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Paramour (Merthur)

In which Merlin's having issues with an entitled noble and Arthur comes up with a... creative way of fixing it.

(TW: Unconsensual sexual advances, mentions of murder and violence, and some sexual content, although explicit body parts are not mentioned and it's kind of like a TV cut-away, the scenes are not prolonged.)

Protective!Arthur, 5.4k words, Uther being dumb, per usual, and Arthur knows Merlin is a magic user! Please enjoy!

Merlin is seething and Arthur can see it. He may play dumb when it comes to many of Merlin’s emotions, refusing to be caught caring unless in the most dire of circumstances, but this is a new kind of anger entirely. Merlin’s prone to annoyance (both attracting it and being it), but this is far from something like that—this is genuine rage. Arthur’s not sure he’s ever seen him like this, flushed and eerily quiet, his fingers undoing Arthur’s cloak rather harshly, which he would comment about if he were not so concerned.

In Merlin’s defense, he seems to be making an attempt at feigning calm, but it does not fool Arthur in the slightest. He knows everything about Merlin, from his favorite meal to the boundless power that rests in his hands—Merlin’s a weapon, truly. A weapon who’s fingertips brush idly over his skin as he lifts the tunic over Arthur’s head, throwing that over his arm with the festival attire.

“What is it?” Merlin had turned, presumably to toss the clothes in the wash-bin that Merlin would undoubtedly take back to his chambers tonight, despite Arthur’s insistence that he needn’t complete tasks like that this late. The manservant stops, though, cold.

“Sire?”

Usually dripping in sarcasm, Arthur swallows hard at the unfamiliar, honest use of his title.

“You are clearly furious. Have I done something?”

Merlin is quiet for a moment, which leaves Arthur in embarrassingly tense anticipation. His last wish—and oh, if Merlin ever found out about this, he’d simply die—is to ever anger, disappoint, or even go so far as to irk his warlock companion. He may not act it, but having Merlin upset with him is truly disturbing. Sure, they bicker, and they pick meaningless fights, but that’s more just them than an actual distaste for each other’s company.

It’s partially what makes each other’s company so tasteful, at least, as far as Arthur is concerned.

“No,” comes the reply, which is a relief, but also further troubling—if Arthur had not bothered Merlin, then what had? The night had been wonderful, golden fire-light licking through the hall as lords and ladies and rich-folk from kingdoms both near and far socialized, drank, and celebrated the sweet ending of a particularly harsh winter. Every time Arthur had caught Merlin in his gaze, he had been mingling with the knights, brilliant smile, unearthly gorgeous, gold glinting in his eyes, the laces of his tunic undone and revealing strong, pale chest, dark hair just a tad too long, dripping over his brow—

Christ—focus, Arthur.

“Then what?” Arthur pries when no explanation comes. Merlin’s head tips back, and part of Arthur is disappointed, the other part grateful he does not see the delicious expanse of skin that motion exposes. Merlin heaves a deep sigh, and turns.

“Lord Edmond,” he says, fingers curling into expensive fabrics, cheeks flushed, “Refuses to leave me alone.”

Edmond—some noble from the north Arthur was not particularly fond of, but had never caused much of an issue as far as Arthur had been aware. Kind of an inconsequential, irrelevant man. Handsome, sure, but old now—maybe fourty? Fifty? Ten years older than Arthur at least, and complacent. Not a hunter, not a soldier—

“I don’t remember him being too insufferably-friendly,” Arthur muses.

“This,” Merlin snaps, “Is beyond friendly.”

Oh. Oh no.

Fury sears through him like a fire-poker to the ribs, and he sets his jaw, unable to speak for a full, agonizing moment as he struggles not to fly out of his chambers to slaughter the man himself. He clears his throat, tearing his gaze from Merlin’s.

“Were these… welcome advances?” His heart leaps into his throat—

“Absolutely not,” Merlin says, “And if he continues, I’ll have to smite him where he stands, your father’s ridiculous laws be damned.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. He looks back at Merlin.

“Can you smite people?!”

“No, but I could try.”

Arthur wants nothing more than to reach out and soothe Merlin’s anger, and that ache is embarrassing, but not near as embarrassing as the idea tickling the back of his skull, quietly petitioning to be shared. Merlin narrows his eyes in Arthur’s direction—

“What?”

