Rating: M

A/N: Originially written for a kinkme - merlin prompt (Arthur's exhausted and enjoys Merlin sitting on his lap, fucking him gently until he comes, then cleaning and/or bathing him and putting him to bed.)

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own BBC's Merlin and take no credit for the show's plot and characters.

It was always after the most difficult battles – the ones that began right near dawn and lasted, without pause, until dusk. Arthur would return to camp, victorious more often than not, and make sure all his men were accounted for.

All of them.

So, it would be well-past dark when he finally left the fires and celebration and made his way to his own tent.

Merlin would find him there, after following him around most of the camp, and immediately set to work easing armor off of bruised and cut limbs. Arthur would merely stand there, barely keeping his eyes open, as the other man worked.

And then, he would catch sight of Merlin, actually notice him as Merlin and not his manservant, and Arthur would be struck with the thought that he could have lost Merlin that day. He could have lost Merlin or Merlin could have lost him or he could have lost Camelot. Or Camelot and Merlin – and that was the most unbearable of all.

His hands would tremble – his whole arms actually. No, it was his whole body.

Merlin had once said it was all his battle lust crashing down on him – he had so much energy prepared for use, prepped for use, and suddenly no more use for it – had once said it only crashed on him here, in his tent, because he was constantly alert out in the camp. For his men's safety.

Arthur wasn't too sure if he believed that – but he knew it was something that came over him that made him want to pull Merlin into his arms and push and pull and shove and bite and scratch until they were one, fully and completely.

Watching Merlin stacking the armor and mail in the corner, Arthur would lean back against the table, or the bed, or sit in the chair perhaps, whatever was closest really, and say softly, "Merlin."

The other would turn towards him, eyes bright in the darkening tent, and merely look at him for a moment. And, his eyes would soften slightly – because he knew what Arthur wanted and why – and he'd find the small bottle of oil they kept for use with sore muscles. Mostly.

It was, in fact, one of the only things Merlin had learned to make under Gaius' tutelage – mainly to avoid the awkward question of why Arthur ran through so much of it.

Arthur would watch as Merlin would approach him, gait slow and sometimes stiff, if Merlin had been out there too, and Arthur would want to sweep him into his arms and squeeze to ensure the other man was still there.

That Arthur still had him.

Arthur would watch as Merlin dropped his trousers and clambered up to perch on Arthur's lap – on the bed, on the chair, on the table – and gently prepare himself. Arthur would watch him with what he liked to think was love, but often feared was perhaps just lust. Or battle fervor. Or whatever Merlin liked to call it.

He wanted to reach up and do the work himself, to pull Merlin down and grasp his hips and direct his body however he wished. But, Arthur could barely raise his arms enough to brush his fingers against Merlin's thighs – every muscle in them quivered with the memory of the weight of his sword and the force he needed to drive it through enemy after enemy.

He wanted to grip into Merlin's soft hair and pull him down for kiss after kiss.

Instead, he watched as Merlin moved, around him, above him, almost nearly through him, and waited for the moments when Merlin's hands would flutter down to his shoulders and pull Arthur slightly so Merlin could bend enough to press their lips together.

Merlin would give off soft little sighs and moans, voice always quiet because of the surrounding tents and the noise from continued celebration outside, and would fix his eyes on Arthur the entire time.

"I'm still here," he'd sometimes whisper, "At your side."

And sometimes, "You were amazing, Arthur, beyond belief," with soft, gentle kisses between words.

"You kept us all safe, once again."

Or, far less often than Arthur would have liked, there was an almost breathless admission of "Didn't even need my help." Which, well, yes, he normally didn't rely on Merlin in the midst of battle. But he liked when Merlin said it because his voice held such awe, it sent a bolt of warmth straight through his chest.

And when Arthur felt the warm pressure down low, he would, sometimes, stretch his arms to the point of pain and grip on Merlin's hipbones – finally, finally – and hold him steady as he spilled his warmth into the other man.

Merlin would press another soft kiss to his cheeks and then maybe his lips and ease himself back down to the ground.

And he and Arthur would make their way, slowly, to the tub of warm water Merlin always seemed to have ready – no matter how long it had been since they left for the battlefield – but Arthur didn't care, not really, for how. He was just grateful it was there.

Merlin would ease him down into it, as much as Arthur wanted to be the one doing so to him instead, and then plop himself down into the water with far less grace. Arthur would sputter from the splash into his eyes or mouth or nose and poke Merlin with toes that protested stretching, after the day he had.

The other man would beam at him, in a sleepy way, and scavenge around the tub for a cloth.

And he would begin to gently massage the warm water into filthy bruises and cuts that stung with the warmth, but in a way Arthur far preferred to the sting from receiving them. Merlin would clean Arthur until every mark from the battle was either gone or ready to be wrapped.

Merlin's lips would always purse slightly when he cleaned the cuts and scrapes, but Arthur would give a little shrug of his shoulders – more of a tilt of his head with the way his muscles screamed – and brush his concern off.

And Arthur would take the cloth from him when he was done and scrub it against itself under the surface of the water for a moment – to get it as clean as possible – before he turned to Merlin.

Arthur would run the cloth all along Merlin, rubbing at the other's dirt patches and minute cuts, and he would wonder how someone who was supposed to remain in camp – because Merlin wasn't a knight and Arthur knew that and almost regretted even bringing him to the battlefields except for these moments here, and the moments when Merlin would make everyone laugh even though some of them may never see the next sunset – was able to get wounded in such a way.

Merlin would lean his head back and smile as Arthur worked, slow as it was, and Arthur would give a small smile of his own in reply.

And, more often than not, Arthur would give a few tugs on the hardness – slightly diminished now – Merlin had never satisfied earlier, at the table or the bed or the chair or wherever, and would relish in the sight of Merlin's surprise at the reciprocation.

The other man would hum and twist in Arthur's grip until he came with a splash and a cry that was muffled behind hands over his mouth.

They would smile at each other, maybe exchange a few, soft words, but, more often than not, just smile as if they hadn't spent the day watching men die.

Merlin would find the bath sheet somehow, even though Arthur could see the remnants of pleasure were still sending trembles through his legs, and wrap Arthur in it and then himself.
When they were both dry, or mostly at least, Merlin would carefully wrap the worst of Arthur's wounds - and sometimes Arthur would return the favor, if Merlin had severe enough injuries - and lead Arthur over to the bed to push the other man down under the blankets and sheets.

Arthur was often more asleep than awake by the end of the wash, but he would occasionally be conscious enough to notice Merlin's warmth as he slipped in next to Arthur and the fumbling of his fingers under the sheets for Arthur's hand.

He would take it, and squeeze it tightly.

If he was still awake.

Thanks for reading! Reviews always appreciated.