REPOST: Merlin - In My Golden Years I Was a Slave (Arthur/Merlin -NC-17)
I am supposed to be writing Generation Kill porn. This is obviously not that. It's been a while since I've written any Merlin.
Merlin
Arthur/Merlin
NC-17
In My Golden Years I Was a Slave
It's raining.
And they're lost.
Which Arthur will never admit.
And Merlin is freezing -- which he will never admit.
So, in their impasse, they stand among the trees, with the water pouring down on their heads, scowling at each other.
There's rain running off the tip of Merlin's nose and his hair is plastering itself to his head. Arthur's boots are so full of water, his toes are swimming, and rather than look at Merlin in his drenched state, Arthur glares at the sky as though the rains have come just to irritate him. Which they obviously have.
Arthur hardly needs to see Merlin's clothes plastered to every inch of his skin.
He finds himself looking everywhere but at Merlin, and then thinks better of it. It's only Merlin, and Merlin is hardly an imposing figure. However, he will be insufferable if he catches cold, and Arthur finds himself crowding them both further under the marginal protection of a great oak tree in hopes of delaying such an event.
Of course, Merlin makes a noise in protest at Arthur's invasion of his space.
"Shut up," Arthur says peremptorily to the leaves overhead. A particularly malicious drop of water lands in Arthur's eye, and he wipes his face with his hand, choosing finally to glower at Merlin, who is somehow responsible for this, even when he obviously isn’t.
Merlin narrows his eyes. "You shut up, I haven't even said anything."
"But you're thinking it."
"Oh, so now I can be blamed for my thoughts as well. I suspect you best clap me in irons, then."
Arthur smiles sharply. "Don’t tempt me."
"You haven't got any irons anyway," Merlin says sullenly.
"I can rectify that eventually." Arthur glares back. "Frankly, if it were anybody else I would think they'd sent the rains deliberately."
"I assure you, if I were in charge of the rains, this would be a very different sort of rain."
Arthur finds his mouth curling at the corners. "What, like a rain of toads?"
Merlin smiles. "If I tell you, then it won't be a surprise."
"I don’t like surprises," Arthur says. Which is very true. The rains were supposed to come tomorrow, this is definitely a surprise.
"Everybody loves surprises," Merlin says, brushing his hair out of his eyes and only succeeding in sending it in every direction.
Arthur snorts. "Surprise, you're going to stocks!" he says.
"That's not the sort of surprise I was talking about," Merlin complains.
Arthur blinks the water out of his eyes and grabs Merlin by that infernal neckerchief. He would never be able to say what compels him to kiss Merlin, just that he does feel compelled, and so he does it.
Merlin's mouth is slippery with rain and his lips are cold, the kiss should not be as warm as it is.
But it is.
"Is that the sort of surprise you were thinking of?" Arthur asks, pulling back very slightly.
Merlin's eyelashes are plastered together and his lips are turning blue.
"Do it again," he orders.
And Arthur complies.
Arthur is perfectly immune to Merlin's broad smiles and raised eyebrows; they're far too obvious to elicit the responses Merlin craves. It's the little things that trip Arthur up: the back of Merlin's hand brushing his own when they walk the halls; Merlin pushing his fringe out of his eyes when he bends down to see to Arthur's boots; the way Merlin grins at other people and Arthur feels as though he's been cheated out of something that belongs to him.
"If you don't cease and desist at once, I'm calling the guard."
Merlin grins down at Arthur, his smile blinding. "I wish you would," he taunts. "I'm sure they would love to see you like this," he adds, rubbing his thumb over Arthur's mouth.
Arthur bites down on Merlin's finger. Hard.
Merlin just laughs, holding Arthur's jaw in the palm of his hand.
Arthur kneels before no one, but he is on his knees in his bed chamber -- albeit on top of one of his pillows because the floors are hard, and he cannot possibly be expected to subject himself to such torture. And yet these thoughts of torture are nothing compared to the way Merlin is rubbing the wet head of his cock against Arthur's mouth or the way he keeps pulling away when Arthur parts his lips.