“I have… quite the solution.”

Merlin scoffs, and turns back around to finally toss Arthur’s clothes. Arthur stretches his limbs a little bit, moving to sit down on the end of his bed and feeling his exhaustion wash over him. A few nights of this festival shit has him poorly-rested and sore in places he’s not used to being sore—he misses sparring, training, riding. If it were not already the early hours of the morning, he’d consider getting up at a decent hour to accomplish one of these.

He’ll be lucky to be up any time before noon.

“You couldn’t,” Merlin says, folding the clothes instead of tossing them—quite responsible of him, though Arthur’s sure the sheer cost of the clothing has Merlin a little more careful.

Or his rage is making him forget he’s usually negligent, as backwards as that seems.

“Gwaine and Percival have already warned him, and he does not seem to care one way or another,” Merlin rants, throwing the folded tunic down into the wash bin (there’s the Merlin he knows well) and whipping around, “And for the last three nights, it’s one uncomfortable, disgusting, completely inappropriate—”

“This has been going on for three nights?!” Arthur asks, incredulous and a little hurt. If Merlin was being made uncomfortable by a noble, Arthur should have been the first one to hear of it, and Merlin should know that by now. Additionally, Arthur knows Merlin quite enjoys this festival each year, and he’s decently agitated at the notion that some horny prick is ruining his manservant’s time.

The agitation is certainly not because Arthur would give any amount of money or body parts or perhaps his entire station if it meant he could be closer to Merlin than he already is—much closer. Infinitely closer.

God, how has this happened to him?

“He is absolutely unavoidable. He gets one chalice of wine in him and he’s touching me and saying insufferable things and—”

“He’s laid hands on you?”

Merlin quiets abruptly, his passionate distaste dying in his throat and on his face, and Arthur is certainly to blame. He couldn’t help himself—his tone had gone from disbelief and general annoyance to something much colder, much more serious. Unwelcome flirtation is one thing, but touching Merlin when Arthur himself hasn’t even been afforded the chance is absolutely unacceptable, and especially when the contact is uninvited and uncomfortable for the receiving party.

And that receiving party is Merlin.

Arthur feels murder sitting heavy on his chest.

“Arthur—”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, now,” Arthur interrupts, tone like ice. Merlin looks like he wants to argue, probably to reassure Arthur he’s fine and he doesn’t need to intervene, but he doesn’t try. He’s quite adept at figuring out now when his snide remarks are appropriate and when they are incredibly not. “Tomorrow night, when he begins to bother you, you’ll do that brain talking thing—”

“Gaius calls it Sending.”

“Right, Sending, and alert me. Then I will take care of the situation how I see fit.”

“But Gwaine and Percival already—”

“I am the crown prince of Camelot and if he’d like to maintain his title, he will listen to me. Should he disobey, I will fucking gut him.” Right, so, that second part wasn’t supposed to come out, but the already defeated look on Merlin’s face had pulled it forcibly from his tongue. Merlin does not look like he believes him in any way, shape, or form, but Arthur hardly cares. He’s too angry, murder on his mind, and Merlin will know this tomorrow night.

“It’s really—I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Merlin says with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, shifting from foot to foot like he’s suddenly very uncomfortable. Arthur doesn’t like that. Did he do that? “It’s not a big deal—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says firmly, “I should be the first to know when someone abuses their title to try and get away with matters such as this. Especially when it’s happening to you.”

Arthur thinks he must imagine the pink flooding Merlin’s cheeks, or maybe his anger is coming back. Merlin shifts awkwardly some more, and looks down at his shoes, shuffling them a little against the floor.

“Sire…”

“Yes?”

“I would… prefer you enjoy your holiday. Worrying for me is—”

“Merlin, go to bed,” Arthur says, “Because you are sounding more and more like I should beat you over the head with a club.”

The grin on Merlin’s face seems to brighten the room, and the eyeroll is like a hundred worms wriggling around in Arthur’s stomach. Merlin turns and picks up the wash-bin with what sounds to be a scoff, but Arthur is almost certain is some sort of breathy giggle—

“Do not do that tonight. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“That is quite literally the entire point of your job!”

