fic: Pharaoh
Title: Pharaoh
Author: writteninhaste previously feathergirl89
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers:graphic sexual scenes and wilful ignoring of anything remotely resembling historical accuracy.
Summary: written for the Kinkme_merlin prompt Arthur/Merlin, pharaoh
Notes To any other Egyptologists who happen to read this, I would like to apologise. There is nothing within this work that even remotely resembles historical accuracy.
Pharaoh
The sun of Egypt burned hot and bright and blinding. Arthur was dragged into the Presence on his knees, a captive from the Barbarian north - from the lands beyond the influence of Greece or infant Rome. He was a novelty. A prize for Pharaoh's General to present to his king. He struggled, but a blow to the head sent the world spinning. He did not need the arrival of a spear point pressed lightly to his throat to tell him that resistance, at this time, was not advisable.
Ptolemy sat on his throne, ridiculously pale for one born to these eastern lands. A novelty in his own right; an aberration. Arthur raised his head, only to have it forced back down so that he was staring at the polished marble floor, inlaid with patterns that seemed alien to his eyes. There was a clash of cymbals and the General who had shoved Arthur to his knees in the first place began to speak. The language was foreign, strange - a jolting, rhythmic lull that seemed to both stick to tongue and flow from it in cresting waves. Risking a glance from beneath his fringe, Arthur could see Ptolemy staring at him, almost seeming to ignore his General entirely. His eyes were lined with paint - black and green and glittering in the sunlight. Arthur was sure he had never seen so much gold jewellery in his life.
The General had apparently finished speaking, for Ptolemy was gesturing with one hand for Arthur to be brought further forward. There was some clamour and the General held his wrist beside Arthur’s head as though comparing the gold band he wore to the colour of Arthur’s hair. Ptolemy gestured again and Arthur was pushed to the floor, forced into obeisance before a man who was not his lord. Ptolemy rose from his throne and instantly every man, woman, and child in the room sank to their knees. Arthur struggled upright, lifting himself on his forearms even as Ptolemy placed a slender hand beneath his chin to gaze at him. Startling blue eyes - dark, so dark that from a distant one might mistake them for black - met Arthur’s gaze before dropping to the hollow of his throat and the dragon claw pendant that hung there. Ptolemy said something then, something that had his General grinning with pride and triumph. Arthur swallowed the bitter taste that flooded his mouth. So Ptolemy realised what his warrior had not: that it was Camelot’s prince that lay sprawled upon the ground before him. With a jerk, Arthur found himself hauled to his feet as they stripped his shirt from him. The cloth parted along the seams, hanging in a mass of fabric where the tails were still trapped beneath his waistband. Ptolemy’s eyes flicked up and down approvingly before he signalled someone Arthur could not see. At once a hoard of slaves came grovelling forward, wrapping hands around Arthur’s shackled wrists and dragging him away. Arthur turned to look behind him (and received a blow for his troubles) as Ptolemy resumed his place on the throne on the dais.
oOo
Arthur was led to quarters as rich and gold and lavish as the audience chamber had been. Fine woven linens acted like partitions to different corners of the room. Arthur was dragged into a small antechamber (his struggles no more than token protest now) and made to stand on a small, bare patch of stone. The slaves began to cut away the remainder of his clothes, tearing them off around the rope bracelets that bound his wrists. Arthur pointed out that if he was really of a mind to escape trapping his hands was hardly going to be enough of a prison, but from the blank stares the slaves gave him it was clear they had not understood a word of it. Arthur closed his eyes and let them work, allowing his mind to recall what he knew of the palace so far. He could, he thought, find his way back to the ceremonial entrance of the residence, but there was no way he would manage to do so without being seen by one of the guards - no he would need to find a back entrance, as well as something he could use to barter passage on one of the trading ships; some dye too if he could find it. He would hardly get very far looking as he did now.
