He keeps the water lukewarm with a touch of his fingertips until he’s finished washing the last traces of salve from Arthur’s back. Merlin dries his golden hair with a whisper of magic, but takes his time to dry the rest of Arthur’s body with a towel. He takes so long that Arthur starts making impatient noises as he tugs at Merlin’s robes.

‘Enough with the petting, Merlin. Can you get on with it?’

‘Always the romantic,’ Merlin mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. Arthur looks mildly offended.

‘I can be romantic alright,’ he replies, somewhat petulantly. Before Merlin can call him on it, he feels Arthur’s fingers at the nape of his neck, followed by the press of their lips together in a slow, languorous kiss that almost turns Merlin’s knees and brains into pudding.

Arthur starts motioning them towards the bed while he tries (and fails) to remove Merlin’s robes. Merlin ends up getting rid of the obnoxious garments with a flick of his wrist, but he stops Arthur before he can push him to the bed. There are times when he has no objection to Arthur taking charge, but not today. Merlin could say he doesn’t want the prat to risk injuring his shoulder again… although it would not be the whole truth. The awful truth is there’s still something coiled in Merlin’s belly, there’s still fury pumping in his veins at the thought that Arthur has let anyone see him with his barriers down, that he’s let Edgar put his hands on him like that. He knows it’s irrational, he knows that Arthur would laugh at his foolishness till the sunset of mankind if he ever heard of it. It doesn’t quell the burning urge to take control over Arthur, to pin him down to the bed and stake his claim with his tongue, his fingers, his teeth, until every inch of Arthur’s body is marked as his.

When Arthur tries to reach out to him, silver threads of light and smoke pin his shoulders to the bed. His brow furrows, his expression surprised, although not shocked. It is not the first time Merlin uses magic for this sort of situation, but the times he’s felt the need to exercise his control over Arthur like this have been rare. Tonight Merlin needs this, needs Arthur completely at his mercy. He needs to break his self-control, to turn the King’s ragged breaths into desperate begs, he needs Arthur to admit he wants Merlin so much that it burns under his skin, that no other could ever make him tremble like this.

Merlin presses his mouth against Arthur’s with none of the usual gentleness, it’s violent and raw, a bruising kiss that leaves both their lips red and swollen. Once Arthur is desperately gasping for breath, Merlin’s mouth traces the line of his jaw and then moves down his neck. He doesn’t bother with kisses and nibbling, instead he sucks the tender flesh of Arthur’s throat until he sees there’s a mark left by his mouth, a mark no one could ever mistake. He feels under his tongue the throbbing of Arthur’s racing pulse, he licks and then bites down on the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Arthur lets out a gasp and his hips start to buck, reaching for a little more contact, a little more friction. Merlin will have none of it this time and his fingers grasp the hips under his body with such an iron grip he is certain there will be bruises there when the morning comes.

(He’ll make sure there are bruises there when the morning comes, he’ll make sure the print of his fingers is etched on those hips, that every inch of Arthur’s body has marks of his touch, of his mouth, marks that will unmistakably brand him as Merlin’s property).

Mine, says each one of Merlin’s burning kisses, mine, repeat his fingers when they search for that spot that makes Arthur writhe under his weight, mine claims Merlin’s entire being as he thrusts into Arthur, pining him to the mattress. Mine is the word that escapes from his lips like an oath as he comes, biting down once more on Arthur’s shoulder, feeling him shudder and come undone in his arms.

When morning comes, it finds Merlin working on Arthur’s shoulders as he makes disparaging comments on prattish kings who can’t give it a rest before straining their muscles. Arthur rolls his eyes in response, making a solid effort to look stoic although every now and then a grimace gives away his pain. Each time Merlin catches sight of it he hastens to press his lips against the back of his neck, the line of his jaw, behind his earlobe.

If it weren’t for Arthur’s invincible pride, after a while Merlin would bet he is doing it on purpose.

There’s a knock on the door. Automatically Arthur commands the visitor to enter and Merlin can’t say he’s surprised to see a beaming Edgar on the doorstep carrying a tray. When he catches sight of Merlin, his hands possessively clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, his bright smile withers and fades.