“Huh? What was that? I’m sorry, I don’t speak insufferable prat.”

“Merlin—!”

“Goodnight, Arthur!”

—

Arthur takes it lightly on the wine, and stays what he believes to be a safe distance away from Merlin at all times. He has a sort-of picture of Lord Edmond in his mind, but as he surveys the crowd, no-one seems to fit the image just right. It seems Arthur remembers him but not altogether too clearly, and the anticipation is starting to get to him.

Nobles keep trying to strike up conversations with him, but he can hardly pay attention. Morgana approaches him to see if he’s alright, but he’s lost sight of Merlin and he can’t answer her because he’s too busy scanning the room, so she gives up. Then, Gwen approaches to tell him of some business with one guest or another, but half way through, Merlin’s voice whispers through his mind, sending a shudder down his spine he can’t ignore.

It’s happening. I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from killing him. I’m not fond of washing blood off your clothes.

Arthur stands.

“---and then she—Arthur?”

“Excuse me a moment,” he says to her, and perhaps someone else near him, but he’s not entirely sure. The lady to his left looks particularly disappointed, but swiftly turns to Gwen to try and trick her into divulging the latest gossip from the kitchens.

Gwen seems less than enthused.

Lord Edmund is not particularly tall, but not particularly short. Merlin stands a few inches over him but he and Arthur are both considerably tall. He looks to be older, as Arthur had thought, probably early-fifties at the youngest, and despite how it hurts Arthur’s very soul to admit it, not terribly hard on the eyes. However, what is extremely off-putting (and particularly rage-inducing) is the way he has Merlin trapped between a table and a group of snickering lackeys, who occasionally glance over at the situation, amused.

A posse. This insolent Lord brought an entourage and is using it to try and scare Merlin into sleeping with him.

Arthur sees red.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Merlin starts, and Edmond jumps, stumbling backwards and away from Merlin just a bit, looking surprised, but not like he thinks he’s done anything wrong. Arthur is brimming, perhaps spilling, with rage, Edmond fixed in his stare like an enemy’s chest which his blade is sure to rupture. If Arthur had his sword, it would be lying against Edmond’s throat.

“Your highness—”

Arthur remembers himself. He had had a plan, hadn’t he?

If Arthur were to tell this man off, it might work to dissuade him, sure, but it would teach him nothing. The festival was to last nearly the entire month, and a simple reprimand from a man so much younger than him—prince or not—would not hold to that length in time, Arthur was sure of it. Edmond would figure out a way to get around Arthur’s consequences or out of his sight, and then Merlin would be back at square one, and based on how Arthur had had to be the one to ask, he’s sure Merlin would not bring it up a second time.

Therefore, it would take more than harsh words to keep Edmond in line.

He turns, grabs Merlin by the side of his tunic, and yanks him forward into his embrace. He can only imagine the look of shock, but if this is to work, he cannot make his own nervousness known. He tilts his head and blows breath against Merlin’s ear as he speaks—

“It is my last intention to embarrass you, but there are few ways to make a man like this listen, and I am not interested in anyone’s hands on you but mine. I’ll meet you in my chambers when I have finished here.”

Once again, Arthur has said something he hadn’t meant to say, but now is not exactly the time to try and cover up for himself. He said what he said, and Merlin is ducking into the crowd, and there is a much more important matter at hand. He turns to Edmond.

“You would dare insult the crown prince in such a way?”

This gets the attention of the lackeys, and many party-goers nearby. Arthur steels himself for the show he is about to perform, the backlash he will undoubtedly receive from his father, and Morgana’s incessant teasing until the end of time. This, and the rumors that will spread once these nobles are made aware—

“I’m sure I know what you mean,” Edmond answers, genuinely sounding clueless, but also completely calm, unphased by Arthur’s anger. Does this sort of stupidity come with age? Arthur must start reading more, if this is the case.

“You would shamelessly attempt to bed my paramour?”

Arthur watches all the color drain from Edmond’s face, and feels a swelling of pride in his chest at the sight. He opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it, and repeats the motion, clearly at a loss. The lackeys scatter comically, and those in attendance of the show begin to mutter. He’s grateful he’s only captivated a small portion of the great hall, and not the entire thing, and his father is many, many crowds away.

