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[personal profile] tourdefierce
Title: The Gift Boy (like gift horse, except with a cock in his mouth)
Author: [ profile] tourdefierce
Rating: NC-17 (is there a rating higher than this?)
Warnings: Underage, age disparity of fifteen or more years, dub-con, dirty talk, shamelessness, language, canon-AU and generally, a ridiculous amount of porn. I have no excuse for this. I'm sorry.
Word Count: 7,600
Summary: King Arthur is presented with a gift that will tempt him far beyond anything he has ever experienced before. (Or the one where Merlin's a boy Druid, shamelessly wants Arthur's cock and Arthur just sort of freaks out all over the place. Also, there are orgasms.)
Author's Notes: So, there really isn't any excuse for this lengthy porn with little to no plot or redeemable characterization. I'm truly, seriously, sorry but ya know, what am I supposed to do with it? This originally started as entry for [ profile] summerpornathon but after I wrote the first draft, it was 5K. I gave up on trying to cut it down to 750 words and have just now gotten around to finishing it and cleaning it up. [ profile] lemniciate offered to beta for me because she loves me even though I'm weird. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Arthur swallows the bile from his throat.

"I'm not sure I understand the purpose of this ritual," he says roughly. The Druid King smiles and it only angers Arthur more. He is King of Camelot and does not need this woodland dweller to pander to him.

"As a sign of goodfaith, in light of the recent peace treaty between the people of Camelot and the magical kingdom," the Druid King says, gesturing behind him, "we have decided to give you the greatest gift by the Old Religion, the greatest gift magic has ever seen, to prove to you that we are loyal to your crown."

"You've signed the treaty. I need no further proof."

The Druid King shakes his head. "We plead that you accept, King Arthur. It is important to us that you do."

The room goes a bit restless. The Druid's face is calm and light but his words carry weight. Arthur can feel his headache rising as the room swells with uncomfortable tension. Arthur sees Leon palming the hilt of his sword and Lancelot's brow creasing as he watches the way the Druid King smiles.

"Very well," Arthur says firmly. "Camelot accepts your proof of loyalty. May peace reign between our people for many days."

Applause erupts, tentative at first but it gains momentum as the envoy from the Druid kingdom bows. The Knights all nod in return but it is only when the Druid King takes to his knee that all the tension finally seeps from the room.

Although the rest of the court may be relieved, Arthur feels uneasy and ill at the way the Druid King looks too pleased, his features wide and eyes glinting: "Oh yes, King Arthur, peace indeed."


When Arthur returns to his chambers that night, there is a lithe young man sitting in front of his fire. He's very pale, almost as pale as Morgana, but the firelight makes his skin glow. He has a messy mop of black hair and when he turns toward the noise of Arthur entering the chambers, the line of his cheeks are clear—the bow of his mouth and the blue of his eyes nearly make Arthur weak at the knees in their sharp but youthful beauty.

"Who are you?"

The young man smiles, coyly with fluttering lashes. "I'm your gift, King Arthur."

"Excuse me?"

"The Druids have given me to you," the young man continues. "My people have much knowledge at their disposal, Sire."

Arthur's blood runs cold and he fights the urge to draw his sword. It is so difficult, in times like these, to detect mocking in the light of his own shame. "What is the meaning of this?" His voice is steel-sharp and low but the pale boy appears unaffected.

He smiles, teeth sharp inside his lovely mouth. "Our Seers believe that you have never taken the pleasure of a woman," the boy says and Arthur chokes on his rage, "but that you desire only men in the company of your bed."

"The company of my bed is no business to the Druid people," Arthur sneers out. "And you? Who are you? An orphan boy given away as if you are a trinket? I am High King of Camelot, do you not think that I can find my own bed warmers? I need not the comfort of a whore."

He shakes his head, as though it is Arthur who is mistaken, and stands, his robe falling to pool at his waist. Arthur focuses on his anger, the humiliation in this revelation and not the undeniable arousal that shakes through him.

The boy is stunning.

He is almost too thin, the bones beneath his flesh protruding, but Arthur can't focus on what sort of malnourishment this boy has when his skin, so pale and delicate, is painted. The ink swirls at his shoulder and dips low across his chest, curving to lace around a pale pink nipple. It darts across his upper abdomen and trails down his side to curl and lick around his hip. It's hypnotic, the way he stands—not proud nor shy, but confident in the way a young colt bolts from the stables for the first time. The ink looks black, but when the boy shifts it shimmers in the darkness and becomes a deep, forest green, flecked with gold.

Arthur looks away, struggling to pull his gaze back up to the boy's eyes.

"I'm Emrys," he says, voice low now. "I am the Druid who brought your father's kingdom to its knees. I am the most powerful thing this world has seen, dear King. Why wouldn’t you want this sort of comfort?"

Arthur bristles. "You? My father was twice the man of you, Emrys. You're hardly more than a boy."