One of the slaves brought forward a copper basin, filled to the brim with pungent liquid. The smell of the perfume was almost overpowering - rich and spicy and unlike the faint hint of lavender oil that Morgana sometimes wore. Arthur choked and one of the attendants gave him a cursory thump between the shoulder blades, before busying himself with squeezing the perfumed water over Arthur’s neck and back. Another started to rub firmly at his arms and chest, whilst yet another knelt to wash his legs. Arthur balked and tried to wriggle free when the one kneeling down tried to wash him there. But the slave at his back simply knocked him upside the head and scolded him in the Egyptian tongue. Arthur scowled, and then shut his eyes with a wince as he bore the indignity of it all. At last, after much pouring of perfumes and scented oils and the gift of a long piece of linen that Arthur wrapped around his hips like a kilt (and which was promptly stripped from him and refastened in the local manner), Arthur was allowed to step from the antechamber. His wrists were still bound, and the rope was starting to bite savagely against his skin. The slaves led him behind a different curtain and sat him on a mattress covered in cotton sheets and rich fabrics that was large enough to comfortably hold at least 8 men together. Arthur struggled to rise to his feet without the use of his hands, but was pushed flat and held there whilst a cord of some type was looped around both his ankles. There was not enough space between his feet for Arthur to even rub his ankles and he knew at once that walking was out of the question. The slaves bobbed in some kind of satisfied manner and then took positions kneeling by the door. Arthur’s stomach growled with hunger and he licked his lips at the thought of fresh water.
A gong sounded from deep within the residence and from a side door slaves poured, bearing trays laden with fruit and bread and honey. One slave carried a jug of some kind, whilst another placed a platter of raw meat on a low table near the bed where Arthur sat. The meat glistened as though drenched in oil or honey. Arthur sincerely hoped that the Pharaoh kept hounds for hunting. Another clash, and the kitchen slaves hurried from the room, as a guard - thick muscled and with skin as dark as any Arthur had seen - opened the main door and sank to his knees, mirroring the slaves. Ptolemy glided into the room, waving a hand in dismissal as he did so. He looked expectantly at Arthur but Arthur just looked back, defiantly.
Ptolemy snorted in amusement and waved a hand along his body. At first Arthur thought this was some invitation to admire the form of the Pharaoh, but as he watched, the heavy gold bracelets and tall crown disappeared in a shimmer of air. The fake beard and the glittering makeup dissolved as well, leaving Arthur staring at a boy, perhaps not even his own age, who was clad in nothing but a thin cotton kilt and seemed perfectly at ease. Another wave of his hand and the restraints binding Arthur vanished. Arthur rubbed his wrists warily, fighting to urge to reach for a sword and shield that were not there. He had always known sorcerers weren’t to be trusted - that they dealt in illusion and lies - but this was power unlike anything he had seen, and matched to such an unassuming face. The boy dropped himself down onto the bed beside Arthur and dragged the table laden with food and drink over. He poured two glasses of frothy liquid, that Arthur recognised from the smell as being some form of beer, pressed one into Arthur’s grasp and claimed the other for himself. With his free hand Ptolemy lifted one of the pieces of honeyed meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing lasciviously. Not for the dogs, then.
When Arthur made no move to touch either the food or drink, Ptolemy scowled.
“Are you not going to eat anything?”
Arthur felt his jaw drop open in a most un-princely fashion. Ptolemy took the opportunity to shove a sticky, brown fruit between Arthur’s lips. Arthur closed his mouth on instinct, reeling as the overpowering sweetness of the fruit drizzled over his tongue.
“Good?” Ptolemy asked, smiling expectantly.
Arthur choked and swallowed. “Not really. And how is it that you know the language of my people?”
Ptolemy sighed, and smiled slightly. “I know many things.” It was said with the air of one rich in knowledge and wisdom and experience but Arthur scoffed to think that this boy was any more wise and worldly than he was. Then he remembered that this boy was the leader of an Empire, rather than the son of a king whose kingdom was merely one within a nation of warring tribes. The wealth of Egypt was clear from the room and Camelot with all its wool and wood and tapestries could never hope to rival the sheer opulence of this eastern domain. Arthur felt sick and stupid and angered that any kingdom - not matter how great - should have him think of Camelot with shame. Ptolemy seemed to read some of his thoughts on his face.
“Your kingdom will be remembered in the hearts of your people Arthur, for centuries to come. Your name will be the shining jewel in the crown of a nation, whilst I will be nothing more than one in a long line of kings.”
Arthur met Ptolemy’s gaze, and there was such a certainty there, such a weight of knowledge and time that Arthur felt himself believing.
“How is it that you really know my tongue?” He asked again and this time Ptolemy spread himself upon the bed before answering.
“My mother was a foreign princess - a priestess really - given to the Egyptian king. His favourite. She was from Hiburnia originally.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows and tore a piece of bread for himself and dipped it in the honey. “I was not aware that there was any trade between Hiburnia and the east.”