“I—he—”

“I would throw my glove at your feet if I had a glove to throw,” Arthur spits, “And should you bother him again, or god forbid, lay a filthy hand on him, I will gut you without honor.” And so with that, Arthur turns on his heel and storms away, followed by murmurs and whispers, feeling somewhat relieved and incredibly satisfied, despite now having to explain himself to Merlin.

Right. Merlin.

—

“What did you do?” Merlin asks, all to accusing.

“Promise not to smite me.”

“No.”

“I told them—“

“Ah,” Merlin interrupts, raising a hand. He stands up and off Arthur’s bed, and moves closer, much to Arthur’s dismay. “Actually, I don’t care.”

Arthur blinks.

“But—“

“Did you mean it?”

Arthur’s brain short circuits as he finds himself gazing into storms of gray, Merlin coming much closer than he’d expected. He mimicked Edmond, opening his mouth and then closing it again, swallowing hard. Merlin is watching him expectantly and Arthur is using all the strength he has not to glance down at Merlin’s lips and give himself away completely.

“Did you mean it?” Merlin asks again.

Did he—oh.

I am not interested in anyone’s hands on you but mine.

In all the chaos, he had half-forgotten. He had meant to turn and tell Merlin to go, to apologize for what he had decided to say next, but he had lost himself in the moment of being so close. He had invested himself too much in the “performance,” even in those few, short moments, and revealed himself.

And now he would face Merlin’s reaction, whatever it may be.

“Yes,” he says, though it doesn’t come out as confident as he would have liked. Merlin searches his eyes for the lie—he dreads what could happen when the warlock finds none.

Merlin’s eyes flick downwards. Arthur’s stomach drops as he realizes Merlin’s eyeing his lips, the very same impulse he’d been begging himself not to give in to, and Merlin’s done it so close to him, so outright—

“You were jealous,” Merlin continues, and at this, Arthur scoffs. No, he was not jealous in the slightest of Lord Edmond because Edmond was a sad, elderly husk of a man who thought he could take what he wanted whenever he wanted, and Arthur is a young, handsome crown-prince who has waited over a year for any indication Merlin might feel the same as him.

He would not dare use his position of power to press Merlin to him, not when Arthur loved him, and not when Merlin had spent his time here unknowingly teaching Arthur what that really meant. His parents had not done it, fleeting teenage flings had not done it—Merlin had. Undoubtedly.

“I would not be jealous of a man you didn’t actually want,” Arthur says, which he realizes then is insinuating he would be jealous of a man Merlin did want, so he tries to back track, “And regardless—!” He exclaims quickly, and Merlin’s responding smile digs up those worms.

“You’re obviously allowed to do whatever you want with whoever you want,” Arthur finishes, swallowing hard.

“Obviously,” Merlin repeats, lifting his hands to start undoing the clasps on Arthur’s robes.

If Arthur wanted—no, not if wanted, because he does want, he’s just not sure what Merlin wants—he could tilt his head just so, lean in an inch, maybe two, and kiss him. They’re that close, and they’ve been this close before, sure, but Merlin’s acting different and his fingers work the clasps much slower and his face is absolutely unreadable to the point where Arthur is starting to panic. He prides himself on knowing Merlin very well, but right now—

“Even if it’s you?”

Merlin might as well have punched him in the throat. All the breath flees from his lungs as though it were never there in the first place, and his hands—he loses all command over them as he has his breath—reach up and grab Merlin by the waist of his tunic, the very same way he had done before, except this time when he pulls them together there is not crowd to convince or entertain.

He’s not sure how he manages to speak when he’s forgotten how to breathe, but—

“Especially if it’s me.”

When they kiss, finally, after the decade that seems to pass between their admissions and their lips meeting, Arthur loses his decorum entirely. Entirely. It’s like any restraint he’d had stored away left with his breath, and he is half-guiding, half-pushing Merlin, kissing him senseless until Merlin’s back hits Arthur’s bed and he’s wedged between Merlin’s thighs and it’s like this is where he’s meant to be, staring down at wet lips and heaving chest and—

“I heard what you said. About us,” Merlin manages between breaths, “I heard what you called me.”

Paramour.

“I—“

“If you would have me, sire.”