This time, when Emrys smiles, it's wicked. Arthur watches, mouth dry, as he pulls at the tie at his waist to reveal the length of his manhood. It's already hard, whether from his exhibition or his words, Arthur doesn't know, but its length is substantial. It curls, bobbing as he palms it, his mouth opening in pleasure—making Arthur's heart pound and his palms sweat.

"Age is but a number, King Arthur," Emrys says, his long legs propelling him closer until Arthur is forced to take a step back to keep their skin from touching.

It is not just a number. Arthur is almost thirty years of age and this boy is much, much younger. He looks like he could be fifteen—at the oldest.

"What makes your people think that I would ever take to bed the ma—the boy—who killed my father?"

Emrys tilts his head, and Arthur feels vulnerable, stripped too bare by this boys striking gaze. He shivers, both in arousal and from the creepy way Emrys' eyes make his skin tingle. He steps away again but there is little room between him and the wall now, with Emry's leaking cock head between them.

"I do not desire you," Arthur forces out. "You are nothing but a weapon that I do not intend to use."

"You are lying."

Arthur snarls. "I am your King now, you insubordinate thing. You will be silent."

Heat rises to Emrys' cheeks. "Well, my King," he leers with as much disdain as arousal. "I shall await your orders since you are unhappy with who I am."

He looks embarrassed, Arthur thinks, and too petulant at being rejected but his words are cold and hurt. Emrys sweeps out of the room into Arthur's antechamber, his robe magically floating behind him, leaving Arthur, erection straining against his trousers, and chest heaving, completely, utterly confused.


Arthur wakes to find a lap-full of naked Druid boy.

"It is my destiny," Emrys says, eyes wide and blown with arousal. "It's my destiny to be here, to touch you—to serve you, my Lord."

Arthur sputters, trying to push him off but Emrys only shakes his head, waves a hand and Arthur feels his own hands pinned to headboard. The stretch is exquisite, so soon waking, but the arousal at first waking and at the sight of Emrys' naked and eager body wars with the panic that swells in his stomach.

"You will cease this madness," Arthur snarls but Emrys is already pressing his slippery cock to Arthur's lap and pushing away the linen to reveal Arthur's arousal. He feels his own shame burn white-hot at being thus revealed, his cock slapping against his stomach and leaking at the hungry stare Emrys treats it with.

Emrys licks his lips.

"You don't mean that," he says with joy, writhing on Arthur's lap and pressing their groins together. Arthur's erection strains, eager to touch the expanse of Emrys' offered flesh and enjoy this unexpected gift. His cock is a traitor to the crown—unrepentant in its desire to take what this boy is so willingly offering. Arthur struggles, growling fiercely as his cock slides against Emrys' and Emrys moans, too high-pitched and loud for the quiet stillness of the morning.

"Sire, I will serve you as my destiny commands. Please, please you have to let me," Emrys pleads, leaning forward so that he can stutter his hips in tiny little circles, designed for his pleasure. Arthur cannot look away, as much as he wants to.

The boy's voice breaks, his eyes wide and his skin flushed.

"Is magic making you this way?" Arthur asks because Emrys seems feverish with lust and Arthur has done nothing but sleep since their first meeting—he's done nothing to provoke these actions from Emrys. Light is not even visible through the windows yet, but Emrys is eager and Arthur is reeling with the firm press of their groins together.

"I am magic, my Lord. We are not separate from another."

"Emrys," Arthur starts, swallowing his anger. It's clear that this boy is not under his own control, manipulated into the situation by the rest of the Druid people. It's not his fault—no matter how willingly he shoulders his duties. Arthur looks at the hard flush of Emrys' cheeks and the buzz of magic that hums around him and wonders how any people could be comfortable at the whims of magic.

"I will not take a boy to bed because he is a slave to his people. They gave you to me like a thing, but I shall not use you like one," Arthur says firmly.

Emrys whimpers, biting his bottom lip and looking desperately close to begging. Arthur attempts to banish the thought from his mind but then Emrys is speaking: "Please, you have to, please."

"Gods," Arthur can't help but moan as Emrys ruts against him. Arthur's body ache with want. "Emrys, you need to leave. I am a strong man, but I cannot resist—."

This seems to brighten the boy and he moans, mouth wide and swollen as he shoves two fingers inside his mouth and suckles, wet and sloppy around them. Arthur thrashes, bucking up against Emrys' arse and unable to look away, even though his conscience says his must.

"The Seers are never wrong," Emrys says, taking the fingers out of his mouth and circling his own nipples with the wet fingertips. "They told me you would have me, that you would let me suck on your pretty cock—that you would let me do all the things destiny has promised me. Is that true? Oh Sire, tell me it's true—that I was created for you and your pretty cock-thing."

He leans down, blues eyes swirling with gold and makes a pained noise that shoots spine-melting arousal to Arthur's cock.

"Are you all right? Emrys," Arthur chokes out, watching as the boy's eyes go completely molten. "Emrys! Are you all right?"