“It was Seen.” Ptolemy replied as if that explained anything, and Arthur did not pursue the topic. He took a sip of the beer, letting the warm liquid slide along his tongue and alleviate his thirst. He started at the feel of a hand on his back, and glanced to see Ptolemy propped on one elbow, his kilt falling at a dangerous angle, as he traced the scars on Arthur’s skin.
“These are whip marks.” He said softly, scratching his nails lightly down the lines. Arthur thought to tell him to remove his hands, to stop touching. But Ptolemy’s fingertips were cool, a gentle counterpoint to the heat that seemed to plague the entire kingdom and besides, Arthur knew better than to scold a king in his own palace. Better to let him do as he wants.
He said nothing, but Ptolemy continued on his quest, mapping Arthur’s body, tracing the marks, and commenting on what had made each one. Arthur paid him no mind, letting the boy-king do as he chose, filling himself with bread and what pieces of fruit he thought he recognised (though it turned out he was wrong on every count) and drinking the beer the Pharaoh had poured for him. Ptolemy eventually grew tired of his game, taking Arthur by the shoulder to lead him higher up the bed. Arthur tensed, but Ptolemy was already crawling away from him, reaching over the side for what appeared to be a small wooden chest. Arthur settled himself against the pillows, as Ptolemy - with a curious eagerness - unfolded the chest and removed from inside a polished wooden board and a handful of ivory figurines.
“Senet,” he said, smiling, “do you play?” Arthur stared at the childlike glee on the Pharaoh’s face, and wondered if he had misjudged the boy’s age. He shook his head. Ptolemy smiled.
“It is easy enough. Look, I’ll show you.”
Senet was not easy. After three rounds of Arthur failing to grasp even the basic concepts of the game, he informed Ptolemy tartly that it was easier to formulate a year long campaign than to play with the Pharaoh’s stupid toys. Ptolemy bit his lip harshly, and packed the game away in silence. Arthur immediately felt like a monster. It was clear the boy took an innocent delight in the pastime - perhaps the only opportunity he had to do something truly for himself and Arthur had stripped it from him.
Sighing, Arthur stuttered out an apology but Ptolemy waved it away.
“Senet is not for everybody.”
Arthur felt guilt gnaw at his stomach and tugged the Pharaoh round to face him, much as he would do with a small child. “Is there anything else you wanted to do? Some other game we could play?”
Ptolemy looked at him speculatively, eyes peaking out from behind long, dark lashes, and the next thing Arthur knew he had an armful of pale, perfumed skin and two lips pressed firmly against his own. His protests were muffled against the seal of Ptolemy’s mouth, and it took a moment for him to scrabble his hands into a position where he was able to push Ptolemy away.
The Pharaoh’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and he was staring at Arthur with a kind of ravenous delight. “You asked what I wanted.” He said calmly, and Arthur gaped.
“Just how old are you?” He demanded.
Ptolemy fixed him with a semi-amused gaze. “Old enough to have done this many times before. I have eleven wives and over one hundred slave boys.” Arthur’s mind boggled slightly, as Ptolemy continued. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.” His gaze fell to Arthur’s lap and up again and Arthur felt himself flushing hot and fierce.
“Of course I’m not ashamed,” he spluttered. “What are you implying that I -”
Ptolemy was laughing, open and wide so that his whole body shook with the vibrations of it. He calmed himself at Arthur’s scowl and crawled forwards on hands and knees.
“I was not implying anything of the sort.” He said against Arthur’s lips. “I was merely suggesting that perhaps the kingdoms of the north are more careful with the virtue of their princes than we might be. I would not want to spoil the experience for a royal wife.” Arthur snarled against Ptolemy’s laughter, lunging forward until he could roll the Pharaoh onto the mattress beneath him, his greater weight trapping the dual-king against the sheets.
Ptolemy arched like a cat, and purred much the same as Arthur fixed his lips against the pale column of the king’s throat and bit down harshly. It was pleasing to watch the bruise of his teeth blossom against the skin of a boy who had eleven wives and one hundred slaves. Ptolemy dragged his nails down Arthur’s back, scoring new lines to cover up the marks left by his father’s whip. The boy’s eyes flashed gold and Arthur felt his kilt fall away in a slither of fabric even as Ptolemy’s seemed to dissolve between them. Hot skin met hot skin and Arthur felt his hips stutter forward automatically, a jolt of pleasure spiking in his belly as their cocks grazed together accidentally. Ptolemy groaned, thrusting upwards with a sharp plunge that had Arthur desperate and whining.
“Ptolemy,” Arthur breathed and the Pharaoh growled beneath him, snaking up to sink teeth into the exposed flesh of Arthur’s neck. “Do not call me by my throne name.”
