Fic: All the Pleasures Prove (Merlin, Merlin/Arthur) NC-17
Title: All the Pleasures Prove
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: Explicit
Spoilers: Reference to 1.13.
Summary: Arthur seeks out Merlin, with only the vaguest notion of a plan.
Notes: 1800 words. Written for the porn battle but never posted there. Thank you to kageygirl for hand-holding and cheering, and apologies to Marlowe for the title.
"Arthur!" A smile spreads across Merlin's face before his feet stop tripping him down the stairs from his room, but all of him halts abruptly, his eyebrows taking over in a furrow of worry. "Is something wrong?"
"I was hoping to find Gaius," Arthur says, though he watched the physician cross the courtyard not five minutes prior. But it is not an act as he reaches for his left shoulder and digs his fingers into the muscles there, no matter how much he might wish it were. "I'm out of the salve he's given me to use."
"Oh, right. He just stepped out, but I'm pretty sure it's this one." Merlin picks up a stoppered bottle and holds it forth without hesitation. The liquid inside is a pale milky green, the same as before, but...
"If that makes me grow hair in unexpected places, the stocks will be the least of your worries," he warns.
Merlin just grins. "What, are you afraid you'll look more like an ass than usual?"
"When are you ever going to learn that you can't talk to me that way?" Arthur says, but he knows the upturn of his lips ruins the threat. Merlin doesn't even seem to notice that he's spoken.
"Sit down." Merlin gestures towards the sick bed beside the table, bottle of ointment still in his hand. "Let me help you."
Arthur doesn't have to feign the sneer at all. "I'm not ill, Merlin." He marches towards Merlin's room with all the aplomb and dignity that his stature affords, assuming the rightness of his seat on the edge of Merlin's bed without allowing any sign of the way his blood shivers within him. Before he can over think his plan, he strips the tunic over his head--and has to stifle a groan when the muscles spasm in protest. They're still not up to the weight of his shield, not for a full day's use, and he can only close his eyes and breathe through the pain, experienced enough to know that, eventually, it will pass.
"Here," Merlin murmurs, and then his hands are there, cool and slick as they glide up Arthur's side, under his arm and over his shoulder, painting his skin with the salve before Merlin sets to work in earnest. Arthur sucks in a harsh breath when Merlin digs his fingers into the first knot, but Merlin doesn't stop, nor does Arthur want him to. Slowly, as the pain and relief merge into a continuous haze, Arthur relaxes, each breath coming more naturally than the last, his body sagging against the strength of Merlin beside him.
"There," Merlin says, his hands still on Arthur's arm. "Is that better?"
He's watching Arthur's face closely, eyes gentle and worried, the blue so dark it blends with the black, and Arthur realizes that his plan was that of an utter fool. He's the one who's been even further seduced, while Merlin is untouched, moved by no more than the greatness of his heart to give a kindness to one in need. Like he would offer a wounded bird, or a hungry peasant on the street.
"Yes," Arthur replies, his voice gravelled up from the massage, nothing more. He reaches for his tunic. "Thank you."
"Arthur," Merlin says, his fingers curling more tightly into Arthur's arm. He doesn't say anything more, though, just stares into Arthur's eyes, like whatever is on his mind should be obvious. Like he's willing Arthur to hear what he's thinking. Merlin does this from time to time, and it frustrates Arthur like nothing else, because he feels that he should be able to understand, that he does understand--he simply misplaced the thought. It is that frustration that has him moving forward, that goads him into cupping Merlin's chin and communicating his thoughts the only way he knows how.
Merlin gasps against his mouth, returning the kiss so forcefully that Arthur does not need to hear the words, not this time. Not when Merlin is pressing him back to lie on the narrow bed, the one that's such a luxury compared to the hard floor in Ealdor. Not when he can feel the eagerness between Merlin's legs, pressing hot and hard next to Arthur's own very eager cock. Arthur runs his hands along Merlin's back, dragging his tunic haphazardly upward, and Merlin rocks backward onto his knees, slipping out of the cloth and Arthur's embrace as easily as a fish from wet hands. Arthur blinks at the wad of blue he is left with.
"Merlin?" he calls, stupidly, and then he hears the door close and the latch fall into place.
"Arthur," Merlin responds, layering his name with insolence and laughter and all manner of things Arthur never, ever hears from anyone else. Merlin stands by the door, bare-chested and unshod, watching him in a way that makes Arthur expect to hear words like 'prat' and 'idiot' come out of his mouth. But then he smiles, his whole face curving up with the joy of it, and Arthur's heart pounds that much harder as he walks to the foot of the bed. He drops to his knees and pulls Arthur's boots from his feet, tossing them over his shoulder with complete insouciance before he carelessly strips off Arthur's socks. Merlin edges his index finger under the hem of Arthur's hose, hitching it lightly back and forth over his calf and sending shivers straight up his leg to his thigh to his prick. "Anything else I can do for you, Sire?"
