Archive of Our Own ^beta

Merlin could scarcely believe it was real.

Arthur was above him, moving inside him with the kind of tenderness that Merlin had only ever dreamed of. Every thrust sent pleasure washing up his spine, so blissful he thought it might dissolve him.

The ecstasy of it all left him shaking, clinging to Arthur’s broad shoulders, nails biting into skin as he gasped into his prince’s mouth.

It was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d been too cowardly to reach for himself.

Arthur's lips escaped his own, moving to press against his throat, his temple, his brow. Each kiss felt reverent, almost worshipful.

Soft murmuring washed past Merlin’s ears. He couldn’t make out the words themselves, but he understood the tone well enough anyway.

Love.

And Merlin—

Well.

Words couldn’t begin to capture the devotion he carried for his prince. He adored Arthur with such fierce intensity it seemed to crowd his chest, leaving him wondering how his heart still found space to beat at all.

He loved him.

He loved him so much that the guilt of his secrets crushed him with every breath, staining him even now, at the height of his joy.

He should have told him.

He should have admitted the truth long ago. That the idiot servant Arthur thought he knew — thought he loved — was actually a sorcerer, working in the shadows to protect him.

But he hadn’t.

At every opportunity, he’d bitten his tongue. He’d lied and evaded, misled Arthur until he’d twisted himself so far into a nest of lies he feared there was no escape.

And tonight, he’d only made it worse.

When Arthur had come to him, had asked for him and kissed him, Merlin hadn’t been able to say no. He was far too weak. He loved his prince far too much.

So here he was, splayed out on his prince’s bed, letting the man take him apart with thrust after careful thrust.

The curdled elation was destroying him.

Arthur’s rhythm built slowly, his hand stroking Merlin’s cock in time. Merlin couldn’t help but arch up into him, seeking more.

The noises that slipped from his throat would have been humiliating if he could even think past the storm in his head.

Arthur moved faster and faster, working Merlin helplessly towards the edge. Merlin had no hope of fighting off the pleasure that melted through his every vein. He fell with a bitten off cry, back bowing to press their chests together. He spilled into Arthur’s hand, muscles clamping down on his length as his world shattered into light.

And then it all went terribly, horribly wrong.

For a single, ridiculous second, Merlin thought he must be dreaming. The world took on a glowing hue, lighting up far more than could be explained by the sparks dancing across his vision. The bed beneath him gave a soft creak, and a moment of weightlessness indicated it must have lifted off the stone floor. Merlin’s eyes finally focused enough to see the golden lines of light tracing looping paths through the room.

Magic.

His magic.

Arthur had frozen above him. The tenderness in his face warped into something sharp and hateful. Merlin blinked. His vision caught the flash of gold in his own eyes.

Panic clawed at Merlin's throat.

“No—” he tried to say, but the word came out as a choked whimper.

Arthur scrambled backward, his cock slipping from Merlin with a wet, sick squelch. Furniture crashed down to stone with a deafening clatter, but Merlin didn’t even flinch, too enveloped in his shock to respond.

Then came the hiss of metal against a leather sheath. A sword.

Excalibur.

He was about to die.

He was about to die naked and cold and wet and by his prince’s hand. He couldn’t even dream of fighting back or even running.

He’d imagined his death hundreds of times, but never had he thought he’d feel so… apathetic.

Merlin’s brow knit. It felt like he was floating, like none of this was real. Like this was happening to someone else, and he was nothing more than a spectator.

The fading aftershocks of his pleasure mixed with distant horror, souring sickeningly in his chest. He mustered the energy to roll over and curl in on himself, arms wrapping around his body as though he could shield himself from what he knew was coming.

“GUARDS!” Arthur's roar tore through the room, but Merlin only heard it faintly. The sound was warped, quiet as though his head was submerged underwater.

A hand clamping around his arm startled him, the touch of a metal gauntlet cold and shocking. He was yanked upright, dragged from the bed, and onto the freezing stone floor.

The sharp taste of salt cut through his fog.

He was crying.

He hadn’t even noticed.

The next moments blurred — painful hands on his arms, stone scraping against bare legs and feet— until he blinked and found himself behind iron bars, chilled stone sapping the last of the warmth from his bare skin as dried straw cut into his skin.

The air was stale and sour.

He was in the dungeons. His shoulders ached and his legs felt scraped raw, but Merlin could hardly muster the will to check if he was injured, let alone care about it.

He curled inward, tucking his face to his knees and wrapping his arms tight around his core. Tears leaked from his eyes, but his sobs were silent, breath stolen by grief.

Only moments ago, he had lived the best moment of his life.

And now, he knew with utter certainty that the moment had sentenced him to death.