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merlin slash fic: strength and flexibility
Title: Strength and Flexibility
Word Count: ~2000
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Merlin is owned by BBC and Shine, not me.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: PWP. Oral sex.
Summary: A choice is made for Arthur.
A/N: This is the fourth in a series. First was Humanity, then Out of Character, then Mechanics. You need not bother with any of them to comprehend this one, though it could possibly help set the tone. It's unbeta'd, as always, because I am without a beta. How does one go about getting one of those, anyhow? Sacrificial slaughterings? Point me to the altar.
Arthur doesn't know when he decided to take dinner in his quarters again, but it takes only a second for him to realize it's a mistake. He's sitting at the table when Merlin enters with a platter of food. It's a shock to see him like this again after so many weeks of avoiding it. In the afternoon light with people all around, Arthur was almost able to forget what had happened between them. Somehow, he was able to think of him only as a servant and possible friend. Now, with the dim light throwing his angular features into a stark contrast that borders on the intimate, he can think of nothing else but the way Merlin's trembling throat had felt beneath his tongue and the gentle scrape of stubble against his cheek when he whispered into his ear, 'Does this frighten you?'
Merlin doesn't lift his eyes to meet Arthur's when he sets the platter down before him. He removes the cover and Arthur watches his fingers, the bit of wrist that's exposed, the play of tendons as he sets the lid further down the table. Merlin still won't look at him as he fills Arthur's goblet with wine. It's not until he's put down the skin and the meal is complete that he even speaks, voice low and respectful and alien.
"Do you have everything you require, sire?"
Arthur remembers how he snapped at Merlin, to learn his place and get out. That's exactly what he's doing now and it twists the breath from Arthur's lungs to know that this feeling is self-inflicted. Unbidden comes the memory of his first hunting trip with his father. He'd spent days crafting and stringing his own bow, only to have it snap in his hands when he took aim. As he cradled his bleeding fingers, his father had lectured him, not for the first time, on the delicate balance between strength and flexibility and though the words were never actually spoken, it sounded remarkably like, 'I told you so,' and 'Won't you ever learn?' Then he'd sent him back to camp to see to his injuries.
Arthur looks up into Merlin's face. His eyelashes cast faint shadows against his skin and his unsmiling mouth is relaxed and full. He's standing close enough that Arthur could reach out for him and catch his wrist, tug him closer still and take what's his. Because Merlin is his, according to the natural order of things and the law and the ruthless, possessive restlessness in Arthur's fingers.
"Yes," he says. "You may go."
Merlin does look at him then, with an expression both horribly blank and heavy with indecipherable meaning. His lips shift, like he's about to part them and end this oppressively appropriate silence, but they relax again and he executes a short, shallow bow, terribly devoid of mockery, and turns to leave. Arthur reaches for him a moment too late. This entire exchange has taken only a moment. He reaches instead for the wine. It's better this way, he knows, and it will get easier with time since he can't possibly maintain this quiet misery for much longer. If he submerges himself in this routine, it will become second nature again, until he doesn't think of Merlin at all, except when he needs his armor polished.
A sharp click draws Arthur's attention from his own reflection in the surface of the wine. He looks up and Merlin is still at the door with his hand on the lock. "Merlin? What is it?"
Merlin turns his unreadable expression back on Arthur and crosses the room to stand at his side again. He reaches out like he's going to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes hold of the back of his chair. Firelight is doing strange things to Merlin's eyes, reflecting intense yellow flames against the dark blue backdrop of his irises and Arthur can't bring himself to look away, even when his chair is twisted around like it doesn't weigh a thing and wine splashes over the rim of the goblet and down his arm.
"Merlin?"
He lets his servant take the wine and set it on the table.
"Merlin, what--"
Nothing cuts Arthur off but his own painful want. Merlin is too close, this moment too fragile, and if he speaks logic now he'll be forced into action. He'll have to acknowledge that he already knows the answer to the question he didn't ask and then he'll have to put a stop to it.
Merlin kneels and Arthur goes lightheaded. He closes fingers around Arthur's wrist and pulls it closer to him and Arthur lets it go without a struggle. He watches as if from a distance as Merlin presses lips to the backs of his fingers, one by one, and then draws his shirt sleeve back. His skin ripples into goosebumps where Merlin has touched him, but it's nothing at all compared to the shock that runs through him when the tip of Merlin's tongue burns a trail across the inside of his wrist.
Arthur bangs his head noisily on the back of his chair. Merlin looks up at him without pausing, licking up into the heel of his palm and then down his forearm, touching Arthur nowhere else, but he can feel it everywhere. When he realizes what Merlin's doing, licking up the spilled wine--literally bathing Arthur with his tongue--his breeches become painfully tight and a strangled whimper comes out of nowhere. Merlin's still looking at him, mapping Arthur's arm with taste alone until the wine's all gone. It's all Arthur can do not to dump the whole goblet over his head.
