jealous and even more desperately turned on. Merlin grabbed the condom Arthur offered him, and motioned for the lube as well. Arthur handed it over, then tried to roll Merlin onto his back. Merlin was having none of it, and shoved Arthur until he had the Prince spread-eagled beneath him. Arthur looked up at him, faintly surprised. Merlin imagined that he was used to being in control, in the bedroom as well as outside it. Well, tough.

Merlin leaned down and kissed him. Arthur’s mouth was hot and welcoming, and tasted like tequila and lime juice, and god, it felt so fucking good to just kiss someone. Especially someone who responded so enthusiastically. Arthur’s broad, rough hands stroked and clutched at him, squeezing him closer.

“Do you…” Arthur began, looking up to watch as Merlin wriggled down the bed. “Oh my god!” Merlin had opened the foil wrapper and, after a bit of fumbling, popped the condom into his mouth. He flashed Arthur a cheeky smile, then proceeded to roll the condom down over Arthur’s throbbing cock.

“Here I was thinking you were a sweet, innocent young man,” Arthur said, moaning as Merlin finished rolling the condom on and began to move his mouth up and down the rigid length. The latex tasted horrible, but the unsteadiness in Arthur’s voice and his convulsive grip on Merlin’s shoulder was worth it.

Merlin didn’t answer, but sat up and squeezed lube over his fingers. Too much, and it dripped onto the blankets. He slicked Arthur thoroughly, then straddled him again. He knew he was going to regret the lack of preparation in the morning, but he was drunk enough not to care just now. Didn’t care about anything, really, except getting Arthur’s dick inside him as quickly as possible. He lowered himself slowly, until he felt the blunt head of Arthur’s cock pressed against his arsehole.

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur whispered.

“That is the plan.”

“Saucy minx.”

From outside they heard a burst of laughter, and a crackling thud as someone threw another log of wood on the fire. Merlin paused, then held Arthur’s cock steady as he forced himself down onto it.

It burned, more than he’d anticipated, but he ignored it. His body resisted the intrusion, clenched tight, and he had to push down hard until the head of Arthur’s prick breached him at last. Fuck, it felt huge; long and thick, stretching him wide as it filled him, and it hurt, god, it hurt, but it also felt so fucking good.

Arthur’s hands gripped his hips as though he was holding on for dear life. Merlin sank down until he was fully impaled, then rocked back and forth gently, working Arthur as deep as he could. All of a sudden, almost before he registered what was happening, he felt his orgasm rising through him, huge and unstoppable as a flood. He grabbed his prick and tugged it urgently, helplessly, as his body began to shudder.

“Arthur! I…oh, god! Fuck me! Please!”

Luckily, Arthur was more than happy to oblige, holding Merlin as steady as he could and thrusting up into him.

“Harder!” Merlin cried out softly, trying desperately to keep his voice down. Arthur did as he was told, and began fucking him in earnest. It was less than a minute before Merlin’s whole body tensed up; he curled forward, one hand braced on Arthur’s chest as his other worked his prick with a frantic rhythm until he cried out and spilled, hot and sticky, over his fist and Arthur’s torso.

“I’m so sorry, I…”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur grunted, and then Merlin was preoccupied with staying upright as Arthur pounded up into him again and again, his movements becoming erratic until he buried himself to the hilt with a final gasp as he came.

After a moment to catch their breath, Arthur disposed of the condom and maneuvered them under the blankets. He pulled Merlin close and sleepily nuzzled the back of his neck. Merlin lay still. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been missing the feel of another person’s warm skin against his own. He shut his eyes. Jesus, but this was a bad idea. What had he been thinking, going to bed with someone he hated? Well, all right, perhaps hate was too strong a word, but that didn’t mean this was going to end well. He knew the best thing to do would be to get up and leave, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he nestled into Arthur’s embrace and surrendered to the warm, sated haze.

~*~

He was awakened some indeterminate time later with Arthur pressed against his back, hot and hard and urgent.

“Need to fuck you again,” Arthur growled in his ear. Merlin purred and arched back against him, tilting his hips to make it easier for Arthur to push his cock into him. He was still relaxed from last time, slick and sensitive. God, I’ve missed this, he thought, drowning in pleasure as Arthur sank into him over and over again. As they fell into a rhythm, Arthur reached around and began tugging Merlin’s prick with rough, uneven strokes.