If you would have me, sire.

The double meaning all but knocks him out.

“I will have you,” Arthur, “Over and over and over again until no one can distinguish one of us from the other.” You’re a piece of me, a second more brilliant half. I need you, I have needed you since I met you in the market that day, even when I treated you so harshly, and have been so—

Merlin tips his head back and laughs and Arthur’s maudlin inner-monologue fades away, mind wholly devoted to the sound and the man it’s coming from beneath him.

“Arthur—“ his name, god, his name, “—that is already impossible to do.”

—

Merlin turns out to be marvelous in bed, and not at all like Arthur had suspected he’d be (timid, hesitant). Instead, he’s incredibly, almost obnoxiously vocal, and not abashed in the slightest.

To be fair, though, Merlin never knew when to shut his goddamn mouth any other time, so perhaps Arthur had been foolish to think this sort of affair would be any different.

When he wakes up to the knock on his door, it doesn’t occur to him to try and hide Merlin, or even wake him. He’d announced to a quarter of the party last night that they were sleeping together, and word-of-mouth in a castle filled with visiting nobles and their attendants is far worse than wild-fire.

“Yes?” he calls, sitting up despite his nakedness, absently stroking Merlin’s dark hair. The messenger—a woman Arthur recognizes to usually be either in the kitchens or the wash rooms—shyly steps in, flushing deeply when she notices that Arthur is not alone.

“You’ve been summoned. By your father.”

Now this Arthur and not been expecting. To be reprimanded at brunch for making a scene, sure, but to be summoned is an entirely different issue.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, tipping his head, “You may go.”

She hurries out, and Arthur looks down, considering for a moment waking Merlin to dress him, and then upon seeing how peacefully his paramour—paramour, how lovely—is sleeping, opts against it.

He can dress himself, surely.

—

“Brilliant,” Uther muses as Arthur enters, “We were starting to worry you had gotten lost.”

No, Arthur just couldn’t figure out which was the front and which was the back of his trousers for upwards of ten minutes.

“We” must refer to he and Edmond, Uther who is seated stiffly upon his throne, as usual, and Edmond who is standing quite relaxed beneath his gaze, which is Arthur’s first indication something here is clearly off.

“What do you want?” Arthur snaps. Uther does not falter, but Edmond looks over, clearly baffled by Arthur’s tone, and perhaps even the fact that Uther does not ask him to check it.

“Would you please explain to me,” Uther begins, “How you thought it appropriate not only to publicly humiliate a noble, threaten him, but also to treat your manservant as though he were property, and not a man of his own decisions.”

He cannot be serious. Arthur turns to Edmond, seething.

“You are far duller than you look.”

“Arthur!” Uther exclaims, sharp. Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, glowering at his father, terribly angry for what feels like the hundredth time in the past two days.

“I only acted in the interest of Merlin’s honor,” Arthur snaps, “He came to me accusing this feeble, brainless—”

“Are the insults truly necessary, your majesty?” Edmond asks his father, but Arthur continues, unperturbed.

“—wilddeoren of making unwanted advances.”

Uther frowns, and Edmond shakes his head, a completely unwarranted smile gracing his features. Arthur is certain this man is in need of several kicks to the groin and then some. Uther sighs.

“I told you, your majesty, he would come bearing all sorts of lies.”

“Lies!?” Arthur exclaims incredulously.

“You very publicly referred to Merlin as your paramour instead of your manservant,” Uther says, “In order to embarrass Lord Edmond into obeying your will.” Arthur’s jaw drops. Edmond does nothing to hide the triumph he is feeling, and all of this is making Arthur’s blood boil hotter and hotter.

That’s… technically true, but as far as last night is concerned—

“Merlin is my paramour,” Arthur argues, causing a raise of his father’s brow, and the shake of Edmond’s head, “And if you do not believe me, summon Merlin, then. Although, that seems a spectacular waste of our time, because he should have been here to explain his side of the story in the first place, and if I would have known this insolent pig—”

“Arthur,” Uther chides.

“—was going to spin such an elaborate fairy-tale, I would have roused him and brought him myself, as he happened to be, conveniently, very close by, namely, right god-damned next to me.”

Uther heaves a sigh. Edmond doesn’t look convinced.