Arthur panted, wincing as a bruise was sucked beneath his chin. “What should I call you then?”
“Merlin, as my mother named me.”
“Merlin,” Arthur agreed and sealed his mouth back over the other boy’s. With one hand, he reached between them, fisting Merlin’s cock in a hot, dry grip. It couldn’t nearly be pleasurable enough Arthur knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go long enough to slick his palm with spit or other lubricant. Merlin dragged his fingers along Arthur’s wrist, turning his palm outwards. There was a clink of ceramic and suddenly Arthur felt his hand slick with fragrant oil, easing the slide of hand against heated flesh. He pulled back startled, but Merlin simply grinned and flipped them so that he was straddling Arthur’s calves and Arthur was positioned like a bitch in heat, face pressed into the pillows so tightly that he could not breathe. Wrenching his head back, Arthur gasped great lungfuls of air, and then lost them again as Merlin licked wet and warm between his parted cheeks. Arthur bucked and shook, wanting to move closer and farther away all at once as Merlin slid his tongue deep into Arthur’s body. He paused momentarily, and Arthur swore at the loss of contact until Merlin breathed against his ear, “Reach back for me,” and guided Arthur’s hands to hold his own cheeks open, leaving Merlin free to tug at Arthur’s cock and balls even as he pressed his tongue back in. Arthur spared a thought for just how Merlin was managing to balance in that position, but the next instance the idea was wiped from his brain as Merlin dragged his thumbnail ever so lightly beneath the head of Arthur’s cock sending jolts of pleasure, tinged with pain, up Arthur’s spin.
A quick press of hands against his own told Arthur to stay in the position he was in, even as Merlin moved away entirely. He was back a moment later, and Arthur jerked to feel slick fingers pushing into him, thrusting in quick staccato bursts as Merlin stroked languidly down his length. The rhythm was at odds, and strange; pleasurable, but keeping Arthur from the edge with its discord. From the way Merlin smiled against his spine, Arthur gathered this was the general idea. A twist of Merlin’s wrist as he reached the pinnacle of his stroke was all the warning Arthur got before the Pharaoh drove three fingers in, pads scraping over something that had white spots dancing behind Arthur’s eyelids. He choked, gasping for air, as Merlin made of point of stroking that bundle of nerves over and over again until Arthur was writhing, pleading, sobbing with the sensation. He barely registered the loss as Merlin removed his fingers, and lined his cock up against Arthur’s glistening hole. The Pharaoh slid in quick and deep, bottoming out in one smooth drive, leaning back on his haunches so that his thrusts hit Arthur at that spot almost every time. Arthur wailed, hands cramping with the effort of keeping his cheeks spread as wide as Merlin wanted them.
Merlin was still stroking religiously up and down Arthur’s cock, but his movements were becoming erratic as his own thrusts lost their rhythm. Arthur bucked his hips helplessly, pushing back against Merlin’s cock and forward into his hand simultaneously. Merlin was panting heavily, but for all his thrusts had lost their fluid ease, Arthur knew that the Pharaoh was no where near as close as he was. Smirking, Arthur waited until Merlin had reached the end of his backwards stroke before clenching tightly, letting his muscle clutch hungrily at just the head of Merlin’s cock. He felt Merlin’s eyes roll back in his head and revelled in it even as Merlin thrust forward brutally, driving into Arthur with all the strength he could muster. The sheets burned against Arthur’s cheek and shoulders, rubbing them raw as Merlin pounded ruthlessly into him. Arthur clenched again and Merlin gave a yell, his wrist twisting viciously across the head of Arthur’s cock and dragging him over the edge into languid oblivion. Arthur felt Merlin give one final thrust and hold himself, pumping into Arthur’s body, come squeezing out of his too full hole and trickling down his thighs.
Merlin pulled out gently, falling to the bed at Arthur’s side as Arthur relaxed stiff fingers from where they were clamped upon his own flesh and mirrored him. They lay, sweat soaked and panting, staring at each other from across the space between them.
Arthur spoke first, keeping his voice low in respect of the reverential quiet. “It would take months for a ship to reach Camelot with a ransom demand, even longer for one to return.”
Merlin said nothing, looking at Arthur with heavy lidded, sex-addled eyes. Reaching out one hand, he entwined his fingers with Arthur’s, pulling Arthur to him and pressing a kiss to his brow.
“I am a Prince.” Arthur said quietly against Merlin’s chin.