All Arthur wants is Merlin's weight on his tongue, Merlin's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling mercilessly and using Arthur the way Arthur uses everything else in his life, with force, with an underlying appreciation, with an intrinsic understanding of what's needed.
And yet, Merlin denies him, because he can. Because Arthur lets him.
Merlin can hold his cock in his hand and rub the head against Arthur's mouth and along the flat of Arthur's tongue. He can stroke himself off, denying Arthur completely only to come all over Arthur's face and chin and Arthur will let him.
Because Arthur has no desire to say 'no'.
Arthur nudges Merlin with the toe of his boot. "You forgot." he repeats.
Merlin looks up from his seat on the ground. He's eating an apple and his mouth is slick with the juices. "Didn't I just say 'I forgot'?"
Arthur narrows his eyes. "I thought I might've misheard you."
Merlin takes another bite of his apple. "Really? With ears that size?"
"Merlin, I hardly think you're one to talk about the size of someone else's ears," Arthur says, placing his hand on his hunting knife. "And do you really think you ought to antagonise me now?"
Merlin snorts. "As opposed to antagonising you later?"
Arthur looks up at the blue, blue sky.
There are some things that Arthur has simply come to accept at this point in his life. He is a brilliant swordsman. His father is complicated, Morgana should never be underestimated and Merlin is insolent and brain-damaged.
Yes, the last one is something that Arthur suspects will be true long after his father is dead and Morgana has gone off to make some other man miserable.
He knows this is true, because all Merlin had to do was bring his spare sword for sparing practise and he's just forgotten all about that.
"You didn't forget, did you?" Arthur asks.
Merlin smiles, the juices from the apple running down his chin. "I don't know what you could be referring to, Sire. I assure you it was just an over-"
Merlin's apple goes flying when Arthur kicks at Merlin's wrist. "Ow!"
"I'll give you something to really complain about," Arthur threatens, just as Merlin gets to his feet and dances a few feet away.
"You'll have to catch me first," Merlin teases.
"I am not chasing after you," Arthur says.
And much later on, when Arthur's caught Merlin, or Merlin's allowed himself to be caught, Merlin strips Arthur of his chainmail and his breeches and every piece of covering and ornamentation that Arthur has. Literally and figuratively.
The sun is high overhead when Arthur finds himself scrabbling at the ground, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as Merlin presses two fingers inside of him, and Arthur prays or keens or begs, whatever it is that people who are caught do when they want nothing more than to stay where they are for the rest of their days.
Princes do not beg anyone for anything. Princes want for naught. Princes are born and raised and moulded. Men, though, men want and need. They have desires. Princes are created, but underneath it all, they are just men. Arthur is just a man. He wants. He craves. Princes give orders, men take them. With Merlin, Arthur is only a man.
It's late at night that Arthur finds himself at a loss.
Arthur's most fractured moments are when he's bent over the side of his mattress with Merlin kneeling behind him.
Merlin's very particular about how he wants Arthur to bend, how much he wants Arthur's legs spread.
Merlin's fingers spread Arthur open like a fruit, with ease of practise and sureness of action. His tongue licks and prods, flickering and searching for things that Arthur can't even name -- but Arthur doesn't need to know the words to know the sensations.
Merlin's mouth sucks bruises into the crease where thigh meets backside and his wet fingers stretch Arthur until Arthur thinks he may come apart completely.
Arthur's most human moments, his most frail thoughts, come when Merlin mouths the nape of his neck and holds Arthur tight. Merlin whispers short phrases and sentiments that leave Arthur wanting more. And whether it's Merlin's prick, or his mouth, or his hands or nothing more than his voice brushing against Arthur's ear, he's unleashed this tide of want and need that have no place in Arthur's head or in his heart.
Being human is a terrible business that way. The lack of control over something so minute as emotion can make the biggest man feel smaller than an ant, and when Merlin takes Arthur and makes him want, Arthur doesn't know whether to be grateful, or to hate Merlin for what he's done.