Merlin presses one last kiss to his knuckles before letting Arthur's hand slip from his grasp. It settles on the armrest in a pose of relaxation, but Arthur can feel every pulse through his wrist, every hair on his arm, each inch of spit slick skin as it cools and dries. He can see a shining speck of red wine in the corner of Merlin's mouth and imagines himself wiping it away with a brush of his thumb, pushing his digit past willing lips, pressing the pad against Merlin's tongue and testing the sharpness of his teeth against the crease of his knuckle. Before he can do anything of the sort, Merlin's tongue lashes out to wipe his mouth clean and that, somehow, is far more appealing than any fantasy of Arthur's.
When he feels hands at the laces of his breeches, he realizes he's lost time staring at Merlin's mouth. Now Merlin is disrobing him and he's almost managed to miss it entirely. But looking away from his manservant's face, now locked in an expression of curious concentration, is an impossible task. It's not as if Arthur has never had sex before, but this is his first time with another man, his first time with Merlin and he is too swept up in the enormity of what he's feeling to react beyond great, shuddering breaths and utter helplessness.
Cool air hits the leaking head of Arthur's cock and he gasps, less at the feeling of it and more at the realization that this is happening and somehow, despite every intention to the contrary, he's made the choice to let it. Long, cool fingers slide around his shaft, pull his length upright, and Arthur's eyelids fall halfway shut. Through the blurry lines of his own eyelashes, he sees Merlin lick his lips again, his face serious and focused in a way Arthur has never seen before. He leans forward, releases a deep breath across Arthur's dick that has him twitching within Merlin's grasp, and licks him.
The crown prince of Camelot gives a humiliating cry, nearly a full octave higher than his typical range.
Arthur's used to putting his hand in a woman's hair, curling his fingers at the nape of her neck and finding enough purchase there to set his own rhythm. Merlin is no woman, a fact already very well known to him, but it still surprises Arthur to brush his hand across the back of his servant's head and find nothing to hold. He drags his fingers up the back of Merlin's head until he can curl them around something substantial and is rewarded by a strangled moan and a hot gush of breath against his cock.
"Merlin," Arthur says and it's not a question, anymore, but an accusation. You did this to me, Arthur is saying by pulling Merlin's head down and lifting his hips up and, God, warm, pushing himself into Merlin's mouth and beyond, until he bumps the back of his throat and draws a desperate choking sound from Merlin. He feels guilty for wanting it so much, the exquisite contractions of Merlin's throat around him and even the the way dark blue eyes grow glassy with automatic tearing, but Arthur has never been comfortable with relinquishing control and getting it back is immediately reassuring and intoxicating and freeing.
He relents only long enough for Merlin to draw back and inhale, then he's fucking against the back of Merlin's throat again. Merlin's hands drop to Arthur's thighs, fingers gone white and bloodless, and his eyes shut, but he takes this second thrust with much more grace. Arthur can still feel his gag reflex spasm against the head of his cock, but Merlin doesn't choke or even make a sound. By the third, an agile tongue is pushing against the underside of his cock and by the fourth, Merlin is the best fuck Arthur has ever had, sucking at him, wet and sloppy, driving him to the brink of insanity with his intense, furrowed brow and the way he's able to take Arthur just a little bit deeper with every thrust.
He knows what he's doing. The realization hits Arthur like a jousting lance, square in the chest and far more painful than it has any right to be. Merlin knows what he's doing, sucking Arthur like a damned expert, and that's nothing at all like fair.
He tightens his fingers in Merlin's hair, suddenly desperate for this to be over, and shoves his hips up hard just twice and he's coming down Merlin's throat, hot and epic and hollow. He rides it out, though Merlin's gagging again, and stop, doesn't let go until he's spent and going soft. Merlin lifts his head, breathing hard through swollen lips, lips that have been wrapped around other men the way they were just around Arthur and the prince has to look away as he tucks himself into his breeches and clumsily works the laces.
Merlin's hands slide away from his thighs, leave his legs altogether, and Arthur feels as if he's a ship that's just pulled anchor at the peak of a vicious maelstrom. Merlin stands slowly, favoring his knees as he straightens to his full height in increments, and by the time he's up and taken a shuffling step backwards, Arthur has his wine in hand again.
"Arthur." The single word is heavy despite its breathless quality, bogged down with more meaning than Arthur feels fit to decrypt at the moment.
"You may go," the prince says into his wine and doesn't look away until the sound of the lock sliding open confirms that Merlin is, for once, obeying. He glances up in time to see a shoulder slip past the open door, which pulls shut without a sound. Alone again, Arthur looks down at his free hand, the one that Merlin had worshiped with his mouth. A faint scar spans the breadth of three fingers, just below the first knuckle, a reminder, rendered in flesh, of lessons yet to be learned.
