[Fic] Merlin/Arthur -- To Futures When Your Love Is Mine
Title: To Futures When Your Love Is Mine
Series: BBC Merlin
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Total length: 1,342 words
Warnings: No spoilers, no warnings.
Summary: There is something to be said about patience. Mostly, Arthur finds that he is not, in fact, a patient man.
Author's Note: For Steve, who I love very much, and who gives excellent prompts, even if the fic doesn't necessarily go along with it.
There is something to be said about patience. Mostly, Arthur finds that he is not, in fact, a patient man. He remembers long feasts in his boyhood that seemed to stretch forever; men and women laughing, minstrels playing jaunty tunes and jesters pulling coins from behind their ears, careful that their tricks never seemed too clever. There had been dancing and flowing wine amongst the adults, and Arthur remembers when the feast had ceased its pleasantry. When the night had grown long and his eyelids had drooped until he feared he may have fallen face first into the custard.
He remembers the way that he had felt so very shamed, how he had thought, Father is awake. Father is not tired.
He also, however, remembers sneaking off into an empty staircase and settling his head against the chilled stone. How he had woken up hours later to a smiling elderly maid who had hustled him off into bed before his Father came to see him using the flagstones as pillows.
There had been many incidents when he had realized that patience was perhaps not the strongest of virtues; tutoring that had stretched too long, a servant taking an extra five minutes to draw up his bath, his first horse studiously ignoring his efforts to get it to move- preferring to instead nibble on a patch of spring grass.
When Merlin had come to Camelot, all laughing smiles and pale skin, then Arthur's patience had been tried like it never had before.
The thing about Merlin, is that he is too honest. When he truly believes something, he speaks it. He knows nothing of the ways of the court, and many a time Arthur has feared for his life because of his servant's errant way of thinking. On such occasions, Merlin will commit truly atrocious blunders, leaving Arthur scrambling to pick up the pieces after him.
The first time he had served Arthur and his father at mealtime, he had forgotten to address the King as "Sire" or "Your highness" choosing instead to simply pour the wine with a smile and a cheerful "there you are." As if they were equals.
In truth, Arthur blamed himself for the transgression. Blamed himself for letting Merlin get away with calling him Arthur, and for not throwing him in the stocks immediately the first time Merlin had smirked out a "Yes Sire," that was in no way subservient, but instead mocking and amused.
But Uther was not Arthur and he had been far from amused.
After that, Arthur had learned that sometimes, patience may be best with Merlin. That taking the time to explain the simplest of etiquette may be worth it in the long run.
Even so, there was just something about Merlin. Something that tugged fondly at Arthur's heartstrings, but never seemed to outweigh how utterly ridiculous Merlin was sometimes.
But then there are times, when it isn't so hard. Having patience that is.
Times like now, when the castle is quiet and Merlin is standing at the foot of his bed, saying, "Will that be all, sire?"
Times like now, when Merlin's eyes are bright and the halls are dark, and Arthur wants- he wants more than anything to say no Merlin, that is not all, and drag him into bed.
Times like now, when there is a droplet of sweat tracing the line of Merlin's jaw.
Times like now, when Merlin is licking his lips and eying Arthur's naked torso with curiosity and contemplation rather than outright lust. As if he hasn't quite noticed just yet the lengths that Arthur will go to keep him close. As if he doesn't even notice-
"Yes Merlin, you may go."
Merlin goes.
.
But then of course, the patience eventually pays off.
It appears to dawn on Merlin slowly. Weeks of increasingly frequent stares, moments of heat in Merlin's eyes when he dresses Arthur, his hands lingering on bare skin longer and longer until Arthur thinks that really, he should just turn and kiss him then and there- half naked and still dripping with bath water.
Weeks where Merlin does nothing but stare at odd parts of Arthur's body- the line of his jaw, the curve of his wrist, his fingers skittering reverently over the inside of his elbow, and increasingly, his knees.
It's a bit like watching a star being born- that awareness coming to life in Merlin's eyes, the heat of it, and how now, when Arthur grins at him, his breath catches. Merlin in love is possibly the most commanding thing that Arthur has ever seen. He can't seem to look away.
Perhaps he should feel bad, watching this- watching this new love slide into place right over the friendship and the loyalty and the grudging respect. He should feel awful, because there would never be a future for them. He should stop it now while it's still new.
But he won't.
He won't, because though he will be king soon, and thus will need to find a queen and an heir, Merlin is the best thing he has.
Patience.
.
It always pays off.
.