Emrys shakes his head, cupping his length and crying out again. "No, no, no, Sire, I need you, please let me," he whimpers, leaning down to nuzzle at Arthur's sweaty chest like a young colt. "I want to, My Lord, please, please—"

Arthur breaks.

"Yes, all right, Gods," but Arthur can barely get the words out before Emrys has swallowed down Arthur's cock. Emrys chokes, clearly inexperienced but too desperate to care, saliva runs, wet and thick down Arthur's throbbing erection and Arthur shouts at the sudden, overwhelming pleasure. Emrys swallows frantically down Arthur's length and looks up with golden eyes.

"Shh, Emrys. It's okay," Arthur whispers but his voice sounds impossibly weak. Emrys simply clutches at his hips harder, devouring Arthur's cock in the sloppy heat of his mouth and sending Arthur quickly to the edge of his release.

Emrys starts to suck, like a babe—the sound filthy, atrociously obscene, but Arthur doesn’t have time to be shamefaced as Emrys sucks until his cheeks hollow out, moaning around the head of Arthur’s cock like the taste of Arthur’s precome is succulent.

“Gods, oh,” Arthur moans, so close as Emrys makes another pass, gorging himself on the length of Arthur’s cock and then making the most pleased noises when Arthur bucks into his mouth and chokes him. Emrys nails dig into the flesh and bone of Arthur’s hips as he pulls, urging Arthur to fuck his face with alarming speed and force. Arthur feels pleasure war with shock as Emrys chokes, over and over again, on the head of Arthur’s cock and then moans, eager to take it again. Each time, he tries to go too far and his throat flutters maddeningly over the head of Arthur's cock and tempts him into climax. The boy's eyes are still gold, hazy and piercing as he moans, lips spread wide and red with Arthur's girth.

In the end, Arthur makes a few pathetic oh, ohs, and arches into Emrys' needy mouth when he comes. Emrys pulls back sharply, eyes closed in perfect ecstasy as Arthur comes in streaks across his swollen, fucked out, mouth. Arthur’s eyes refuse to close as Emrys cries out in climax. Emrys' head tilts back, forehead messy with sweat and his unruly hair; his face streaked with come and saliva; his mouth tumescent from the rough slide of Arthur's cock; all of his features twisted up in pleasure that seems to hurt him as it barrels through him. Arthur can’t see the jerk of the boy's cock, but he can see the long, ropey strands of come hit Emrys’ chin and Arthur's balls.

Arthur is blissfully in shock, his body too roped down in pleasure to respond. This is wrong, his mind screams, he’s but a boy and here against his free will. Indeed, when Arthur opens his mouth to apologize—to order this beautiful but dangerous thing away—Emrys only whimpers and leans forward until his mouth presses against Arthur’s.

The kiss is sloppy, Emrys’ tongue laving and pushing until Arthur can taste himself on the boy’s lips. Emrys whimpers, clawing closer to Arthur and the mess between them. His kiss is savage at first, too strung out with pleasure to be elegant or useful but it turns liquid when Emrys pulls back to take a deep gulping breath, almost as sob. The next kiss is softer, more vulnerable and gentle, like Emrys is kissing a statue of his God—worshipping and grateful.

“Thank you, my liege,” he whispers against Arthur’s lips, so reverent, like a prayer. Arthur stares, as the boy licks at Arthur’s mouth a few more times. His face is still streaked with Arthur's come. “Thank you so very much.”

With that, he curls up on Arthur’s chest, his bones sticking out underneath his too pale flesh. Arthur looks down at his raven hair and blinks away his shock as his hands are released without a word. In fact, the boy already seems to be asleep, even with the filth squelching between them as he rubs his face against Arthur's chest.

“Emrys, you can’t lie in bed with me,” Arthur states. “It is improper.”

He doesn’t move, simply nuzzles into Arthur, sighing into his chest and slipping further into sleep. Arthur rubs halfheartedly at his wrists, willing the feeling to come back into his hands. But by the time it does, he is too intoxicated by this sleep-heavy pleasure to move either of them.


Arthur orders the boy—this Emrys thing—away from him. He puts him to work in the stables, in the kitchens, in any place that will take him. Emrys seems to be possessed with some kind of wickedness that Arthur can't get out of his mind. He sees him in the corridors and hallways, always sullen and cheeky but Arthur looks away, determined not to fail and fall for this weakness again. He does not stroke himself at night, even though his cock curls hard and eager against his belly—thoughts of Emry's swollen mouth or his pleading words or the most shameful way he thanked Arthur for the taste of his come—for the length of Arthur's cock choking the boy's throat.

He will fall for the temptation and is resolute in his will.

He refuses to be a pawn for the Druids to laugh at. He is not a slave to his desires and he won’t let this clearly bewitched boy be a casualty of the Pendragon struggle with magic. He is better than that.

A king's will must be.