“You feel so fucking good,” Arthur whispered. “God, Merlin, you’re so hot…and wet…fuck…and tight. Nnngh…”

Merlin bucked helplessly back, hands clenched in the rumpled sheets, and bit his lip to keep from crying out as he spurted over Arthur’s fist.

“Christ,” Arthur muttered, thrusting in deep, deep, deep, shuddering through his climax. They barely moved, just enough for Arthur to pull out and to discard the condom, before they drifted into sleep again.

~*~

The next time Merlin woke, Arthur was still snoring. The tent was cold and lit grey by the dawn. He inched out of bed and crept about the tent, picking up his clothes and slipping into them as quietly as possible. One last glance back at the bed, and he could see Arthur’s hand sticking out between the tangled bed-hangings. He longed to crawl back into that haven of scrunched sheets and Arthur’s warm, solid body, but the thought of the smug prat Arthur would inevitably turn back into when he woke up hardened Merlin’s resolve. He ducked out of the tent opening, glad that there would be few people around to witness his walk of shame this morning. It took him a worryingly long time to find his way back to the campsite he shared with Gaius and a few other members of the Herbalists Guild, but he made it eventually. Nobody was stirring just yet. Merlin grabbed a change of clothes and had a shower, then lit the discreetly positioned gas camp stove and started breakfast. The smell of coffee and bacon lured Gaius and the others out of their tents. Merlin played innocent, but Gaius kept fixing him with a gimlet eye.

Merlin spent the morning finding chores to do around the campsite and keeping an eye out in case he needed to hide in his tent from Arthur. The prince did walk by once, but all he did was shoot Merlin a savage glare and pick up his pace.

Well, that answered that question.

Lunch proved a bit more problematic, because Gwen came looking him.

“Come for a walk down Merchants Row with me. House Leonine are running Sausage Onna Bun day, and I want to buy some feathers for a hat I’m making for Morgana. You can carry my basket.”

“But…”

“Come on, Merlin!”

It was pointless to resist.

The Sausage Onna Bun stand turned out to be nowhere near as dire as Merlin had feared. The dark-haired young lord running House Leonine’s portable barbeque was engaged in a loud and theatrical bickering match with the lord in charge of the ginger beer stand next to him (for the entertainment of their customers, Merlin suspected, for it was clear they were quite good friends).

“It’s a ferret,” the lord from House Leonine insisted.

“It is not! It’s a dragon! Look, we’re Clan Drakonis, why would we have a ferret on our device?” demanded the other man, grey eyes flashing with mock outrage.

“It is, though, look! Vert, a ferret passant argent. Ask anyone!”

This was clearly a familiar argument, and they went on in this vein quite happily for most of the afternoon.

On Merchants Row, Merlin bought himself a new set of cast pewter cutlery, and a pile of interesting research books, but he drew the line at the shoes Gwen tried to talk him in to purchasing. As he was lingering over a stall full of beautiful handmade books, someone shoved him from behind. It was Arthur.

“Out of my way,” the prince snapped, shouldering past Merlin. He was half-dressed for fighting, in a gambeson and padded chausers, and had a small group of similarly clad knights following in his wake. Merlin and Gwen watched them go.

“What on earth did you do to him?” Gwen asked, aghast.

“What did I do? Nothing! He’s the one being an arse!”

“But last night…”

“He was drunk, Gwen. We were both drunk, and it was a stupid thing, and…”

“I can’t believe he’s acting like this. Shall I have a word with him?”

“No! God, no. Look, just drop it. Thanks, though,” he added, to soften his words. He draped an arm around Gwen’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“How did things go with good Sir Lancelot last night? I lost track of you after we got to Blue Feather.”

“Oh, good Sir Lancelot is very, very good,” Gwen said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. They continued perusing the stalls, Gwen chatting about Lance and Merlin pretending not to be stung by the way Arthur was acting. Really, what had he expected? That they’d sleep together and Arthur would magically turn into a human being? Thank god he hadn’t stayed the night, that’s all - imagine how much worse it would have been.