"Get up here," Arthur growls. He should be irritated that Merlin does this to him, nearly unmans him with desire, but as Merlin settles in on top of him, chest to chest, lips to lips, he doesn't feel weak or cowardly. There's no room to roll, not without one or both of them ending up on the floor, but Arthur manages to shift them so that he's not completely useless. His cock aches with need, but all Arthur wants to do is watch Merlin's face as he skims his fingers along Merlin's ribs, rubs his thumb over Merlin's nipples. Merlin's breath shudders when Arthur kisses his neck open-mouthed; his belly trembles when Arthur brushes the fine hairs there.
"Arthur," Merlin murmurs. He runs his finger down Arthur's cheek. Arthur can smell the tang of the liniment, but that does not stop him from turning his head into Merlin's hand, from pressing a closed-mouth kiss to his palm. The faint taste of peppermint and wintergreen tingles on his tongue as he finds Merlin's mouth again, but it is nothing compared to the jolt that comes from Merlin holding his head, guiding the kiss with hand and mouth both. Merlin is nothing like his knights, is graceless and inept in the field and forest both, but in this he seems to be perfectly agile. Arthur finds himself on his back again when Merlin breaks the kiss, but he's content to stay there, especially when Merlin is looking down at him like that.
Long fingers coast down his belly, to the strings of his trousers, and Arthur pushes his hips up--not begging, never begging, not begging yet--encouraging. Merlin obliges. His touch is deft, freeing Arthur quickly to the cool air. He rests his palm on the flat of Arthur's groin, right next to where Arthur most wants him, and leans down so that his lips are a kiss away from Arthur's own. But instead of that kiss, he smiles. "Shall I polish your sword, Sire?"
Arthur doesn't know whether to laugh or groan. The sound he makes as he rolls into Merlin is a little of both, and Merlin matches him until Arthur goes to work on Merlin's trousers. "Just remember," he says while Merlin bites his lower lip, "who's the real swordsman around here."
He curls his fingers around Merlin's cock, the angle not quite right but the heft perfect, and rubs his thumb back and forth over the head until there is enough damp to slick his palm. Arthur smiles, pleased with himself, but that's when Merlin snakes his arm below Arthur's and begins to return the favour. Their forearms bump together time and again as the rhythm between them builds. Arthur clenches his teeth with the effort to keep his eyes opened, determined to watch Merlin tend to him and he to Merlin. Determined to watch Merlin's face as Arthur brings him closer and closer to the ultimate pleasure. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips barely parted to let his shallow breaths escape, and there is a flush of royal rose across the crests of his cheeks.
"Arthur," he whispers, a secret between them. The fingers of the hand not working Arthur's prick curl tight against Arthur's chest, seeking purchase but seemingly unwilling to mark Arthur's skin. Merlin throws his head back, throat working hard, but he doesn't cry out, doesn't scream. He only lets out a long, harsh breath as his seed spills over Arthur's hand--and then he smiles, slow, lazy, and utterly pleased.
"Mmm, yes. You are very good at that, aren't you?" His eyes are luminous when he finally opens them.
"Merlin," Arthur begs. "Please."
Merlin doesn't tease him. He starts moving his hand again, faster and firmer than before. It doesn't take long, not when Arthur has been waiting for so very long. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop to the flat pillow beneath him. He tries to hold in his shouts, but they are there, loud in his throat while bliss rises up and out.
"You're amazing," he hears some moments later. Merlin's words are as soft as his fingers on Arthur's cock, petting and soothing. "You really have no idea, do you? You're such a prat and yet you're just... Amazing."
Arthur snorts. He catches Merlin's hand, drawing it up so that he can lace their fingers together. "Careful," he says. "I might start to think that you actually like me."
Merlin grins. "Oh, well, we can't have that."
"No, that would definitely be terrible," Arthur agrees with mock solemnity. "After all, then we might have to do this again."
Merlin nods. "Preferably as often as possible. I mean, if I actually liked you."
"Which you don't," Arthur points out.
"No." Merlin shifts around a bit, and Arthur rolls flat on his back and moves his arm so that Merlin can settle in at his side. Merlin hooks his index finger into the leather cord of Arthur's necklace, tugging on it slightly. "Absolutely can't stand you. I expect I'll feel the same way for years and years to come. Possibly forever."
"Good." Arthur swallows around the tightness in his throat. "Because you are most certainly the worst servant I could ever hope to have."
"Prat," Merlin says, chuckling against his shoulder.
