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“Teach me,” he begs, and you refrain. Tristan, Isolde, everyone else is asleep. The lone flame of the campfire gutters, the two of you its only beneficiaries; you whisper a word and it comes back to life. What does it matter that he saw? He will not remember, and no one else is awake to tell him.
“Merlin,” he says again, sitting on a log by himself in clothes too small. You feel guilty for thinking you would have a good laugh at his expense, for having had a good laugh at his expense, this man who trusts you body, mind, and soul.
“I want to learn,” Arthur insists.
“Find someone else,” you mutter. Your throat is parched, and your waterskin lies by a distant tree. You kept your belongings far from the caravan, just in case. You shoot Arthur a look — stay here — and feel your way towards the waterskin’s tree.
Arthur is dutifully sitting where you left him when you return with a wet mouth, but he’s upset. You can’t see him like this. You sit down on his log, beside him, close enough that his warmth heats you better than the fire. He wraps an arm around your shoulders.
“I won’t find anyone else,” he says, and you want to shrug his heavy arm off but he would never do this usually and you might as well cherish what little you can steal — no, no, no.
“Why won’t you? Didn’t you see that girl ogling you this afternoon?” Some pretty red-haired thing, flirty and bashful in turn, not serious about the simpleton in the slightest.
“I don’t want to kiss her,” Arthur says. “You’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted to kiss.”
“You didn’t even know what a kiss was until you saw Tristan and Isolde doing it.”
“I did know before that.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did.”
It isn’t actually a surprise when Arthur inches over the minute distance separating you and uses the hand over your far shoulder to turn your face towards him. His eyes flutter closed, eyelashes gilt and thick across his cheeks, unfeminine but spellbinding. The clumsy kiss he gives you is a watery imitation of the full-blooded performance Tristan and Isolde had inadvertently given him earlier, but you shiver under his mouth all the same. So this would be your first kiss with Arthur.
“You’re an awful kisser,” you say when you part.
Your Arthur would have scoffed and jostled you, and in another universe where he loved and wanted you, would have proven you wrong.
This Arthur is deeply crestfallen. You reach out for him when he tries to withdraw and go to another seat by the fire.
“No,” you hear yourself sighing. “No, come back, I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you whatever you want to learn.”
And when the glimmer in Arthur’s eyes refuses to leave, you swipe a thumb across his lower lip. He shyly licks at it, so you offer it again, pressing it into his mouth, leaning closer and licking the same skin he’s licking at until he’s licking into you and your hand, unnoticed, is marking a trail down his neck.
He tastes of dinner and nothing. His lips are soft. You will never forget how they feel on yours. You pull away slightly — “Breathe, Arth—” and he tugs you back and swallows the rest of whatever you were going to say. The log is uncomfortable beneath you and you shift closer to him and he notices and drags you even closer until you’re nearly in his arms and now you’re the one who’s forgotten to breathe —
Arthur pants without shame, openmouthed and sultry, probably without intending to be. Your lungs heave for breath. You can’t stop touching him. Nudging his foot with yours and brushing through his hair, carefully watching his eyes even as you press kisses into the corner of his mouth.
“Had enough?” you ask, once the thundering of your heartbeat slows.
“No.” Honest. Simple.
You might just start weeping. You lift your neckerchief, pretending to wipe the sweat off your forehead and really blinking away the tears, when Arthur speaks.
“What’s happened to your —”
Then he has a hand on your aching groin, slow and caressing, and you jolt away from him.
“No,” you say, the o shaking itself out into several syllables. “Please. Doing that would be bad.”
And maybe he understands. “Would just kissing be good?”
“Haven’t you learnt how to do it now?” Just kissing would be divine.
The fire spits; you startle and look around for eavesdroppers, audiences to your vileness. Arthur blinks.
“All right. I’m sleepy.”
“The bedrolls are over there.” Your mouth is already hungry for his again, but you’ll try to sleep.
He lies down too close to you. It doesn’t make any difference — he’s hotter than the fire he blocked. You exhale and settle in for a sleepless night. Maybe once Arthur’s fallen asleep you’ll take care of yourself. Somewhere else. And wonder if there will ever be a price to pay for what you’ve done, and who will come to exact it.
“One last kiss?”
Sneaky. King, after all.
You can’t help yourself. “All right,” and he’s already on top of you, kissing like you’ve been lovers forever. The guilt disappears under his eagerness, the hands slipping and sliding between the two of you, the hard cock rubbing against yours because handjobs are a no-no but frottage is just fucking fine. A palm strokes your nipple and you whimper helplessly into the kiss. Arthur breaks away, looking delighted.
He says nothing, just does it again, both of them, one after another, then with both hands, then with both hands under your tunic, twitching them until you’re a shuddering, mewling mess under him, unable to feel anything but the pain-pleasure of what he just did and the dampness of his come and yours staining your breeches. Anyone could’ve heard you. You’ve the devil’s luck tonight.
“What have you done?” you whisper to the night sky.
It goes unheard by Arthur, who kisses and curls into you, uncaring about his trousers. Your heart falls apart.
His snores don’t take long to sound; you whisper some more words, cleaning him and yourself, kiss his forehead as if you have any fucking right, and go over to another tree to strain to turn back time until dawn breaks.