This arrangement lasts barely two fortnights. Arthur is surprised it's lasted this long at all with the way that Emrys openly stares at him in court as though he wants to devour Arthur on the high table or the way the boy scowls, fierce and openly hateful, across the hall when Arthur runs into him when Emrys is carrying water for Lord Lackty.

Arthur is taking his dinner in his rooms, looking over a peace agreement that Leon has been working on, when Emrys bursts into his rooms.

“I have cleaned kitchens, folded linens, helped seamstresses and cooks—even run errands for very old and creepy nobles, who, by the way, should not be allowed to look at the staff like that, but I am drawing the line. This is awful and I won’t do it. I will not clean a single chamber pot,” he cries. “You can’t make me!”

He is clearly angry, face red with embarrassment and fury, but dammit if it doesn’t make him look lovelier. His ire makes his body tremble and his mouth pout with indignation.

Arthur looks away.

“You’ll do as I command,” he states plainly. “You are my gift and I shall use you as I see fit.”

“You’re a filthy liar.”

Arthur felt his own anger prickle. “You will not speak to me this way.”

“Or what? What will you do, Sire?” Emrys reeks of taunt, eyes fiery with loathing and a deep seated defiance that shocks Arthur and fills him with arousal. Who is this boy-thing, ready and willing to stand up to the High King, all for the pain of cleaning chamber pots?

“I’ll have you whipped,” Arthur says, trying to tame his voice into the aloof control his father always had when dealing with insignificant subordinates. “A nice flogging should set you right.”

Curiously, Emrys' cheeks heat further. Arthur shakes his head and refuses to think about it. He does not turn to look at Emrys but stares, unseeing, at the parchment in front of him.

“Take me over your knee then.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur looks up shocked.

Emrys smiles, wide and wicked, going to shuck off his tunic and push down his breeches before Arthur can blink. “You should take me over your knee,” he repeats, stepping out of his breeches and pulling at his cock. Gods, it is just as lovely as Arthur remembers—thickening underneath his hands until it curves up, welling into hardness with incredible quickness that comes only with stunning youth. It’s thick, red and dripping within moments and Arthur has to fight to look away from it's place between the boy's pale thighs.

“I would like it so very much, Sire, so very much,” Emrys coos, demurely, coming closer to where Arthur sits, paralysed with arousal. “I would love it if you would spank me. I’ve been so naughty,” he continues and Arthur feels his mouth go dry.

“I’ve been rude to everyone and at night, oh at night,” Emrys continues, now close enough that he looms over Arthur with his lithe and weedy body. His cock, leaking steadily as he actually presses into Arthur’s arm.

“This is—”

“It’s naughty, I know,” Emrys says, eyes flashing as he blinks false innocence. “At night though, Sire, at night, I pull at my cock and think about you. I make myself spill seed all over my fingers and all over the sheets.”

Arthur chokes at little. God, he is so hot and aroused. He just shakes in his chair, trying desperately not to lean into the tiny jerks of Emrys’ hips or stare too long at his leaking cock. But it's practically impossible and the boy is shameless.

“But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Emrys, don’t—” Arthur snarls but Emrys is already climbing on top of him and settling on his lap, the position a throwback to memories so intense that Arthur finds himself moaning. Emrys smiles a smug grin and grinds his arse against Arthur’s lap. He is more graceful than he first appears. His long and gangly limbs look awkward, as if he has yet to truly grow into them, but they fold into Arthur's lap as if it's an everyday occurrence. Even his lean torso undulates gracefully, his inked skin moving with the sinew of his body.

He is every bit the temptation Arthur has been fighting.

“I know I shouldn’t,” he whispers, coming closer and writhing, as if possessed. “But afterwards, I take my fingers, so slick with my own release and I put them inside me. I fill myself up and think of you—because you should be here, inside of me but you’re not and it makes me so sad, so lonely,” Emrys continues, words on a whine.

“I just want to feel you inside me, good Sire.”

Arthur watches as Emrys grinds himself back on Arthur’s thick but clothed erection a few times. It is amazing, watching the desire play across his face and before Arthur knows what is happened, Emrys is coming. He climaxes with thick spurts of come, it splatters his chest as he cries out and bucks back, as if his entrance really is that needy for Arthur’s flesh. He jerks and comes and comes.

After, he stares at Arthur under his sooty eyelashes and says, “why won’t you take me? It’s so unfair.”

He leaves, naked and covered in come, flouncing in a full out sulk before Arthur can articulate a single thought—let alone an answer.


The next day, Arthur makes a decision.

“Leon,” he snaps after the council meeting. “Ready two horses.”

“Your destination, my Liege?”

Arthur looks at the casual splay of Emrys’ legs, how he strokes his thighs idly and smirks at Arthur over his bowl of grapes.

“We are to see the Lady Morgana,” he snarls out, feeling petty with anger and arousal and like he is being mocked—laughed at by the whole of the court. It disgusts him. “Emrys and I will ride out after lunch.”