“And I am a king.” Merlin replied.
Author: writteninhaste previously feathergirl89
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers:graphic sexual scenes and wilful ignoring of anything remotely resembling historical accuracy.
Summary: written for the Kinkme_merlin prompt Arthur/Merlin, pharaoh
Notes To any other Egyptologists who happen to read this, I would like to apologise. There is nothing within this work that even remotely resembles historical accuracy.
Pharaoh
The sun of Egypt burned hot and bright and blinding. Arthur was dragged into the Presence on his knees, a captive from the Barbarian north - from the lands beyond the influence of Greece or infant Rome. He was a novelty. A prize for Pharaoh's General to present to his king. He struggled, but a blow to the head sent the world spinning. He did not need the arrival of a spear point pressed lightly to his throat to tell him that resistance, at this time, was not advisable.
Ptolemy sat on his throne, ridiculously pale for one born to these eastern lands. A novelty in his own right; an aberration. Arthur raised his head, only to have it forced back down so that he was staring at the polished marble floor, inlaid with patterns that seemed alien to his eyes. There was a clash of cymbals and the General who had shoved Arthur to his knees in the first place began to speak. The language was foreign, strange - a jolting, rhythmic lull that seemed to both stick to tongue and flow from it in cresting waves. Risking a glance from beneath his fringe, Arthur could see Ptolemy staring at him, almost seeming to ignore his General entirely. His eyes were lined with paint - black and green and glittering in the sunlight. Arthur was sure he had never seen so much gold jewellery in his life.
The General had apparently finished speaking, for Ptolemy was gesturing with one hand for Arthur to be brought further forward. There was some clamour and the General held his wrist beside Arthur’s head as though comparing the gold band he wore to the colour of Arthur’s hair. Ptolemy gestured again and Arthur was pushed to the floor, forced into obeisance before a man who was not his lord. Ptolemy rose from his throne and instantly every man, woman, and child in the room sank to their knees. Arthur struggled upright, lifting himself on his forearms even as Ptolemy placed a slender hand beneath his chin to gaze at him. Startling blue eyes - dark, so dark that from a distant one might mistake them for black - met Arthur’s gaze before dropping to the hollow of his throat and the dragon claw pendant that hung there. Ptolemy said something then, something that had his General grinning with pride and triumph. Arthur swallowed the bitter taste that flooded his mouth. So Ptolemy realised what his warrior had not: that it was Camelot’s prince that lay sprawled upon the ground before him. With a jerk, Arthur found himself hauled to his feet as they stripped his shirt from him. The cloth parted along the seams, hanging in a mass of fabric where the tails were still trapped beneath his waistband. Ptolemy’s eyes flicked up and down approvingly before he signalled someone Arthur could not see. At once a hoard of slaves came grovelling forward, wrapping hands around Arthur’s shackled wrists and dragging him away. Arthur turned to look behind him (and received a blow for his troubles) as Ptolemy resumed his place on the throne on the dais.
oOo
Arthur was led to quarters as rich and gold and lavish as the audience chamber had been. Fine woven linens acted like partitions to different corners of the room. Arthur was dragged into a small antechamber (his struggles no more than token protest now) and made to stand on a small, bare patch of stone. The slaves began to cut away the remainder of his clothes, tearing them off around the rope bracelets that bound his wrists. Arthur pointed out that if he was really of a mind to escape trapping his hands was hardly going to be enough of a prison, but from the blank stares the slaves gave him it was clear they had not understood a word of it. Arthur closed his eyes and let them work, allowing his mind to recall what he knew of the palace so far. He could, he thought, find his way back to the ceremonial entrance of the residence, but there was no way he would manage to do so without being seen by one of the guards - no he would need to find a back entrance, as well as something he could use to barter passage on one of the trading ships; some dye too if he could find it. He would hardly get very far looking as he did now.