After tiny but brutally strong cups of Turkish coffee from the Mangy Mongol Coffee House, Gwen and Merlin were about to head off to a cheese-making collegium when a commotion on the battlefield to the east of the Village Green attracted their attention.

In the middle of the paddock that usually played host to battles between armies of archers and heavy fighters, a small fort had been built out of hay bales. Milling around the fort was a horde of small children, waving foam boffer weapons and practicing their most bloodthirsty battle cries. They were being rallied by a tiny little woman wearing a dark blue dress and a ducal coronet.

“Oh!” Gwen cried, delighted. “I’d forgotten this was on today!”

“What is it?”

“The Children’s Battle! Come and watch, it’s hilarious!”

The little woman was Duchess Yolande, beloved of children everywhere, Gwen informed him, for her storytelling skills and the fact that she was not much taller than they were. Each year she lead the children at Festival into battle against the knights, with devastating results for the Chivalry. Indeed, the knights could now be seen making their way across the battlefield. They too were armed with boffer weapons, puny in their hands. Arthur was leading them, grinning and brandishing a foam-and-duct-tape double-bearded axe.

The knights arrayed themselves about the fort, brandishing their weapons and promising dire consequences if the children did not surrender immediately. Of course, Her Grace was having none of that, and with a whooping cry the children poured forth from the hay bale fort, laying about themselves wildly and felling the knights left, right, and centre. The knights died most spectacularly, falling to the ground (having surreptitiously made sure there were no children to be fallen upon) with great groaning cries. Arthur fought a mighty bout with a girl of about five whose hands were so small she needed both of them to maintain a grip on her sword. She belted Arthur mercilessly about the legs until he dropped to his knees, laughing. With a bloodcurdling shriek, she rained blows upon his head and shoulders. Arthur begged for mercy, but to no avail, and with one last cry he toppled backwards and lay, inert, upon the ground.

“I killed the prince!” the little girl announced. “Does this mean I get to be prince now?”

Duchess Yolande assured her that this was so, and girl was furnished with a cardboard coronet and a small velvet pouch full of foil-covered chocolate coins. All the other children were awarded bags of coins, and they scampered back to their parents leaving the vanquished knights lying on the grass. Arthur sat up and brushed grass from his tousled hair. Merlin was frankly taken aback by Arthur’s behaviour; gone was the arrogant prince, and the charming-if-slightly-sleazy lover. Fighting and losing the battle with the children, Arthur looked genuinely happy. One of the knights said something, and Arthur laughed. Looking up, he caught Merlin’s eye and for a fleeting moment Merlin thought he saw hurt there before the familiar cold glare returned.

~*~

“What?” Merlin asked, utterly appalled at what Master Gaius had just told him to do. “No. I mean… just, no.”

“He has asked for you by name, Merlin. It is an honour to serve the prince, now off you go.”

“But I don’t know anything about armour, or fighting! What help am I going to be?”

“Merlin, for once in your life, just do as you are told!” With that, Gaius shoved him none-too-gently in Arthur’s direction.

They were on the Village Green, which that afternoon was also serving as the list field for the Rose Tourney. The winner of each bout was to be awarded a single red rose, which he then gave to a lady of his choosing. The air was filled with dust and the clanking of the heavy fighters as they readied themselves for one-on-one combat. Merlin made his reluctant way over to where Arthur was standing.

“What do you want?” the prince demanded. Merlin blinked in confusion.

“Didn’t you send for me, Your Highness?” he asked stiffly.

“I most certainly did not! I asked Gwen to find me someone…oh, that scheming little…”

“Your Highness is surely not about to speak ill of Lady Guinevere.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. “Well, since you’re here you may as well make yourself useful. You can start by lacing my elbow cops on.”

“Right. Um…which ones are they?” Merlin asked, perplexed by the jumble of brightly polished armour at Arthur’s feet. Arthur sighed.

It took almost ten minutes for Merlin to get Arthur ready, despite Arthur’s many helpful hints, such as ‘tie it tighter, idiot, or it’ll come loose’ and ‘for god’s sake, Merlin, the padding goes inside the helm’. Arthur looked down at him as he knelt on the ground to adjust the leg harness.

“I rather like the sight of you on your knees,” he said, mouth twisted into a smirk. Merlin pressed his lips together to hold back his retort.

