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“So hot,” Arthur murmurs. “So... hot.” It’s as if he can’t muster the energy to say anything else. Merlin knows how he feels. Even Arthur’s hands stroking along the sides of his ribcage feel oppressive. Every single method of cooling the room down has been tried, and nothing has helped. Still, Merlin rocks back into Arthur, slow and careful. He pauses when he’s in as far as he can go and tries not to let his trembling arms give way beneath his weight. Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead; he’s sure his face must be an unappealing shade of red at the moment. Not that Arthur seems to give a damn about anything, moaning contentedly every time Merlin moves but making no effort to move himself. He’s just lying there, his eyes closed and his jaw slack and Merlin thinks he’s so beautiful like this, even if he is doing fuck all to help. Merlin pulls back again, almost all the way out – slowly, easy does it – then slides back in. This pace is lazy, but neither of them can cope with anything more vigorous. All of Camelot has come to a standstill in this unexpected heat. The humidity hasn’t let up for days. Arthur lifts a hand, pushes Merlin’s sweaty hair back from his face, and Merlin feels himself burning where Arthur has touched him. He turns his head blindly, presses a kiss to Arthur’s palm. All Arthur can seem to manage in response is a guttural groan and his muscles clench around Merlin’s cock. Merlin bites his lip but it doesn’t stop him whimpering. “Arthur,” he whispers. Breathless and unable to think straight. Arthur’s throat works silently. There’s a thin layer of sweat covering his body too, but it only seems to make him glow, to create this image of total, wrecked perfection. His skin is almost too warm to the touch. The next time Merlin thrusts in, he makes sure he nudges against that spot that drives Arthur wild. And it doesn’t fail. Arthur’s whole body has an involuntary spasm and he grips Merlin’s arms, his eyes closed against the raw pleasure of it. He opens his mouth as if to gasp a few unthinking endearments, but all that escapes him is a shaky breath. Another pause and a wriggle. Merlin licks his lips and sets this new, steady pace. He rests a hand against Arthur’s jaw; Arthur’s fingertips scald his wrists. Camelot won’t start moving again for a little while yet. They’ve got time.