“Arthur—”

“Father,” Arthur says, very seriously, sensing the king’s exasperation and unwillingness to argue or reprimand a noble of his own age, and such a nonchalant demeanor, begging no guilt. What his father fails to see is that this is not because Edmond is not guilty, but because he’s certain there will be no consequences for his actions—and really, unless Arthur kills him in his sleep, or challenges him to a duel, there won’t be. Nothing but a childish slap on the wrist.

“Arthur,” Uther says again, firmly, “I would like you, before dinner tonight, to apologize to Lord Edmond—”

“Absolutely not!” Arthur cries.

“You will,” Uther says, firmness growing into a slight aggression Uther believes he will listen to, “Or you will not attend.”

“Then consider this the last time you see me today, your majesty,” Arthur snaps, turning to leave, “And if you are so opposed to taking the word of your own son over some half-wit jester, ask the servant who summoned me how she found me this morning, and who she found me with.”

He turns, just before the door, glaring back at both men—his father who looks vaguely disappointed, and Edmond who’s now red in the face, seemingly having realized what an impartial third-party’s account may do to his story.

“Or better yet,” Arthur muses, “Ask the knights who attempted to deter Lord Testicle—“

“Arthur!”

“—before I was forced to step in. And please,” Arthur says, finally wrapping this up into a neat little bow, “Do not send for me again. I have a long day and night planned bending my manservant over every flat surface in my chambers.”

“Christ, Arthur—“

“Good. Fucking. Day.”

And if the doors were small enough to be slammed, Arthur would have done exactly that.

—

“What is your name?”

“Oh—er, Katherine, your majesty. I work in the—“

“I know. I just have a question regarding the manner in which you found my son this morning.”

“Ah! Oh—umm… well… I’m not entirely comfortable… saying, my king.”

Uther sighs deeply, and waves his hand to dismiss her.

“That will be all.”

—

“You shouldn’t fight with your father on my behalf,” Merlin soothes, and Arthur would attest to enjoying baths much more when Merlin’s in the water with him. “It’s not worth the drama. And you should be enjoying the—“

“As you should have been, and as we should be, if it weren’t for Lord shit-pants—“

“Your insults are getting less and less clever,” Merlin teases, moving forward through the water to press his lips to Arthur’s throat, as if that’s supposed to make it better. Is this them now? Bickering like usual and then kissing it away?

He could get used to that, yeah.

Arthur pinches Merlin’s thigh beneath the water in retaliation, so Merlin pokes him hard in the ribs.

“Ow!” Arthur exclaims, seizing Merlin’s wrist and yanking him forward, sending the boy effectively into his embrace, although Arthur is framing it as a restraint, tugging Merlin’s wrists behind his back and pressing his own teasing kiss to the man’s shoulder.

“Gotcha.”

Merlin laughs.

“What I lack in glorious, sexy, beefy—“ he’s still teasing Arthur, that bastard, “—muscle, I make up for in wit.”

“And how is wit going to—?”

Arthur learns when Merlin uses the height at which his wrists are currently held much to his advantage, and grunts.

“Yes, I suppose that’ll do it.”

—

The next morning they are both summoned, Merlin teaches Arthur about his pants, and they make their way to Uther, chatting aimlessly, bickering uselessly.

Arthur feels incredible. Wonderful, even. To be with Merlin and to not ache to be nearer, because he has been near and can be near, is like a breath of fresh air. His best friend is now his lover, and he could not have asked fate for anything more.

“Father,” Arthur greets.

“Your majesty,” Merlin says, but does not bow, because Merlin thinks bowing is ridiculous and now that he thinks about it, Arthur kind of agrees.

“I have,” Uther says, sounding wildly uncomfortable, which is the consequence of his own inability to take anything Arthur says seriously, “Confirmed with Katherine, the chambermaid, that you two are, in fact…”

Arthur grins.

“Copulating?” He suggests.

“Fucking?” Merlin adds plainly.

“Fraternizing?”

“Fucking,” Merlin repeats.

“Lovers,” Arthur suggests, taking Merlin’s hand. They haven’t talked about that part of it yet, although he’s certain it had been implied. Merlin’s grasp tightens around his own, and their shoulders bump together softly.