Arthur is tending to his mount straps when Emrys presses in tight behind him. He goes still, like a small animal trying to avoid detection and Emrys huffs a laugh against his ear.

“An afternoon ride?”

Arthur jerks a strap. “Nonsense. This is not a bloody courting gesture, you improper animal. We are going to my step-sister for a cure. You cannot be in your right mind and I will not have you plaguing my court with lechery.”

Emrys laughs. “Oh, King, aren’t you so darling.”

This time, rage gets the better of him and Arthur spins around. Emrys’ face is full of tease, amusement lighting across his features just as attractively as rage. Arthur wants nothing more than to smack the insubordination straight out of him.

“Do not mock me,” he growls out, gritting his teeth.

Emrys shakes his head, playing doe-eyed again. “No, Sire. To the Lady Morgana’s we must go,” he says, with mock seriousness. “I fear that libertine fever is catching.”

He prances away.

Arthur doesn’t watch his arse. He does not under any circumstances watch that pert and annoying arse prance away. He takes a few deep breaths, willing the tension to ease from his shoulders and to find the calm the quests of his youth trained him to delve into when faced with will-testing situations.

When Arthur goes to mount his horse, Emrys is there.


Emrys smiles. “I don’t know how to ride.”

“Oh bloody buggering fuck.”


Arthur arrives at Morgana’s with the following things: a headache, a throbbing arousal and absolutely not a fondness for Emrys’ voice, which, as it turns out, he uses often as he prattles on about everything under the sun. It’s not endearing. It’s not adorable. Nor does Arthur feel a pang in his chest when he speaks of his Druid family, how they took his mother in when she was pregnant and alone—how he misses the kind faces of the Ealdor camp and the river he and his lads used to swim in.

When Emrys stays behind to coo at the horses, Arthur is grateful for even a moment of reprieve.

“I’ll send for you,” Arthur says, walking up the stairs to the small castle.

I’ll send for you,” Emrys repeats, mockingly. “You’re kind of a prat, you know?”

Arthur scowls and refuses to turn around.

If Morgana’s dogs, vicious and flesh eating hounds that they are, eat the kid alive, Arthur won’t cry a single tear.


When Arthur patiently explains the situation—going into details that are morally horrific and so far beyond the proper and chivalrous way to speak to anyone, let alone a lady of the royal court—it's only to get her to understand that this is serious and would she please stop making that face.

“Oh dear,” Morgana says, not looking concerned at all. “That certainly sounds frightening.”

“Are you—” Arthur says,before stomping his foot in rage. “Are you laughing at me?”

At this, Morgana gives up any pretence of decorum and laughs. The laughter shakes her slim frame, unattractively, as she snorts and giggles into her hand. Arthur tries not to let it enrage him further but it’s Morgana—her sole purpose in life has been to annoy him since she came to Camelot and she is remarkably well versed in the practice.

“This is serious,” Arthur hisses. He feels the heat on his cheeks and hates her fiercely, the way she so easily manipulates his weakness, his faults, without even trying.

Morgana finally takes a sip of water and a deep breath. When she looks back at Arthur, calm now, her eyes still dance with mirth.

Arthur wishes, not for the first time, that he had just burned her at the stake for her magic, instead of giving her a castle.

“He’s incorrigible! He’s making my desire into a sight for mocking for the entire kingdom. Do not tell me that those roguish Druids are not taking delight in my dealings with this boy.”

Morgana sighs. “They are doing you a favor. Unlike Camelot, the Druid people are not ruled by tedious laws made up by celibate old men like Geoffrey.”

“Geoffrey is a good man.”

“Be that as it may,” Morgana says sternly, “the Druids operate heavily under prophetic rule.”

Arthur stares, his mind trying to wrap around a complete society that could actually function like that and then around the fact that these people are now under his rule. Gods, that’s going to be a diplomatic debacle to rival all others.

“So there’s a prophecy somewhere that told the Druids that if they gave me this—this, slut-boy—that I’ll be kind to them and rule in their favour?”

Morgana shrugs. “I could look it up if you wanted me to.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Yes, if you would be so kind, since clearly you have a busy schedule.”

Morgana flashes him an evil smile and flounces her way over to a bookshelf in the corner of the room. Arthur glares at her back. This is why he stuck her out here, because she was ridiculous, always meddling in affairs of state and generally being a nuisance. When Uther had died, Morgana hadn’t asked to come back. There is a part of him that wishes that she would, that if she were there then maybe this magical business wouldn’t trouble him so much but the other part of him knows that she would take too much delight in his constant failings with the magical community to be of too much help.

“All right,” she says, bending over the book and watching as the pages turn without any aid. “His name?”

“Excuse me?”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “The druid boy, who you want to tumble so severely, what’s his name?”

“Oh,” Arthur says and absolutely doesn’t blush. “His name is Emrys.”

Her eyes snap to his immediately.