Word Count: ~2000
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Merlin is owned by BBC and Shine, not me.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: PWP. Oral sex.
Summary: A choice is made for Arthur.
A/N: This is the fourth in a series. First was Humanity, then Out of Character, then Mechanics. You need not bother with any of them to comprehend this one, though it could possibly help set the tone. It's unbeta'd, as always, because I am without a beta. How does one go about getting one of those, anyhow? Sacrificial slaughterings? Point me to the altar.
Arthur doesn't know when he decided to take dinner in his quarters again, but it takes only a second for him to realize it's a mistake. He's sitting at the table when Merlin enters with a platter of food. It's a shock to see him like this again after so many weeks of avoiding it. In the afternoon light with people all around, Arthur was almost able to forget what had happened between them. Somehow, he was able to think of him only as a servant and possible friend. Now, with the dim light throwing his angular features into a stark contrast that borders on the intimate, he can think of nothing else but the way Merlin's trembling throat had felt beneath his tongue and the gentle scrape of stubble against his cheek when he whispered into his ear, 'Does this frighten you?'
Merlin doesn't lift his eyes to meet Arthur's when he sets the platter down before him. He removes the cover and Arthur watches his fingers, the bit of wrist that's exposed, the play of tendons as he sets the lid further down the table. Merlin still won't look at him as he fills Arthur's goblet with wine. It's not until he's put down the skin and the meal is complete that he even speaks, voice low and respectful and alien.
"Do you have everything you require, sire?"
Arthur remembers how he snapped at Merlin, to learn his place and get out. That's exactly what he's doing now and it twists the breath from Arthur's lungs to know that this feeling is self-inflicted. Unbidden comes the memory of his first hunting trip with his father. He'd spent days crafting and stringing his own bow, only to have it snap in his hands when he took aim. As he cradled his bleeding fingers, his father had lectured him, not for the first time, on the delicate balance between strength and flexibility and though the words were never actually spoken, it sounded remarkably like, 'I told you so,' and 'Won't you ever learn?' Then he'd sent him back to camp to see to his injuries.
Arthur looks up into Merlin's face. His eyelashes cast faint shadows against his skin and his unsmiling mouth is relaxed and full. He's standing close enough that Arthur could reach out for him and catch his wrist, tug him closer still and take what's his. Because Merlin is his, according to the natural order of things and the law and the ruthless, possessive restlessness in Arthur's fingers.
"Yes," he says. "You may go."
Merlin does look at him then, with an expression both horribly blank and heavy with indecipherable meaning. His lips shift, like he's about to part them and end this oppressively appropriate silence, but they relax again and he executes a short, shallow bow, terribly devoid of mockery, and turns to leave. Arthur reaches for him a moment too late. This entire exchange has taken only a moment. He reaches instead for the wine. It's better this way, he knows, and it will get easier with time since he can't possibly maintain this quiet misery for much longer. If he submerges himself in this routine, it will become second nature again, until he doesn't think of Merlin at all, except when he needs his armor polished.
A sharp click draws Arthur's attention from his own reflection in the surface of the wine. He looks up and Merlin is still at the door with his hand on the lock. "Merlin? What is it?"
Merlin turns his unreadable expression back on Arthur and crosses the room to stand at his side again. He reaches out like he's going to put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes hold of the back of his chair. Firelight is doing strange things to Merlin's eyes, reflecting intense yellow flames against the dark blue backdrop of his irises and Arthur can't bring himself to look away, even when his chair is twisted around like it doesn't weigh a thing and wine splashes over the rim of the goblet and down his arm.
"Merlin?"
He lets his servant take the wine and set it on the table.
"Merlin, what--"
Nothing cuts Arthur off but his own painful want. Merlin is too close, this moment too fragile, and if he speaks logic now he'll be forced into action. He'll have to acknowledge that he already knows the answer to the question he didn't ask and then he'll have to put a stop to it.
Merlin kneels and Arthur goes lightheaded. He closes fingers around Arthur's wrist and pulls it closer to him and Arthur lets it go without a struggle. He watches as if from a distance as Merlin presses lips to the backs of his fingers, one by one, and then draws his shirt sleeve back. His skin ripples into goosebumps where Merlin has touched him, but it's nothing at all compared to the shock that runs through him when the tip of Merlin's tongue burns a trail across the inside of his wrist.
Arthur bangs his head noisily on the back of his chair. Merlin looks up at him without pausing, licking up into the heel of his palm and then down his forearm, touching Arthur nowhere else, but he can feel it everywhere. When he realizes what Merlin's doing, licking up the spilled wine--literally bathing Arthur with his tongue--his breeches become painfully tight and a strangled whimper comes out of nowhere. Merlin's still looking at him, mapping Arthur's arm with taste alone until the wine's all gone. It's all Arthur can do not to dump the whole goblet over his head.