One of the slaves brought forward a copper basin, filled to the brim with pungent liquid. The smell of the perfume was almost overpowering - rich and spicy and unlike the faint hint of lavender oil that Morgana sometimes wore. Arthur choked and one of the attendants gave him a cursory thump between the shoulder blades, before busying himself with squeezing the perfumed water over Arthur’s neck and back. Another started to rub firmly at his arms and chest, whilst yet another knelt to wash his legs. Arthur balked and tried to wriggle free when the one kneeling down tried to wash him there. But the slave at his back simply knocked him upside the head and scolded him in the Egyptian tongue. Arthur scowled, and then shut his eyes with a wince as he bore the indignity of it all. At last, after much pouring of perfumes and scented oils and the gift of a long piece of linen that Arthur wrapped around his hips like a kilt (and which was promptly stripped from him and refastened in the local manner), Arthur was allowed to step from the antechamber. His wrists were still bound, and the rope was starting to bite savagely against his skin. The slaves led him behind a different curtain and sat him on a mattress covered in cotton sheets and rich fabrics that was large enough to comfortably hold at least 8 men together. Arthur struggled to rise to his feet without the use of his hands, but was pushed flat and held there whilst a cord of some type was looped around both his ankles. There was not enough space between his feet for Arthur to even rub his ankles and he knew at once that walking was out of the question. The slaves bobbed in some kind of satisfied manner and then took positions kneeling by the door. Arthur’s stomach growled with hunger and he licked his lips at the thought of fresh water.
A gong sounded from deep within the residence and from a side door slaves poured, bearing trays laden with fruit and bread and honey. One slave carried a jug of some kind, whilst another placed a platter of raw meat on a low table near the bed where Arthur sat. The meat glistened as though drenched in oil or honey. Arthur sincerely hoped that the Pharaoh kept hounds for hunting. Another clash, and the kitchen slaves hurried from the room, as a guard - thick muscled and with skin as dark as any Arthur had seen - opened the main door and sank to his knees, mirroring the slaves. Ptolemy glided into the room, waving a hand in dismissal as he did so. He looked expectantly at Arthur but Arthur just looked back, defiantly.
Ptolemy snorted in amusement and waved a hand along his body. At first Arthur thought this was some invitation to admire the form of the Pharaoh, but as he watched, the heavy gold bracelets and tall crown disappeared in a shimmer of air. The fake beard and the glittering makeup dissolved as well, leaving Arthur staring at a boy, perhaps not even his own age, who was clad in nothing but a thin cotton kilt and seemed perfectly at ease. Another wave of his hand and the restraints binding Arthur vanished. Arthur rubbed his wrists warily, fighting to urge to reach for a sword and shield that were not there. He had always known sorcerers weren’t to be trusted - that they dealt in illusion and lies - but this was power unlike anything he had seen, and matched to such an unassuming face. The boy dropped himself down onto the bed beside Arthur and dragged the table laden with food and drink over. He poured two glasses of frothy liquid, that Arthur recognised from the smell as being some form of beer, pressed one into Arthur’s grasp and claimed the other for himself. With his free hand Ptolemy lifted one of the pieces of honeyed meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing lasciviously. Not for the dogs, then.
When Arthur made no move to touch either the food or drink, Ptolemy scowled.
“Are you not going to eat anything?”
Arthur felt his jaw drop open in a most un-princely fashion. Ptolemy took the opportunity to shove a sticky, brown fruit between Arthur’s lips. Arthur closed his mouth on instinct, reeling as the overpowering sweetness of the fruit drizzled over his tongue.
“Good?” Ptolemy asked, smiling expectantly.
Arthur choked and swallowed. “Not really. And how is it that you know the language of my people?”
Ptolemy sighed, and smiled slightly. “I know many things.” It was said with the air of one rich in knowledge and wisdom and experience but Arthur scoffed to think that this boy was any more wise and worldly than he was. Then he remembered that this boy was the leader of an Empire, rather than the son of a king whose kingdom was merely one within a nation of warring tribes. The wealth of Egypt was clear from the room and Camelot with all its wool and wood and tapestries could never hope to rival the sheer opulence of this eastern domain. Arthur felt sick and stupid and angered that any kingdom - not matter how great - should have him think of Camelot with shame. Ptolemy seemed to read some of his thoughts on his face.
“Your kingdom will be remembered in the hearts of your people Arthur, for centuries to come. Your name will be the shining jewel in the crown of a nation, whilst I will be nothing more than one in a long line of kings.”
Arthur met Ptolemy’s gaze, and there was such a certainty there, such a weight of knowledge and time that Arthur felt himself believing.
“How is it that you really know my tongue?” He asked again and this time Ptolemy spread himself upon the bed before answering.
“My mother was a foreign princess - a priestess really - given to the Egyptian king. His favourite. She was from Hiburnia originally.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows and tore a piece of bread for himself and dipped it in the honey. “I was not aware that there was any trade between Hiburnia and the east.”
“It was Seen.” Ptolemy replied as if that explained anything, and Arthur did not pursue the topic. He took a sip of the beer, letting the warm liquid slide along his tongue and alleviate his thirst. He started at the feel of a hand on his back, and glanced to see Ptolemy propped on one elbow, his kilt falling at a dangerous angle, as he traced the scars on Arthur’s skin.