“Yeah, probably that one,” he agrees.

Uther is so red in the face he’d make a stunning rendition of Camelot’s flag had he painted a giant gold dragon over his features.

“Right, well,” Uther says, clearing his throat, “I assume you are both aware though… fraternization is certainly allowed, I cannot in good faith—“

“Paramour, father,” Arthur interrupts, because he doesn’t need to hear another word of “produce an heir” or “take a wife.” He’s highly aware of his duty, and if he weren’t, he would’ve dragged Merlin down to Gaius hours ago and demanded to be wed (or whatever version of wed can be done without the church). This way, the next time Lord Edmond or any other ridiculous noble tried to lay hands on his manservant, Arthur would have probably cause to shove his spear through their throat. “I know what can be done and what cannot.”

Uther nods, as if he had suspected this.

“Good. Then all we have to the discuss is the matter of Merlin’s new title—“

“Having sex with your son gives me a title?!” Merlin interrupts incredulously, and Uther goes red again, much to Arthur’s delight. He tips his head back and laughs because oh, how he loves this man.

Uther clears his throat, “Paramour is the title, and while not all of the Five Kingdoms make space for such a thing, I and the court of Camelot do entertain the notion that political marriages should not fall in the way of an actual connection. Therefore, you will be alleviated of your position as Arthur’s manservant—“

“I’d actually like to keep that, if I may,” Merlin interrupts again, and really, where does Merlin get off having the gall to keep cutting off the king.

Probably somewhere in all those titles Uther doesn’t know Merlin already has—The Last Dragonlord, The Most Powerful Sorcerer to Ever Walk the Earth, Emrys, etc. Really, now that Arthur thinks about it, Merlin could cast his father out of the throne with the flick of his wrist, and assume Camelot under his rule, destroying those who dare defy him with little more than a thought and a spoken word.

But he doesn’t. Because of Arthur.

It is beginning to feel incredibly stupid that Arthur couldn’t tell if Merlin loved him back. Perhaps he really will have to start reading more.

“You would continue to work?” Uther asks, eyebrows raised.

“I would feel useless if I were not serving Camelot, and my prince,” Merlin says, “It’s kind of what I’m meant to do, regardless of what “title” I hold here.”

Uther nods as if he understands, which he couldn’t possibly, because where he technically assumes a mantle of service to Camelot, he was birthed to it. Merlin chooses his place here.

Merlin chooses Arthur.

He swears, every minute he spends with the man just sinks him further and further, lost to the warlock entirely, even though Arthur had been certain he was at the bottom before any of this even occurred.

“I will be honest,” Uther muses, “I am starting to see why my son likes you.”

Merlin, to Arthur’s surprise, bows his head to hide his pink cheeks, playing it off like a polite and silent “thank you.” Arthur removes his hand from Merlin’s and slips an arm around his waist. Leave it to Merlin to stand firm in the line of a King’s judgment, and buckle under half-baked praise.

Duly noted.

“Is that all?”

“Actually,” Uther says, “I’m sure you’ll pleased to hear I’ve tossed Edmond in a cell until tomorrow morning, because you and I both know—“

“There are few ways to make a man like that listen,” they chorus, and Arthur smiles, incredibly pleased at the idea of Edmond all wrapped up in silk and fine fabrics, cold and damp in a dirty old cell. “Thank you, father.”

Uther waves his hand dismissively, but cannot help a slight smile at his son’s glowing approval.

“Away with you both. I will see you tonight.”

And Uther does, sitting with their chairs and knees touching, speaking in soft voices and drinking far too much wine, pink cheeks and bright smiles and a love like he remembers. Uther does not wholly understand his son’s affinity for his manservant, but he can understand being young, reckless, and excited to share breath with someone excited to share breath with you.

Yes, Uther, like Arthur, is quite pleased with this paramour. Quite pleased.

[Bonus Content]

Same Universe, Sillier Plot!

#fanfiction #lgbtq #writer #fanfic #merthur #merlinbbc #merlin bbc #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #i did all my gushing on the teaser post so #i've really got nothing to say #hopefully if ppl come here from tik tok they aren't disappointed #i would be so sad #(but if you are feel free to give me constructive criticism)#gay

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