In the end, it's almost an accident. Nothing so clichéd as Merlin tripping and Arthur catching him with his mouth, but it's close. It comes down to too much wine and the rush of victory, the thrill of the hunt still in his blood even though he is home once more, pleasantly stuffed with food and the fire warming his shoulders.
And it happens, just like that. Merlin stretching over his shoulder to fill his cup, pressed warm and close, smelling of sandalwood and herbs, and Arthur had reached- ghosted a finger across one sharp cheekbone and watched as Merlin's eyes had widened- how he'd leaned forward and pressed his lips to Arthur's.
.
Arthur hadn't expected Merlin to be gifted with an overwhelming knowledge of carnal delights, but he hadn't expected him to be naive about it either.
In bed, Merlin is a little bit awkward. He's all sharp elbows and bony knees, laughing apologies and nervous almost giggles. He isn't particularly gifted in the art of cocksucking and their first kiss feels more like something he should be exchanging with a blushing virgin rather than with, you know, Merlin.
It isn't quite what Arthur had been expecting, what with the build up and the unbearable tension- the quick caresses and intimate glances, but it's something Arthur can work with.
.
"What are yo-"
"Hush, Merlin."
The room is quiet, the fires burned low, and Merlin is stretched beneath him- flushed and fidgeting, his cock hard against his belly. He looks wonderful against Arthur's sheets, bony elbows and all.
Arthur isn't exactly used to doing this sort of thing. He is used to maids pressing themselves close in empty rooms and noblewomen who giggle and wrap their stained lips around his cock. He is used to stable boys looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes, of the feel of them wrapped so prettily around his dick. He is even used to noblemen and the quick and dirty press of cock against cock in darkened corridors, scarcely breathing lest someone stumble across them.
This? This he is not used to. He isn't used to the sharp press of his own fingers inside him, or the way that it kind of hurts, just a little bit. He isn't used to slicking another man's cock and sinking back onto it, groaning as he sinks deeper and deeper.
He is not familiar at all with it or the way Merlin gasps beneath him when he experimentally rolls his hips or the way his own mouth parts in wonder when he maneuvers them into just the right angle, just the right rhythm.
He isn't used to it at all, but Merlin's expression is worth it.
It is push and pull and gasp and moan and breathe, and it is amazingly good.
Arthur is not a patient man, no. But sometimes, sometimes he figures it just might be worth it.
Series: BBC Merlin
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Total length: 1,342 words
Warnings: No spoilers, no warnings.
Summary: There is something to be said about patience. Mostly, Arthur finds that he is not, in fact, a patient man.
Author's Note: For Steve, who I love very much, and who gives excellent prompts, even if the fic doesn't necessarily go along with it.
There is something to be said about patience. Mostly, Arthur finds that he is not, in fact, a patient man. He remembers long feasts in his boyhood that seemed to stretch forever; men and women laughing, minstrels playing jaunty tunes and jesters pulling coins from behind their ears, careful that their tricks never seemed too clever. There had been dancing and flowing wine amongst the adults, and Arthur remembers when the feast had ceased its pleasantry. When the night had grown long and his eyelids had drooped until he feared he may have fallen face first into the custard.
He remembers the way that he had felt so very shamed, how he had thought, Father is awake. Father is not tired.
He also, however, remembers sneaking off into an empty staircase and settling his head against the chilled stone. How he had woken up hours later to a smiling elderly maid who had hustled him off into bed before his Father came to see him using the flagstones as pillows.
There had been many incidents when he had realized that patience was perhaps not the strongest of virtues; tutoring that had stretched too long, a servant taking an extra five minutes to draw up his bath, his first horse studiously ignoring his efforts to get it to move- preferring to instead nibble on a patch of spring grass.
When Merlin had come to Camelot, all laughing smiles and pale skin, then Arthur's patience had been tried like it never had before.
The thing about Merlin, is that he is too honest. When he truly believes something, he speaks it. He knows nothing of the ways of the court, and many a time Arthur has feared for his life because of his servant's errant way of thinking. On such occasions, Merlin will commit truly atrocious blunders, leaving Arthur scrambling to pick up the pieces after him.
The first time he had served Arthur and his father at mealtime, he had forgotten to address the King as "Sire" or "Your highness" choosing instead to simply pour the wine with a smile and a cheerful "there you are." As if they were equals.
In truth, Arthur blamed himself for the transgression. Blamed himself for letting Merlin get away with calling him Arthur, and for not throwing him in the stocks immediately the first time Merlin had smirked out a "Yes Sire," that was in no way subservient, but instead mocking and amused.