-end-
Beta by sparky77 and lazlet. Blame them for all snafus.
Merlin
Arthur/Merlin
NC-17
In My Golden Years I Was a Slave
It's raining.
And they're lost.
Which Arthur will never admit.
And Merlin is freezing -- which he will never admit.
So, in their impasse, they stand among the trees, with the water pouring down on their heads, scowling at each other.
There's rain running off the tip of Merlin's nose and his hair is plastering itself to his head. Arthur's boots are so full of water, his toes are swimming, and rather than look at Merlin in his drenched state, Arthur glares at the sky as though the rains have come just to irritate him. Which they obviously have.
Arthur hardly needs to see Merlin's clothes plastered to every inch of his skin.
He finds himself looking everywhere but at Merlin, and then thinks better of it. It's only Merlin, and Merlin is hardly an imposing figure. However, he will be insufferable if he catches cold, and Arthur finds himself crowding them both further under the marginal protection of a great oak tree in hopes of delaying such an event.
Of course, Merlin makes a noise in protest at Arthur's invasion of his space.
"Shut up," Arthur says peremptorily to the leaves overhead. A particularly malicious drop of water lands in Arthur's eye, and he wipes his face with his hand, choosing finally to glower at Merlin, who is somehow responsible for this, even when he obviously isn’t.
Merlin narrows his eyes. "You shut up, I haven't even said anything."
"But you're thinking it."
"Oh, so now I can be blamed for my thoughts as well. I suspect you best clap me in irons, then."
Arthur smiles sharply. "Don’t tempt me."
"You haven't got any irons anyway," Merlin says sullenly.
"I can rectify that eventually." Arthur glares back. "Frankly, if it were anybody else I would think they'd sent the rains deliberately."
"I assure you, if I were in charge of the rains, this would be a very different sort of rain."
Arthur finds his mouth curling at the corners. "What, like a rain of toads?"
Merlin smiles. "If I tell you, then it won't be a surprise."
"I don’t like surprises," Arthur says. Which is very true. The rains were supposed to come tomorrow, this is definitely a surprise.
"Everybody loves surprises," Merlin says, brushing his hair out of his eyes and only succeeding in sending it in every direction.
Arthur snorts. "Surprise, you're going to stocks!" he says.
"That's not the sort of surprise I was talking about," Merlin complains.
Arthur blinks the water out of his eyes and grabs Merlin by that infernal neckerchief. He would never be able to say what compels him to kiss Merlin, just that he does feel compelled, and so he does it.
Merlin's mouth is slippery with rain and his lips are cold, the kiss should not be as warm as it is.
But it is.
"Is that the sort of surprise you were thinking of?" Arthur asks, pulling back very slightly.
Merlin's eyelashes are plastered together and his lips are turning blue.
"Do it again," he orders.
And Arthur complies.
Arthur is perfectly immune to Merlin's broad smiles and raised eyebrows; they're far too obvious to elicit the responses Merlin craves. It's the little things that trip Arthur up: the back of Merlin's hand brushing his own when they walk the halls; Merlin pushing his fringe out of his eyes when he bends down to see to Arthur's boots; the way Merlin grins at other people and Arthur feels as though he's been cheated out of something that belongs to him.
"If you don't cease and desist at once, I'm calling the guard."
Merlin grins down at Arthur, his smile blinding. "I wish you would," he taunts. "I'm sure they would love to see you like this," he adds, rubbing his thumb over Arthur's mouth.
Arthur bites down on Merlin's finger. Hard.
Merlin just laughs, holding Arthur's jaw in the palm of his hand.
Arthur kneels before no one, but he is on his knees in his bed chamber -- albeit on top of one of his pillows because the floors are hard, and he cannot possibly be expected to subject himself to such torture. And yet these thoughts of torture are nothing compared to the way Merlin is rubbing the wet head of his cock against Arthur's mouth or the way he keeps pulling away when Arthur parts his lips.