“Yes,” Arthur grinds out. “That’s his name, or at least that’s what he told me his name was. I told him I’d summon him, so if you would rather just ask him yourself—”

Morgana stands, eyes wide. “He’s here?”

“Yes, of course he is! Morgana, what the bloody fuck is this—”

But she’s already leaving the book on the throne and running (so very unlady-like) out of the room. Arthur stands there, looking around at the empty room for a few spare moments before he takes off after her. She seems to run around the entire castle before finally coming to the stables where, yes, naturally, Emrys is still cooing at one of the horses and generally being a filthy peasant by feeding it prized venison strips and the most succulent apple slices.


The boy startles looking up in surprise that quickly morphs into delight.

“My lady Morgana,” he says, before stepping into a deep bow.

It is more royal treatment than Arthur has even seen from Emrys. To know that he understands some amount of decorum but simply declined to use it with Arthur stings more than it should. Arthur tries to look nonchalant but mostly succeeds in only being enraged.

“I feel like we’ve known each other for a lifetime,” Morgana says, and launches herself at Emrys'. He catches her with ease, even though she is only a few inches shorter than he is and probably weighs just as much in the heavy cloth of her gowns. Their embrace is familiar and tender.

Something that feels an awful lot like jealousy wells inside of Arthur.

“Would someone please explain to me what in the gods is going on here?” He snaps because he’s tired, still too keyed up from the ride over and dammit, things with Morgana are never easy and he is tired of expecting them to be so and finding himself lost in another interaction with her.

When they both pull away, Emrys has the nerve to smile at him. Morgana at least smirks.

“Yes,” she says idly, “I see the fondness Emrys has for you is unreciprocated.”

“Morgana,” Arthur growls.

Emrys blushes and Arthur’s eyes linger over the pretty pink of his cheeks. Arthur settles for glaring at Morgana and crossing his arms.


She rolls her eyes again, because she’s a wicked witch and says, “I’ve been seeing Emrys since his birth. He’s come to me in my visions and we’ve spent a great deal of time gossiping about how awful you are.”

Arthur blinks. “You’ve been conspiring against me?”

“Oh hush, you great infant,” she replies, like he’s the one over reacting. Emrys looks down at his feet with embarrassment and Arthur tries to not let his own show. “Emrys is the greatest magical being to grace the land since long before our time, Arthur, and his destiny, although I’ve never figured out why he would waste his time on someone like you, is to fall in love with you and make you the greatest king of Albion.”

Shock doesn’t even begin to cover it.

"Destiny?" Arthur screeches out. "Strategically placing a Druid in the kingdom of Camelot is not destiny. Sending a boy to seduce and bewitch the king is not destiny. It is a plot against the kingdom—a plot against the people of Camelot!"

As an afterthought, Arthur adds: "Besides, he’s barely five and ten!"

Merlin looks affronted.“I’ll be sixteen soon! Plus, you’d get off with someone—”

Emrys is cut off by Morgana. “Ha! Oh how the high and might have fallen! You’ve been trying to paint yourself as a perfect picture of chastity. You, good King Arthur, are a lecherous old man.”

"I am not old!" Arthur squawks. Emrys, for his part, acts like a petulant child. "And can we please focus on the treason?"

“I wish he was more lecherous,” he whines, ignoring Arthur entirely. “It’s challenging the destiny of Albion when he’s as stubborn as he is. Both times, he’s been completely uncooperative.”

Morgana shakes her head, long curls shining in the sunlight.

“He’s a fool,” she hisses, grabbing Emrys’ hand. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Oi!” Arthur yells. “I’m standing right here, listening to you both commit treason, by the by, and Morgana, you’re being a heinous harpy. I demand that you treat me with the respect of both my station and yours.”

Morgana stands stock-still. Emrys is gaping, his mouth going wide with shock and then, surprisingly, he looks a little angry. Morgana hisses, drawing her cloak around her.

“I have half a mind to curse you, you ungrateful prat,” she spits out and exits the stable without so much as an backward glance.

Arthur watches her go and, not for the first time, wonders why every single conversation they have ends in tempers.

“She’s right, you know.”

Arthur turns back to find Emrys sitting down in a bed of hay. He looks dangerously appealing with the summer light streaming in the cracks of the wooden boards. His legs are sprawled obscenely, although without intention, and Arthur finds himself wanting him again—as if he's been bewitched.

All the anger rushes out of him.

“She usually is,” Arthur says, moving to collapse next to Emrys, careful not to touch his arm. “It’s why I never listen to her.”

Emrys laughs and Arthur closes his eyes and listens to the sound.

A few moments pass, with Emrys tense beside him and Arthur wonders if this situation they've found themselves in is really as innocent as Morgana and Emrys claim. It makes him uncomfortable to think about people who haven't even met him, looking into his future and speculating on his bedmates in conjunction with the worth of his kingdom and the success of his reign.

"So what does the prophecy state?"