Merlin could almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

Ever the perfect manservant, though, Edgar manages to keep a straight face as he places the tray on the table, while unabashedly ogling Arthur from under his lashes.

Let him stare, Merlin thinks vindictively, his grip tightening on Arthur’s shoulders. Let him see.

And stare he does. Not that Merlin can blame him, because Arthur, clad only in his britches, is certainly a sight to behold. His disheveled hair catches glints of the sunlight pouring through the windows; dark golden stubble roughening his face; the vastness of a clear summer sky caught in his eyes…

Not to mention his broad, lean chest and strong arms, adorned with the marks of Merlin’s teeth and fingers.

Arthur’s face remains impassive, as though he were truly oblivious to Edgar’s smoldering gaze or Merlin’s possessive touch. His voice is polite although firm when he speaks.

‘That shall be all, Edgar. You may go.’

The boy can hardly pretend there are any more dishes to accommodate on the table, but he still dwindles for a moment, fiddling with his cuffs. After one last, longing glance at Arthur, he bows meekly and heads towards the door. Merlin just can’t help himself.

‘Edgar.’ The boy stops in his tracks, his jaw setting into a tight line.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘There will be no need of your services helping the King dress today.’

Something flashes in Edgar’s eyes then – before his gaze falls to Merlin’s hands, still gripping Arthur’s shoulders and he seems to realize this is already a lost battle. Bowing his head once more, he closes the door carefully on his way out.

‘Was that really necessary?’

Arthur’s tone is only mildly annoyed, his eyes shinning with that odd mixture of exasperation and reluctant affection Merlin has grown accustomed to.

The sorcerer glares at him, his suspicions about the King’s so called obliviousness confirmed.

‘Yes, if you’re too much of a twat to teach the brat some boundaries,’ he says through gritted teeth. Arthur, idiot that he is, doesn’t even attempt to look ashamed of himself.

‘It’s not like you minded when I failed to reprimand you for overstepping any boundaries, did you?’

A grin tugs at the corners of Arthur’s mouth even as the curtains shake and flames burst into the fireplace, Merlin’s eyes flashing golden.

‘Don’t. You. Dare,’ he hisses in Arthur’s ear. ‘If you ever let him lay his hands on you again –’

‘What, Merlin? What would you do?’

Arthur has turned his head towards him, their eyes locking in a burning gaze. Merlin’s hand moves from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, a grip so strong that will leave bruises. Arthur doesn’t flinch away, his eyes fixed on his face.

‘Show me, Merlin.’ His breath is hot on Merlin’s skin, the tip of his tongue licking his lips before repeating: ‘Show me.’

And Merlin, for once, does just as he’s told.

Over and over again.

Incidentally, a few weeks later Edgar gets assigned to Sir Pellinor. Morgana rolls her eyes, all-knowing, and Gwen shakes her head at the boy’s look of despair but refrains from saying anything. Merlin’s message has been cast loud and clear and for once, the court of Camelot doesn’t need to be told twice.

 Then, as it couldn’t have been otherwise, the youngest son of a baron from a distant border comes to be trained as his knight and the starry-eyed look he gets every time the King is within his sight is unmistakable.

Merlin grits his teeth, even as he gives the boy a polite (though strained) smile. Arthur, the bastard, doesn’t even try to hide his amusement.

And no, Merlin doesn’t need Morgana’s cutting remarks to realize that Arthur is totally doing it on purpose. This time, though, he has a foolproof plan.

The King is puzzled by the odd looks he keeps receiving at the feast, but after checking with the reflection on his spoon that there is nothing wrong with his face, he gives it up. The court soon manages to keep their faces impassive and although Morgana riles him up by snorting into her goblet every now and then (for God’s sake, even Gwen’s lips are twitching now), Arthur does his best to remain composed and ignore the matter altogether.

(Little can he imagine that, visible for everyone but himself, across his forehead in bold letters can be read: ‘Personal Property of the Court Magician: Do Not Borrow’).