Arthur was finally ready to fight, fully armoured except for his helm. He clanked over to the Royal Pavilion and sat down on a chair in the shade, leaving Merlin to look after the rest of his kit. Merlin considered putting the helm in the shade, too, because it would probably get very hot sitting out in the sun like that. Although, it would serve the Prat Prince right…

Twenty minutes later, Arthur was called to the eric to fight his bout against Sir Gwain. He picked up his helm and nearly dropped it.

“Merlin!”

“Yes, Your Highness?” Merlin asked, all innocent wide eyes.

“My helm! Why didn’t you put it in the shade?” Arthur’s blue eyes blazed with anger.

“But you told me to stand right here and guard your armour, Your Highness.”

Arthur had no comeback to that. He glowered as Merlin tightened the chinstrap.

“If I pass out from heat exhaustion, it’s all your fault, Merlin.”

“Big strong knight like you? Surely you can withstand a little heat.”

Arthur swore under his breath, and stomped onto the eric.

It didn’t take long for Merlin to realise that he may have made a mistake.

Arthur was Prince for a reason, and that reason was that he was a brilliant fighter. Light-footed and lightening fast, he was renowned for his bruising leg raps and a head shot that rarely failed to kill his opponents. This afternoon, however, he was sluggish. He seemed to have trouble keeping Sir Gwain in his sights, and he kept dropping his shield. Sir Gwain landed shot after shot to Arthur’s legs and body, taking Arthur to his knees in a matter of minutes. Once he was legged, Arthur’s chances of winning were slim indeed, and it didn’t take Gwain long to land a ringing hit on the side of Arthur’s helm. Instead of called ‘good’, as he ought to have done if the shot had landed true, Arthur just keeled over.

“HOLD!” bellowed Gaius, raising his black and yellow striped marshal’s pole into the air. “HOLD!” the other fighters and half the crowd echoed. Sir Gwain dropped to one knee, sword raised above his head.

Gaius hurried over the quickly removed Arthur’s helmet. Two ambulance officers, wearing tabards over their uniforms, jogged out onto the eric as well. Looking up, Gaius beckoned to Merlin, who entered the eric with some trepidation.

“What is it, Gaius?” he asked.

“The Prince is muttering your name. I want you to accompany him while the ambulance officers take a look at him.”

Merlin nodded, and followed the stretcher to the First Aid tent.

After examining him, it was pronounced that Arthur was almost certainly suffering from heat exhaustion (especially if he’s been drinking, or spent a lot of time outdoors lately, said the ambulance officer, rolling his eyes) but was not concussed. Despite Arthur’s arguments, Merlin was instructed to take him back to his tent, keep him cool, and make sure he didn’t over-exert himself.

“This is all your fault, Merlin,” Arthur grumbled as Merlin helped him into his tent back at the Royal Encampment.

“I know,” Merlin agreed miserably, helping Arthur shed his armour and lie down on the bed. “I’m really sorry. I just…you were being such an arse today, and…”

“Excuse me? I was being as arse?” Arthur tried to sit up, but evidently thought better of it.

“Well, you were!”

“I wasn’t the one who snuck away in the middle of the night!”

“I didn’t think I was welcome to stay!” Merlin protested.

“What part of last night made you think that, you idiot? Was it the kissing? Or maybe it was…”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry!” Merlin was blushing furiously at the memories of the night before. “I thought you’d just kick me out in the morning anyway, so I decided to get a head start.”

“Is that really what you think of me?” Arthur looked defeated.

“You are a bit of a prat, Your Highness, you have to admit.” Merlin said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“Only because you bring it out in me,” Arthur muttered. “I was going to cook you breakfast.”

Merlin felt foolish. Neither of them spoke for a while.

“The ambulance officers said you were meant to keep cool,” Merlin said at last.

“They did, didn’t they?” Arthur was almost smiling.

“Can I…do you need a hand?” Merlin couldn’t suppress a grin.

“Hmm. Yes, thank you. You can start by removing my boots.” Arthur stretched his legs out and waggled his feet. Removing the boots was not the most pleasant experience of Merlin’s life, but carefully peeling off the rest of Arthur’s clothing until he wore nothing but his white linen braies more than made up for it.