"Merlin," Arthur murmurs back--and really, that's the sum of everything he wants to say.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: Explicit
Spoilers: Reference to 1.13.
Summary: Arthur seeks out Merlin, with only the vaguest notion of a plan.
Notes: 1800 words. Written for the porn battle but never posted there. Thank you to kageygirl for hand-holding and cheering, and apologies to Marlowe for the title.
"Arthur!" A smile spreads across Merlin's face before his feet stop tripping him down the stairs from his room, but all of him halts abruptly, his eyebrows taking over in a furrow of worry. "Is something wrong?"
"I was hoping to find Gaius," Arthur says, though he watched the physician cross the courtyard not five minutes prior. But it is not an act as he reaches for his left shoulder and digs his fingers into the muscles there, no matter how much he might wish it were. "I'm out of the salve he's given me to use."
"Oh, right. He just stepped out, but I'm pretty sure it's this one." Merlin picks up a stoppered bottle and holds it forth without hesitation. The liquid inside is a pale milky green, the same as before, but...
"If that makes me grow hair in unexpected places, the stocks will be the least of your worries," he warns.
Merlin just grins. "What, are you afraid you'll look more like an ass than usual?"
"When are you ever going to learn that you can't talk to me that way?" Arthur says, but he knows the upturn of his lips ruins the threat. Merlin doesn't even seem to notice that he's spoken.
"Sit down." Merlin gestures towards the sick bed beside the table, bottle of ointment still in his hand. "Let me help you."
Arthur doesn't have to feign the sneer at all. "I'm not ill, Merlin." He marches towards Merlin's room with all the aplomb and dignity that his stature affords, assuming the rightness of his seat on the edge of Merlin's bed without allowing any sign of the way his blood shivers within him. Before he can over think his plan, he strips the tunic over his head--and has to stifle a groan when the muscles spasm in protest. They're still not up to the weight of his shield, not for a full day's use, and he can only close his eyes and breathe through the pain, experienced enough to know that, eventually, it will pass.
"Here," Merlin murmurs, and then his hands are there, cool and slick as they glide up Arthur's side, under his arm and over his shoulder, painting his skin with the salve before Merlin sets to work in earnest. Arthur sucks in a harsh breath when Merlin digs his fingers into the first knot, but Merlin doesn't stop, nor does Arthur want him to. Slowly, as the pain and relief merge into a continuous haze, Arthur relaxes, each breath coming more naturally than the last, his body sagging against the strength of Merlin beside him.
"There," Merlin says, his hands still on Arthur's arm. "Is that better?"
He's watching Arthur's face closely, eyes gentle and worried, the blue so dark it blends with the black, and Arthur realizes that his plan was that of an utter fool. He's the one who's been even further seduced, while Merlin is untouched, moved by no more than the greatness of his heart to give a kindness to one in need. Like he would offer a wounded bird, or a hungry peasant on the street.
"Yes," Arthur replies, his voice gravelled up from the massage, nothing more. He reaches for his tunic. "Thank you."
"Arthur," Merlin says, his fingers curling more tightly into Arthur's arm. He doesn't say anything more, though, just stares into Arthur's eyes, like whatever is on his mind should be obvious. Like he's willing Arthur to hear what he's thinking. Merlin does this from time to time, and it frustrates Arthur like nothing else, because he feels that he should be able to understand, that he does understand--he simply misplaced the thought. It is that frustration that has him moving forward, that goads him into cupping Merlin's chin and communicating his thoughts the only way he knows how.
Merlin gasps against his mouth, returning the kiss so forcefully that Arthur does not need to hear the words, not this time. Not when Merlin is pressing him back to lie on the narrow bed, the one that's such a luxury compared to the hard floor in Ealdor. Not when he can feel the eagerness between Merlin's legs, pressing hot and hard next to Arthur's own very eager cock. Arthur runs his hands along Merlin's back, dragging his tunic haphazardly upward, and Merlin rocks backward onto his knees, slipping out of the cloth and Arthur's embrace as easily as a fish from wet hands. Arthur blinks at the wad of blue he is left with.
"Merlin?" he calls, stupidly, and then he hears the door close and the latch fall into place.
"Arthur," Merlin responds, layering his name with insolence and laughter and all manner of things Arthur never, ever hears from anyone else. Merlin stands by the door, bare-chested and unshod, watching him in a way that makes Arthur expect to hear words like 'prat' and 'idiot' come out of his mouth. But then he smiles, his whole face curving up with the joy of it, and Arthur's heart pounds that much harder as he walks to the foot of the bed. He drops to his knees and pulls Arthur's boots from his feet, tossing them over his shoulder with complete insouciance before he carelessly strips off Arthur's socks. Merlin edges his index finger under the hem of Arthur's hose, hitching it lightly back and forth over his calf and sending shivers straight up his leg to his thigh to his prick. "Anything else I can do for you, Sire?"