“These are whip marks.” He said softly, scratching his nails lightly down the lines. Arthur thought to tell him to remove his hands, to stop touching. But Ptolemy’s fingertips were cool, a gentle counterpoint to the heat that seemed to plague the entire kingdom and besides, Arthur knew better than to scold a king in his own palace. Better to let him do as he wants.
He said nothing, but Ptolemy continued on his quest, mapping Arthur’s body, tracing the marks, and commenting on what had made each one. Arthur paid him no mind, letting the boy-king do as he chose, filling himself with bread and what pieces of fruit he thought he recognised (though it turned out he was wrong on every count) and drinking the beer the Pharaoh had poured for him. Ptolemy eventually grew tired of his game, taking Arthur by the shoulder to lead him higher up the bed. Arthur tensed, but Ptolemy was already crawling away from him, reaching over the side for what appeared to be a small wooden chest. Arthur settled himself against the pillows, as Ptolemy - with a curious eagerness - unfolded the chest and removed from inside a polished wooden board and a handful of ivory figurines.
“Senet,” he said, smiling, “do you play?” Arthur stared at the childlike glee on the Pharaoh’s face, and wondered if he had misjudged the boy’s age. He shook his head. Ptolemy smiled.
“It is easy enough. Look, I’ll show you.”
Senet was not easy. After three rounds of Arthur failing to grasp even the basic concepts of the game, he informed Ptolemy tartly that it was easier to formulate a year long campaign than to play with the Pharaoh’s stupid toys. Ptolemy bit his lip harshly, and packed the game away in silence. Arthur immediately felt like a monster. It was clear the boy took an innocent delight in the pastime - perhaps the only opportunity he had to do something truly for himself and Arthur had stripped it from him.
Sighing, Arthur stuttered out an apology but Ptolemy waved it away.
“Senet is not for everybody.”
Arthur felt guilt gnaw at his stomach and tugged the Pharaoh round to face him, much as he would do with a small child. “Is there anything else you wanted to do? Some other game we could play?”
Ptolemy looked at him speculatively, eyes peaking out from behind long, dark lashes, and the next thing Arthur knew he had an armful of pale, perfumed skin and two lips pressed firmly against his own. His protests were muffled against the seal of Ptolemy’s mouth, and it took a moment for him to scrabble his hands into a position where he was able to push Ptolemy away.
The Pharaoh’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and he was staring at Arthur with a kind of ravenous delight. “You asked what I wanted.” He said calmly, and Arthur gaped.
“Just how old are you?” He demanded.
Ptolemy fixed him with a semi-amused gaze. “Old enough to have done this many times before. I have eleven wives and over one hundred slave boys.” Arthur’s mind boggled slightly, as Ptolemy continued. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.” His gaze fell to Arthur’s lap and up again and Arthur felt himself flushing hot and fierce.
“Of course I’m not ashamed,” he spluttered. “What are you implying that I -”
Ptolemy was laughing, open and wide so that his whole body shook with the vibrations of it. He calmed himself at Arthur’s scowl and crawled forwards on hands and knees.
“I was not implying anything of the sort.” He said against Arthur’s lips. “I was merely suggesting that perhaps the kingdoms of the north are more careful with the virtue of their princes than we might be. I would not want to spoil the experience for a royal wife.” Arthur snarled against Ptolemy’s laughter, lunging forward until he could roll the Pharaoh onto the mattress beneath him, his greater weight trapping the dual-king against the sheets.
Ptolemy arched like a cat, and purred much the same as Arthur fixed his lips against the pale column of the king’s throat and bit down harshly. It was pleasing to watch the bruise of his teeth blossom against the skin of a boy who had eleven wives and one hundred slaves. Ptolemy dragged his nails down Arthur’s back, scoring new lines to cover up the marks left by his father’s whip. The boy’s eyes flashed gold and Arthur felt his kilt fall away in a slither of fabric even as Ptolemy’s seemed to dissolve between them. Hot skin met hot skin and Arthur felt his hips stutter forward automatically, a jolt of pleasure spiking in his belly as their cocks grazed together accidentally. Ptolemy groaned, thrusting upwards with a sharp plunge that had Arthur desperate and whining.
“Ptolemy,” Arthur breathed and the Pharaoh growled beneath him, snaking up to sink teeth into the exposed flesh of Arthur’s neck. “Do not call me by my throne name.”