“Jesus,” Merlin said, noticing something that he hadn’t seen the night before. Arthur’s ribs were blotched with spectacular bruises, some fresh and violently purple-black, other fading to greenish yellow. Arthur winced as Merlin poked at a particularly nasty-looking one.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry! Um, Gaius gave me some salve, he said it was good for bruises. Arnica, I think it is. Do you want me to…?”

Arthur nodded, and Merlin rummaged in his pouch until he found the small glass jar. It was cool on his fingers, and Arthur sighed contentedly as Merlin smoothed it over the abused flesh.

“That feels nice,” he murmured, looking up at Merlin with half-closed eyes and a smile. His stomach rumbled, and Merlin snorted with laughter.

“Hungry, Your Highness? Perhaps I can fetch you something to eat?”

“I know what I want to eat.”

“Food, Arthur.”

Arthur pouted. “Actually, some fruit would be quite nice. I think there’s some in the storage tent. And thank you, Merlin. Even though this is entirely your fault.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and went in search of fruit. All he could find in the storage tent was a pineapple, and a couple of bananas of dubious vintage, so he located a knife and cut the pineapple up, and returned to Arthur’s tent.

“You took your time,” Arthur grumbled.

“Shut up,” Merlin suggested. “Or next time I’ll just bring a whole pineapple and watch you gnaw on it pathetically.” He presented the plate of fruit to Arthur, but the prince made no move to take a piece.

“I don’t think I can manage,” he said, weakly. “I’m very sick, you know.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

Arthur glared at him. “A good manservant would offer to feed me, you know.”

“Ah, but I’m not your manservant,” Merlin pointed out.

“No, but you’ll do it anyway.”

Merlin hesitated. Oh, why not? He chose a piece of the fruit and, leaning over, ran it along Arthur’s invitingly full lower lip. Arthur’s tongue darted out and licked the fruit. Merlin watched, spellbound, as Arthur opened his mouth and sucked on the piece of pineapple, pink lips pursed around the wet, yellow fruit. Arthur caught Merlin’s gaze, and opened his mouth a little wider, licking trickles of juice from Merlin’s fingers. Merlin’s prick throbbed insistently in the confines of his trews, and the loose fabric of Arthur’s braies did nothing to disguise his own state of arousal.

Arthur turned his head to one side, and Merlin took this as a cue to return the pineapple to the plate.

“I find that I am no longer hungry, Merlin,” Arthur said softly, and pulled Merlin down on top of him and into a kiss.

Arthur’s mouth was cool and sweet, open and welcoming, and Merlin shivered deliciously as he teased and sucked on Arthur’s tongue. Kissing Arthur, he decided, was fast becoming one of his favourite SCA activities. Perhaps he could earn his Laurels for kissing Arthur; imagine presenting his work to the Laurel Council! He chuckled softly, hands tracing along Arthur’s hot, sweat-damp skin. Arthur caught one hand and pressed it to the bulge in his braies, rubbing Merlin’s palm against the linen-clothed shaft. Merlin paused, and raised himself up on one elbow.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said.

“No, no, no,” Arthur insisted, thrusting into Merlin’s hand. Merlin was momentarily distracted, but then he remembered what he was worried about.

“That paramedic, he said you were supposed to take it easy.”

Arthur snorted, and pulled Merlin down for another kiss. “You are easy, and I am going to take you.”

“Hey!” Merlin protested, before realising that Arthur did sort of have a point. “But, no, stop that! You’re not meant to be exerting yourself.”

“Hmm…we’ll just have to take it nice and slow, then,” Arthur murmured. It was a very persuasive argument, and Arthur had a very persuasive mouth, and two very persuasive hands.

Arthur pushed Merlin onto his back, and this time Merlin let him. He felt practiced fingers at his belt buckle, slipping leather through the keeper. Merlin kicked his boots off. Arthur tugged his clothes off as though he was unwrapping a gift, all gentle impatience and appreciative murmuring. Then he was nudging Merlin’s thighs apart and shuffling down between them, hands holding Merlin’s hips down to the bed, and…

“Oh!” True to his word, Arthur was maddeningly slow and gentle, kissing and licking his way up and down Merlin’s prick before taking most of the length into his unbelievably hot, wet mouth. Merlin arched his back, pressing his head into the mattress, trying desperately not to thrust into the slick heat. The way Arthur was moaning did not help. Merlin felt gentle fingers cup his balls then move lower to stroke his perineum. His whole body was warm and heavy with pleasure, winding languorously tighter with each slow movement of Arthur’s mouth. He whimpered his disappointment when Arthur released him with an obscenely wet pop.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I want…I want to…”

Merlin wasn’t sure which he liked better, the quiet need in Arthur’s voice or the fact that the Royal Prat had just apologized. Arthur leaned over, and Merlin heard him rustling about in the box beside the bed. The mere thought of Arthur’s cock inside him sent another surge of arousal coursing through his body.