"Get up here," Arthur growls. He should be irritated that Merlin does this to him, nearly unmans him with desire, but as Merlin settles in on top of him, chest to chest, lips to lips, he doesn't feel weak or cowardly. There's no room to roll, not without one or both of them ending up on the floor, but Arthur manages to shift them so that he's not completely useless. His cock aches with need, but all Arthur wants to do is watch Merlin's face as he skims his fingers along Merlin's ribs, rubs his thumb over Merlin's nipples. Merlin's breath shudders when Arthur kisses his neck open-mouthed; his belly trembles when Arthur brushes the fine hairs there.
"Arthur," Merlin murmurs. He runs his finger down Arthur's cheek. Arthur can smell the tang of the liniment, but that does not stop him from turning his head into Merlin's hand, from pressing a closed-mouth kiss to his palm. The faint taste of peppermint and wintergreen tingles on his tongue as he finds Merlin's mouth again, but it is nothing compared to the jolt that comes from Merlin holding his head, guiding the kiss with hand and mouth both. Merlin is nothing like his knights, is graceless and inept in the field and forest both, but in this he seems to be perfectly agile. Arthur finds himself on his back again when Merlin breaks the kiss, but he's content to stay there, especially when Merlin is looking down at him like that.
Long fingers coast down his belly, to the strings of his trousers, and Arthur pushes his hips up--not begging, never begging, not begging yet--encouraging. Merlin obliges. His touch is deft, freeing Arthur quickly to the cool air. He rests his palm on the flat of Arthur's groin, right next to where Arthur most wants him, and leans down so that his lips are a kiss away from Arthur's own. But instead of that kiss, he smiles. "Shall I polish your sword, Sire?"
Arthur doesn't know whether to laugh or groan. The sound he makes as he rolls into Merlin is a little of both, and Merlin matches him until Arthur goes to work on Merlin's trousers. "Just remember," he says while Merlin bites his lower lip, "who's the real swordsman around here."
He curls his fingers around Merlin's cock, the angle not quite right but the heft perfect, and rubs his thumb back and forth over the head until there is enough damp to slick his palm. Arthur smiles, pleased with himself, but that's when Merlin snakes his arm below Arthur's and begins to return the favour. Their forearms bump together time and again as the rhythm between them builds. Arthur clenches his teeth with the effort to keep his eyes opened, determined to watch Merlin tend to him and he to Merlin. Determined to watch Merlin's face as Arthur brings him closer and closer to the ultimate pleasure. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips barely parted to let his shallow breaths escape, and there is a flush of royal rose across the crests of his cheeks.
"Arthur," he whispers, a secret between them. The fingers of the hand not working Arthur's prick curl tight against Arthur's chest, seeking purchase but seemingly unwilling to mark Arthur's skin. Merlin throws his head back, throat working hard, but he doesn't cry out, doesn't scream. He only lets out a long, harsh breath as his seed spills over Arthur's hand--and then he smiles, slow, lazy, and utterly pleased.
"Mmm, yes. You are very good at that, aren't you?" His eyes are luminous when he finally opens them.
"Merlin," Arthur begs. "Please."
Merlin doesn't tease him. He starts moving his hand again, faster and firmer than before. It doesn't take long, not when Arthur has been waiting for so very long. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop to the flat pillow beneath him. He tries to hold in his shouts, but they are there, loud in his throat while bliss rises up and out.
"You're amazing," he hears some moments later. Merlin's words are as soft as his fingers on Arthur's cock, petting and soothing. "You really have no idea, do you? You're such a prat and yet you're just... Amazing."
Arthur snorts. He catches Merlin's hand, drawing it up so that he can lace their fingers together. "Careful," he says. "I might start to think that you actually like me."
Merlin grins. "Oh, well, we can't have that."
"No, that would definitely be terrible," Arthur agrees with mock solemnity. "After all, then we might have to do this again."
Merlin nods. "Preferably as often as possible. I mean, if I actually liked you."
"Which you don't," Arthur points out.
"No." Merlin shifts around a bit, and Arthur rolls flat on his back and moves his arm so that Merlin can settle in at his side. Merlin hooks his index finger into the leather cord of Arthur's necklace, tugging on it slightly. "Absolutely can't stand you. I expect I'll feel the same way for years and years to come. Possibly forever."
"Good." Arthur swallows around the tightness in his throat. "Because you are most certainly the worst servant I could ever hope to have."
"Prat," Merlin says, chuckling against his shoulder.
"Merlin," Arthur murmurs back--and really, that's the sum of everything he wants to say.