Arthur opens his eyes to glare at Emrys' gobsmacked expression. "This prophecy? You know, the one you're basing all your obscene actions on. What does it say?" He looks away when Emrys smiles because it's too soft in the afternoon sunlight—too beautiful.

"My destiny lies in Camelot," he says simply.

"What happens after I give into my desires, after my weakness for men is paraded and mocked," Arthur says but without anger. If it is all destiny, if it is all written long ago... can it be changed? What's the point in resisting any longer if the results will be the same? He feels completely out of control. Look at him! Confiding in a Druid boy, likely a threat to the kingdom, just because he is handsome and kind. "Do you take the throne in the end? Do I become a puppet for you to play out your agenda? What's the final result, Emrys?"

“I never meant to make a mockery of your desire.”

“It is no secret,” Arthur says tightly, which is true. That Camelot is ruled by a lover of men is no secret, although it is a dirty truth that seems to tarnish Camelot’s past and it’s future. “I’m not ashamed.”

“I know,” Emrys says. His voice is soft, not pitying, and it causes Arthur to open his eyes. Emrys’ face is open, full of wonder and admiration. Arthur clears his throat but he doesn’t look away.

"But Arthur," he says, with blue eyes wide and clear. "You are destined to rule Camelot through the Golden Age of magic—through the rise of a great Albion ruled by one noble and valiant king. I am not here for the throne. I am here for you."

Arthur's cheeks burn. He is accustomed to the desire of his subjects but Emrys' seems as if they're coming from a completely different place than Arthur is used to—an honest and gentle hallow of his desire that aches so openly across his face.

"I know of obligations to my people, Emrys. I am no fool," he continues, his words a struggle. "Whatever burden you carry from you people? I release you from it."

“I’m here because I want to be,” Emrys whispers, his hand moving to envelop Arthur’s. “I’m here because I was created to touch you, to be with you—to empower you. I am a gift only in my magic, not of my body. That is something I give to you out of my own freewill.”

The words Arthur wants to stay stick in his throat. “Emrys—”

“No,” he says, scrambling to settle into Arthur’s lap. “Emrys is the prophecy's name for me. My mother named me Merlin." He looks sheepish when he continues. "I was too busy trying to get you to take me to bed to mention that, but I actually wish for you to call me Merlin."

Arthur rolls the name on his tongue, “Merlin.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, pulling at Arthur’s hands until they settle at the narrow base of his hips. “Now, if it pleases you, King Arthur, I would really quite like it if you put your cock in me.”

Arthur laughs. Merlin smiles, mischief apparent. “Please...”

This time, he grinds back on Arthur’s lap and Arthur can feel his arousal hum through him. He grips Merlin’s waist and watches as Merlin licks his lips, the familiar position bringing back the knowledge that Merlin is nothing his innocent eyes belie.

“Here?” Arthur asks; his cock is already straining his breeches. “It’s not appropriate--”

Merlin bites at Arthur’s lip hard enough to make him hiss. Merlin looks unapologetic. “Don’t you dare deny me,” Merlin says, his tone more of a whine. “I want this. I’ve dreamt about it.”

“Have you?”

Merlin nods, reaching down to pull one of Arthur’s hands to the front of his breeches, where the thick length of him lies hot underneath Arthur’s palm. “When I was young, I used to dream of your voice and since I was fourteen, I dreamed about your cock for the first time—how it would feel weighing down my tongue; breaching my virgin hole; spilling inside me and filling me up with your seed—I dreamt it all and touched myself, thinking about this part of my destiny. Oh, yes, Arthur.”

“Gods,” Arthur groans, hand kneading Merlin's erection.

Merlin simply bucks into his hand, head hanging in pleasure, as they both watch the way Arthur moves back and forth, down Merlin’s thigh as he squeezes and strokes Merlin’s cock.

“I dreamt about your fingers,” Merlin gasps, “about your whole hand inside me—your ring pressing inside me, riding your cock or your mouth—oh, oh—sitting on your face and having you fuck me there, with your tongue inside me to lick up the evidence of your seed. Arthur, gods!”

Arthur watches, transfixed, as Merlin comes underneath his palm. The stain blooms, dark and rich, against the front of Merlin's breeches. It's wet and sticky against Arthur's hand as he rubs him through it, stroking the length of his cock through the damp fabric. Merlin's head is thrown back, exposing the line of his throat and his heaving chest. He bucks, wildly into Arthur's palm, shaking like a leaf.

"Please," Merlin whines, looking up and blinking through the cloud of his pleasure. "Please, would you please just take me?"

Arthur wills himself to resist but Merlin is liquid pleasure in his lap, warm and pliant after his orgasm and so very pretty—

It's too warm in the stable but Arthur fucks into Merlin using his own come, too wrapped up in the plaint splay of Merlin's body and pleasure-heavy weight. Arthur groans in pleasure as he scoops up the evidence of Merlin's pleasure and slicks it back into him, pushing inside his fluttering hole until Merlin is hard again. He's so quick to thicken again, youth on his side, as he trembles in Arthur's grasp but thrusts back onto Arthur's slick fingers. He shamelessly seeks pleasure from Arthur's fingers, angling himself so that he cries out on every stroke and begs Arthur for more with molten eyes and kiss-bitten lips.