But Uther was not Arthur and he had been far from amused.
After that, Arthur had learned that sometimes, patience may be best with Merlin. That taking the time to explain the simplest of etiquette may be worth it in the long run.
Even so, there was just something about Merlin. Something that tugged fondly at Arthur's heartstrings, but never seemed to outweigh how utterly ridiculous Merlin was sometimes.
But then there are times, when it isn't so hard. Having patience that is.
Times like now, when the castle is quiet and Merlin is standing at the foot of his bed, saying, "Will that be all, sire?"
Times like now, when Merlin's eyes are bright and the halls are dark, and Arthur wants- he wants more than anything to say no Merlin, that is not all, and drag him into bed.
Times like now, when there is a droplet of sweat tracing the line of Merlin's jaw.
Times like now, when Merlin is licking his lips and eying Arthur's naked torso with curiosity and contemplation rather than outright lust. As if he hasn't quite noticed just yet the lengths that Arthur will go to keep him close. As if he doesn't even notice-
"Yes Merlin, you may go."
Merlin goes.
.
But then of course, the patience eventually pays off.
It appears to dawn on Merlin slowly. Weeks of increasingly frequent stares, moments of heat in Merlin's eyes when he dresses Arthur, his hands lingering on bare skin longer and longer until Arthur thinks that really, he should just turn and kiss him then and there- half naked and still dripping with bath water.
Weeks where Merlin does nothing but stare at odd parts of Arthur's body- the line of his jaw, the curve of his wrist, his fingers skittering reverently over the inside of his elbow, and increasingly, his knees.
It's a bit like watching a star being born- that awareness coming to life in Merlin's eyes, the heat of it, and how now, when Arthur grins at him, his breath catches. Merlin in love is possibly the most commanding thing that Arthur has ever seen. He can't seem to look away.
Perhaps he should feel bad, watching this- watching this new love slide into place right over the friendship and the loyalty and the grudging respect. He should feel awful, because there would never be a future for them. He should stop it now while it's still new.
But he won't.
He won't, because though he will be king soon, and thus will need to find a queen and an heir, Merlin is the best thing he has.
Patience.
.
It always pays off.
.
In the end, it's almost an accident. Nothing so clichéd as Merlin tripping and Arthur catching him with his mouth, but it's close. It comes down to too much wine and the rush of victory, the thrill of the hunt still in his blood even though he is home once more, pleasantly stuffed with food and the fire warming his shoulders.
And it happens, just like that. Merlin stretching over his shoulder to fill his cup, pressed warm and close, smelling of sandalwood and herbs, and Arthur had reached- ghosted a finger across one sharp cheekbone and watched as Merlin's eyes had widened- how he'd leaned forward and pressed his lips to Arthur's.
.
Arthur hadn't expected Merlin to be gifted with an overwhelming knowledge of carnal delights, but he hadn't expected him to be naive about it either.
In bed, Merlin is a little bit awkward. He's all sharp elbows and bony knees, laughing apologies and nervous almost giggles. He isn't particularly gifted in the art of cocksucking and their first kiss feels more like something he should be exchanging with a blushing virgin rather than with, you know, Merlin.
It isn't quite what Arthur had been expecting, what with the build up and the unbearable tension- the quick caresses and intimate glances, but it's something Arthur can work with.
.
"What are yo-"
"Hush, Merlin."
The room is quiet, the fires burned low, and Merlin is stretched beneath him- flushed and fidgeting, his cock hard against his belly. He looks wonderful against Arthur's sheets, bony elbows and all.
Arthur isn't exactly used to doing this sort of thing. He is used to maids pressing themselves close in empty rooms and noblewomen who giggle and wrap their stained lips around his cock. He is used to stable boys looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes, of the feel of them wrapped so prettily around his dick. He is even used to noblemen and the quick and dirty press of cock against cock in darkened corridors, scarcely breathing lest someone stumble across them.
This? This he is not used to. He isn't used to the sharp press of his own fingers inside him, or the way that it kind of hurts, just a little bit. He isn't used to slicking another man's cock and sinking back onto it, groaning as he sinks deeper and deeper.
He is not familiar at all with it or the way Merlin gasps beneath him when he experimentally rolls his hips or the way his own mouth parts in wonder when he maneuvers them into just the right angle, just the right rhythm.
He isn't used to it at all, but Merlin's expression is worth it.
It is push and pull and gasp and moan and breathe, and it is amazingly good.
Arthur is not a patient man, no. But sometimes, sometimes he figures it just might be worth it.