Arthur returned with supplies, and with admirable speed soon had a slick finger pressed to Merlin’s tightly-furled arsehole. He winced, still sore from the evening before, as Arthur pushed inside.

“Are you all right?” Arthur hesitated. Merlin lifted his hips, trying to move Arthur’s finger deeper.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s just been a while, that’s all.”

“It’s been about half a day,” Arthur pointed out, grinning and slowly slipping a second finger in. Merlin lifted a foot and kicked him gently.

“Before that, prat…oh!” His hips jerked as Arthur’s fingertips brushed his sweet spot. Arthur pulled his fingers out slowly, and Merlin tensed in anticipation when he heard the crackle of a foil packet being torn open.

Arthur braced himself over Merlin, and carefully positioned his cock.

“Ready?”

“God, yes. Please.”

Merlin felt a sharp, deep-seated ache as Arthur slid inside him, stretching the tender rim of his arsehole around the thick length of Arthur’s cock. Merlin stilled, and concentrated on relaxing. Arthur paused as well, leaning down to press a soft, open kiss to Merlin’s mouth. It was the kiss that did it, and Merlin felt the tension in him melt. Arthur groaned, and began to move, slowly, slowly, filling him, fucking him with long, slick strokes of his glorious prick. The friction of their warm, sweat-damp bellies against Merlin’s dick was maddening and delicious all at once.

Arthur continued kissing him, thrusting his tongue in and out of Merlin’s mouth in time with the movement of his cock in Merlin’s arse. Merlin could feel his climax building slowly, the pleasure pushed a little higher each time Arthur filled him. It felt so good, being fucked slowly but surely, with Arthur’s solid weight pressing him down into the mattress, and all around him the scent of warm skin, and sweat, and the leather-and-steel smell of armour. Merlin traced his hands down Arthur’s back, feeling the smooth glide of muscles beneath skin. God, it was glorious.

When his orgasm began, it was like the first soft rumblings of a landslide.

“Fuck,” he a gasped, wrapping his legs around Arthur’s body and rocking desperately, his head buried in the crook of Arthur’s neck. “Arthur…please, please, please…oh, god!” The rumbling became a roar as his climax avalanched through him. He was vaguely aware of Arthur shuddering and crying out above him. It seemed an age before they collapsed in a sated heap.

Merlin realised he could hear people moving about the encampment outside the tent. Shit.

“We were quite noisy, weren’t we?” he whispered, covering his face with one hand.

“Yes, we were.”

“They heard everything, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they did.”

Merlin could hear the grin in Arthur’s voice. Arthur flung one arm across Merlin’s torso. “I’m keeping you this time,” he said quietly. Merlin smiled.

“Okay.”

~*~

After an evening that had involved refusing to dance at the Ball d’Azure, getting jealous watching Arthur dancing at the Ball d’Azure, being taken out into the woods so that Arthur could demonstrate how little cause Merlin had to be jealous, and watching Lord Callum fill Baron Bayard’s tent with balloons, Merlin woke up in Arthur’s tent. Arthur was spooned behind him, cock warm and stiff against the small of Merlin’s back, one hand lazily stroking Merlin’s hard-on. Merlin pushed back against him.

“Mmm. What’s the story, morning glory?”

They were late for breakfast.

Merlin sat and chatted with Morgana, who was looking slightly the worse for wear in striped flannel pyjamas and a bright red cloak. Arthur tried unsuccessfully to harass Gwen into cooking breakfast, but she refused, on the grounds that she was going to fighter practice with Lance. Arthur poured Coco Pops and made instant coffee with bad grace.