Merlin presses one last kiss to his knuckles before letting Arthur's hand slip from his grasp. It settles on the armrest in a pose of relaxation, but Arthur can feel every pulse through his wrist, every hair on his arm, each inch of spit slick skin as it cools and dries. He can see a shining speck of red wine in the corner of Merlin's mouth and imagines himself wiping it away with a brush of his thumb, pushing his digit past willing lips, pressing the pad against Merlin's tongue and testing the sharpness of his teeth against the crease of his knuckle. Before he can do anything of the sort, Merlin's tongue lashes out to wipe his mouth clean and that, somehow, is far more appealing than any fantasy of Arthur's.
When he feels hands at the laces of his breeches, he realizes he's lost time staring at Merlin's mouth. Now Merlin is disrobing him and he's almost managed to miss it entirely. But looking away from his manservant's face, now locked in an expression of curious concentration, is an impossible task. It's not as if Arthur has never had sex before, but this is his first time with another man, his first time with Merlin and he is too swept up in the enormity of what he's feeling to react beyond great, shuddering breaths and utter helplessness.
Cool air hits the leaking head of Arthur's cock and he gasps, less at the feeling of it and more at the realization that this is happening and somehow, despite every intention to the contrary, he's made the choice to let it. Long, cool fingers slide around his shaft, pull his length upright, and Arthur's eyelids fall halfway shut. Through the blurry lines of his own eyelashes, he sees Merlin lick his lips again, his face serious and focused in a way Arthur has never seen before. He leans forward, releases a deep breath across Arthur's dick that has him twitching within Merlin's grasp, and licks him.
The crown prince of Camelot gives a humiliating cry, nearly a full octave higher than his typical range.
Arthur's used to putting his hand in a woman's hair, curling his fingers at the nape of her neck and finding enough purchase there to set his own rhythm. Merlin is no woman, a fact already very well known to him, but it still surprises Arthur to brush his hand across the back of his servant's head and find nothing to hold. He drags his fingers up the back of Merlin's head until he can curl them around something substantial and is rewarded by a strangled moan and a hot gush of breath against his cock.
"Merlin," Arthur says and it's not a question, anymore, but an accusation. You did this to me, Arthur is saying by pulling Merlin's head down and lifting his hips up and, God, warm, pushing himself into Merlin's mouth and beyond, until he bumps the back of his throat and draws a desperate choking sound from Merlin. He feels guilty for wanting it so much, the exquisite contractions of Merlin's throat around him and even the the way dark blue eyes grow glassy with automatic tearing, but Arthur has never been comfortable with relinquishing control and getting it back is immediately reassuring and intoxicating and freeing.
He relents only long enough for Merlin to draw back and inhale, then he's fucking against the back of Merlin's throat again. Merlin's hands drop to Arthur's thighs, fingers gone white and bloodless, and his eyes shut, but he takes this second thrust with much more grace. Arthur can still feel his gag reflex spasm against the head of his cock, but Merlin doesn't choke or even make a sound. By the third, an agile tongue is pushing against the underside of his cock and by the fourth, Merlin is the best fuck Arthur has ever had, sucking at him, wet and sloppy, driving him to the brink of insanity with his intense, furrowed brow and the way he's able to take Arthur just a little bit deeper with every thrust.
He knows what he's doing. The realization hits Arthur like a jousting lance, square in the chest and far more painful than it has any right to be. Merlin knows what he's doing, sucking Arthur like a damned expert, and that's nothing at all like fair.
He tightens his fingers in Merlin's hair, suddenly desperate for this to be over, and shoves his hips up hard just twice and he's coming down Merlin's throat, hot and epic and hollow. He rides it out, though Merlin's gagging again, and stop, doesn't let go until he's spent and going soft. Merlin lifts his head, breathing hard through swollen lips, lips that have been wrapped around other men the way they were just around Arthur and the prince has to look away as he tucks himself into his breeches and clumsily works the laces.
Merlin's hands slide away from his thighs, leave his legs altogether, and Arthur feels as if he's a ship that's just pulled anchor at the peak of a vicious maelstrom. Merlin stands slowly, favoring his knees as he straightens to his full height in increments, and by the time he's up and taken a shuffling step backwards, Arthur has his wine in hand again.
"Arthur." The single word is heavy despite its breathless quality, bogged down with more meaning than Arthur feels fit to decrypt at the moment.
"You may go," the prince says into his wine and doesn't look away until the sound of the lock sliding open confirms that Merlin is, for once, obeying. He glances up in time to see a shoulder slip past the open door, which pulls shut without a sound. Alone again, Arthur looks down at his free hand, the one that Merlin had worshiped with his mouth. A faint scar spans the breadth of three fingers, just below the first knuckle, a reminder, rendered in flesh, of lessons yet to be learned.