Arthur tries to take his time but the sounds Merlin makes seem amplified in the stable. Arthur can hear the way Merlin whimpers, crying out as Arthur works his fingers inside; he can hear the wet, slapslap of Merlin's erection against his belly; he can hear the squelching of his own fingers inside Merlin's needy hole as it clenches and grasps at his finger, pulling him further in with the sticky-slick-slide of Merlin's seed.

"Please give it to me," Merlin cries out, high-pitched and helpless as he shimmies to rub more of his body over Arthur. "Please, I need you to take me. I need it, my Liege—Arthur, oh, oh."

Until now, Arthur has been almost transfixed by Merlin, enough to ignore his own erection. But as he lines up, he feels so on edge, like he could come now and paint Merlin's delectable arse with his come.

"My King—please, my King, Arthur."

It's just babbling really but something inside Arthur snaps at hearing him like this, declaring his devotion and begging for a fuck. He's just a boy, that much is true, not yet sixteen and already so sure of himself. And yet, Arthur can't deny how much Merlin—Emrys—effects him, how much he desires him, how much this power intrigues him or how much this seemingly harmless boy has walked into Camelot and demanded nothing less than Arthur's undivided attention.

Arthur pushes into the heat just as Merlin starts to sob, whining high in his throat and bucking back. Arthur works his cock into Merlin's hole, going slow because Merlin's seed doesn't make him slick enough to slide balls deep and Merlin is virgin-tight, completely untouched by anyone's manhood except for Arthur's—except for right now. Merlin seems to lose his ability to speak then and, surprisingly, starts to chant.

When Arthur is finally fully seated inside the too hot channel of Merlin's body, there are tendrils of magic reaching out of Merlin's body and reaching back to push at Arthur's body. The golden strands push him out of Merlin's body and then pull him back in.

"Bossy," Arthur stutters out but it's lost as he looses control of his thrust, slamming home with the help of Merlin's magic. It's chaotic and wonderful, pleasure exploding everywhere and Merlin's oh, ohs going fever bright.

When Arthur's hips thrust up, lifting Merlin off the ground so that he has to clutch at Arthur's shoulders and whines, high in his throat. Arthur's blinded by his own pleasure-seeking hips, biting at Merlin's chest and scraping his teeth across the ink that lies there. He is close, the tight clench of Merlin's body too much for his cock. Merlin's body is rolling over his, almost flailing in his pleasure as he lets himself be fucked into, stuffed so full with Arthur's cock.

Arthur dedicates a few moments to sucking a deep purpling bruise beneath Merlin's collarbone and when he scrapes his teeth over the mark, flicking his tongue out to trace the edges, he can hear Merlin speaking.

It takes a few moments to figure out what Merlin is saying, his words spilling together as his cock leaks onto Arthur's chest in cascades. So wet and lovely and unbelievably beautiful.

Arthur looks up, Merlin's fingers tangled in his hair, to hear Merlin thanking him. His voice is shaky, incoherent and kittenish as he thanks Arthur: for taking him, for filling him up with seed, for letting Merlin gorge himself on Arthur's cock, for fucking him until he cries.

"Thank you, oh! Oh! Gods, Arthur, thank you."

Arthur comes with a shout, jerking and spilling inside Merlin until he's spent and mouthing at Merlin's skin. When he reaches down to stroke Merlin to completion, he finds the boy's come splattered between them, dripping off his pert nipples and collecting in splotchy spots all over his belly.

"Gods, Merlin," Arthur moans, as they both collapse onto the straw beneath them. Merlin wastes little time pushing their mouths together. Arthur kisses him like he's still fucking him, the rhythm they had carrying on to the thrust of his tongue inside Merlin's mouth. He tastes of come, the splattered streaks of his climax reaching as far as his chin. So Arthur licks that up, listening to Merlin moan and whimper.

Merlin lies right on top of him, curling up in a ball and generally behaving as if they aren't both naked in Lady Morgana's stables.

“Are you really here to help me conquer Albion?” Arthur whispers.

Merlin curls further in on himself, fingernails digging into Arthur’s bare ribs and making him raise his arms to blanket Merlin’s form.

“No,” he says softly. “The prophecy states that without my one true desire, love will never blossom and therefore, Albion will live in darkness forever.”

Arthur lets the idea roll in his mind. He tentative strokes his fingers down the bones of Merlin’s back. “And,” Arthur says, clearing his throat a little--ashamed at his tentativeness. “I’m this desire?”

When Merlin looks up, his eyes are swirling pools of gold and blue.

“You’ll likely be my only desire for the rest of time, Arthur.”

Merlin!kitty thanks you for your time.
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