“Anyone got the time?” he asked, plonking himself into the deckchair next to Merlin’s. He stretched his legs out so that their bare feet were touching. Merlin smiled into his cereal. Morgana pulled her mobile out of her pyjama pocket and consulted it.

“Half past nine.”

“Oh, plenty of time, then.” Arthur slurped his coffee. Morgana sighed.

“You’re not going to win, Arthur.”

“Win what?” Merlin asked, unable to imagine anything that Arthur would not win at - he just seemed the type to conquer all. Arthur ate another mouthful of Coco Pops, and Morgana provided an answer.

“Arthur’s convinced he can persuade the BoD to change Corpora to allow same-sex couples to reign.”

“Well, good,” said Merlin. Arthur rubbed his foot against Merlin’s.

“But it’s pointless,” Morgana said.

“Why? What argument can they possibly have?”

“Oh, Merlin. Many. Chief of which is that there is no documentation for same sex rulers in the SCA time-period.”

“But we allow plenty of things that aren’t period, in the name of hygiene, or safety, or convenience!” Arthur retorted. “I saw a girl wearing panne velvet princess garb yesterday - how can that be less offensive than a gay couple on the thrones?”

“We’ve already tried this argument, Arthur,” Morgana sighed. “It didn’t make any difference.”

“Then I’ll raise the legal issue. Corpora states that mundane law takes precedence over SCA law, and it’s illegal in this country to discriminate against a person on the basis of their sexuality.” Arthur waved his spoon for emphasis.

“Yes, but the BoD claims that the status of King and Queen is not a real thing, not like a job or anything, so it’s not really discrimination.”

“Well, I have to try, damnit! If I want to bear Merlin’s favour on the list field, and rule with him as my consort, I should be able to!”

“Do you want to?” Merlin blurted. Arthur looked flustered.

“I was just using that as an example, but it’s the principle of the thing!” Arthur stood up. He dumped his bowl and mug in the washing up basin on his way to his tent. Merlin looked at Morgana.

“Um,” he said, gesturing helplessly. Morgana waved a hand.

“Go. See if you can cheer him up - it’ll be counterproductive if he just starts shouting during the meeting again.”

Merlin found Arthur sitting on his bed, sulking. He stood up as Merlin approached, and slipped his arms around Merlin’s waist, pulling him close.

“I didn’t mean…” he began.

“I know.” Merlin rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“It’s a big decision, choosing a consort, and I don’t…we’ve only known each other for a few days.”

“I know.”

Arthur kissed Merlin’s neck, and began maneuvering him towards the bed.

“Don’t you have a meeting?”

“Not for another half an hour. Look, do you want to have sex or not?”

“I definitely want to have sex.”

“Then stop arguing.”

~*~

“Merlin!”

He looked up at the sound of his name being called. It was pack-up day, and he’d spent the last three hours dismantling tents and packing equipment away for Gaius. Arthur was walking towards him, wearing jeans and a faded Pearl Jam t-shirt.

“Do you have time to come for a walk?” Arthur asked. Merlin glanced enquiringly at Gaius, who nodded enthusiastically. Merlin finished shoving the last of his garb into his rucksack, then followed Arthur.

They wandered through the campsite, not really saying much. Well, it was hard to get a word in edgewise, because people kept coming up to bid the prince goodbye. They eventually arrived at the erstwhile Royal encampment. Merlin felt a pang of…something, seeing the Enormous Erection packed up and already strapped to a large and disreputable-looking four wheel drive. Arthur put his arms around Merlin, then walked him backwards until he had him pressed up against the side of the car. He sighed into Merlin’s hair.

“Merlin, you know there’s this thing, this sort of unwritten rule, that whatever happens at Festival, stays at Festival?”

Merlin felt his heart sink. He’d been trying not to think about this part. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, um. That is to say…I don’t want…I really like you.”

“Oh,” said Merlin.

“My real name’s Bradley,” Arthur, no, Bradley said. Merlin reached down awkwardly and shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Bradley. I’m Colin.”

“Hello, Colin. I’d really like to take you out for coffee. And sex, obviously. There should definitely be sex.”

“Sound good.” Colin grinned.

“Of course it’ll be good. It’s me!”

“Prat,” Colin said, kissing him.

“Idiot,” Bradley replied, kissing him back.

~*~FIN~*~