Arthur panted, wincing as a bruise was sucked beneath his chin. “What should I call you then?”
“Merlin, as my mother named me.”
“Merlin,” Arthur agreed and sealed his mouth back over the other boy’s. With one hand, he reached between them, fisting Merlin’s cock in a hot, dry grip. It couldn’t nearly be pleasurable enough Arthur knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go long enough to slick his palm with spit or other lubricant. Merlin dragged his fingers along Arthur’s wrist, turning his palm outwards. There was a clink of ceramic and suddenly Arthur felt his hand slick with fragrant oil, easing the slide of hand against heated flesh. He pulled back startled, but Merlin simply grinned and flipped them so that he was straddling Arthur’s calves and Arthur was positioned like a bitch in heat, face pressed into the pillows so tightly that he could not breathe. Wrenching his head back, Arthur gasped great lungfuls of air, and then lost them again as Merlin licked wet and warm between his parted cheeks. Arthur bucked and shook, wanting to move closer and farther away all at once as Merlin slid his tongue deep into Arthur’s body. He paused momentarily, and Arthur swore at the loss of contact until Merlin breathed against his ear, “Reach back for me,” and guided Arthur’s hands to hold his own cheeks open, leaving Merlin free to tug at Arthur’s cock and balls even as he pressed his tongue back in. Arthur spared a thought for just how Merlin was managing to balance in that position, but the next instance the idea was wiped from his brain as Merlin dragged his thumbnail ever so lightly beneath the head of Arthur’s cock sending jolts of pleasure, tinged with pain, up Arthur’s spin.
A quick press of hands against his own told Arthur to stay in the position he was in, even as Merlin moved away entirely. He was back a moment later, and Arthur jerked to feel slick fingers pushing into him, thrusting in quick staccato bursts as Merlin stroked languidly down his length. The rhythm was at odds, and strange; pleasurable, but keeping Arthur from the edge with its discord. From the way Merlin smiled against his spine, Arthur gathered this was the general idea. A twist of Merlin’s wrist as he reached the pinnacle of his stroke was all the warning Arthur got before the Pharaoh drove three fingers in, pads scraping over something that had white spots dancing behind Arthur’s eyelids. He choked, gasping for air, as Merlin made of point of stroking that bundle of nerves over and over again until Arthur was writhing, pleading, sobbing with the sensation. He barely registered the loss as Merlin removed his fingers, and lined his cock up against Arthur’s glistening hole. The Pharaoh slid in quick and deep, bottoming out in one smooth drive, leaning back on his haunches so that his thrusts hit Arthur at that spot almost every time. Arthur wailed, hands cramping with the effort of keeping his cheeks spread as wide as Merlin wanted them.
Merlin was still stroking religiously up and down Arthur’s cock, but his movements were becoming erratic as his own thrusts lost their rhythm. Arthur bucked his hips helplessly, pushing back against Merlin’s cock and forward into his hand simultaneously. Merlin was panting heavily, but for all his thrusts had lost their fluid ease, Arthur knew that the Pharaoh was no where near as close as he was. Smirking, Arthur waited until Merlin had reached the end of his backwards stroke before clenching tightly, letting his muscle clutch hungrily at just the head of Merlin’s cock. He felt Merlin’s eyes roll back in his head and revelled in it even as Merlin thrust forward brutally, driving into Arthur with all the strength he could muster. The sheets burned against Arthur’s cheek and shoulders, rubbing them raw as Merlin pounded ruthlessly into him. Arthur clenched again and Merlin gave a yell, his wrist twisting viciously across the head of Arthur’s cock and dragging him over the edge into languid oblivion. Arthur felt Merlin give one final thrust and hold himself, pumping into Arthur’s body, come squeezing out of his too full hole and trickling down his thighs.
Merlin pulled out gently, falling to the bed at Arthur’s side as Arthur relaxed stiff fingers from where they were clamped upon his own flesh and mirrored him. They lay, sweat soaked and panting, staring at each other from across the space between them.
Arthur spoke first, keeping his voice low in respect of the reverential quiet. “It would take months for a ship to reach Camelot with a ransom demand, even longer for one to return.”
Merlin said nothing, looking at Arthur with heavy lidded, sex-addled eyes. Reaching out one hand, he entwined his fingers with Arthur’s, pulling Arthur to him and pressing a kiss to his brow.
“I am a Prince.” Arthur said quietly against Merlin’s chin.
“And I am a king.” Merlin replied.