All Arthur wants is Merlin's weight on his tongue, Merlin's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling mercilessly and using Arthur the way Arthur uses everything else in his life, with force, with an underlying appreciation, with an intrinsic understanding of what's needed.
And yet, Merlin denies him, because he can. Because Arthur lets him.
Merlin can hold his cock in his hand and rub the head against Arthur's mouth and along the flat of Arthur's tongue. He can stroke himself off, denying Arthur completely only to come all over Arthur's face and chin and Arthur will let him.
Because Arthur has no desire to say 'no'.
Arthur nudges Merlin with the toe of his boot. "You forgot." he repeats.
Merlin looks up from his seat on the ground. He's eating an apple and his mouth is slick with the juices. "Didn't I just say 'I forgot'?"
Arthur narrows his eyes. "I thought I might've misheard you."
Merlin takes another bite of his apple. "Really? With ears that size?"
"Merlin, I hardly think you're one to talk about the size of someone else's ears," Arthur says, placing his hand on his hunting knife. "And do you really think you ought to antagonise me now?"
Merlin snorts. "As opposed to antagonising you later?"
Arthur looks up at the blue, blue sky.
There are some things that Arthur has simply come to accept at this point in his life. He is a brilliant swordsman. His father is complicated, Morgana should never be underestimated and Merlin is insolent and brain-damaged.
Yes, the last one is something that Arthur suspects will be true long after his father is dead and Morgana has gone off to make some other man miserable.
He knows this is true, because all Merlin had to do was bring his spare sword for sparing practise and he's just forgotten all about that.
"You didn't forget, did you?" Arthur asks.
Merlin smiles, the juices from the apple running down his chin. "I don't know what you could be referring to, Sire. I assure you it was just an over-"
Merlin's apple goes flying when Arthur kicks at Merlin's wrist. "Ow!"
"I'll give you something to really complain about," Arthur threatens, just as Merlin gets to his feet and dances a few feet away.
"You'll have to catch me first," Merlin teases.
"I am not chasing after you," Arthur says.
And much later on, when Arthur's caught Merlin, or Merlin's allowed himself to be caught, Merlin strips Arthur of his chainmail and his breeches and every piece of covering and ornamentation that Arthur has. Literally and figuratively.
The sun is high overhead when Arthur finds himself scrabbling at the ground, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as Merlin presses two fingers inside of him, and Arthur prays or keens or begs, whatever it is that people who are caught do when they want nothing more than to stay where they are for the rest of their days.
Princes do not beg anyone for anything. Princes want for naught. Princes are born and raised and moulded. Men, though, men want and need. They have desires. Princes are created, but underneath it all, they are just men. Arthur is just a man. He wants. He craves. Princes give orders, men take them. With Merlin, Arthur is only a man.
It's late at night that Arthur finds himself at a loss.
Arthur's most fractured moments are when he's bent over the side of his mattress with Merlin kneeling behind him.
Merlin's very particular about how he wants Arthur to bend, how much he wants Arthur's legs spread.
Merlin's fingers spread Arthur open like a fruit, with ease of practise and sureness of action. His tongue licks and prods, flickering and searching for things that Arthur can't even name -- but Arthur doesn't need to know the words to know the sensations.
Merlin's mouth sucks bruises into the crease where thigh meets backside and his wet fingers stretch Arthur until Arthur thinks he may come apart completely.
Arthur's most human moments, his most frail thoughts, come when Merlin mouths the nape of his neck and holds Arthur tight. Merlin whispers short phrases and sentiments that leave Arthur wanting more. And whether it's Merlin's prick, or his mouth, or his hands or nothing more than his voice brushing against Arthur's ear, he's unleashed this tide of want and need that have no place in Arthur's head or in his heart.
Being human is a terrible business that way. The lack of control over something so minute as emotion can make the biggest man feel smaller than an ant, and when Merlin takes Arthur and makes him want, Arthur doesn't know whether to be grateful, or to hate Merlin for what he's done.
-end-
Beta by sparky77 and lazlet. Blame them for all snafus.