Kink Me! #28
Kink Me! #28
closed to new promptsWelcome to Kink Me! Merlin #28!
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Tug of War
[PART I]
-m.
It’s the stupid song on the radio’s fault. Between the teen in the speakers singing about giving some bloke she’s never met before her number ridiculously hoping that he'll ring her (maybe) and the high of just breaking up with Gwaine (because Merlin is a realist and people like him with over-large ears and untameable hair don’t break up with Gwaine, Gwaine breaks up with them), Merlin feels more than a little invincible when he doesn’t stumble over the mat just inside the café or spill coffee down his front as he retrieves his cup from the smitten bloke behind the bar who winks and makes sure to let their fingers brush. His seat doesn’t mysteriously jump away from him and he even manages to make it through six pages of his book - a record! - before he remembers that he left his mobile on the table beside the door, his keys are likely still in the bowl beside it and he'll probably be locked out tonight when he gets off work. He'll spend a solid hour and a half waiting for Gwen to bring his spare key to. By then it'll be past dinner, he'll be practically starving and his stomach will be growling sonnets about pot noodles before bed.
Merlin jumps, surprised, when his mobile buzzes in his pocket a moment later. In an attempt to retrieve it his fingers brush against his keys and everything is sure to be uphill from there.
It’s with that damn song on his mind, a cup of un-spilled coffee, his keys and mobile in his pocket and a shit-eating grin he couldn’t force off of his face if he tried that he runs into the most gorgeous prat he's ever had the (dis)honour of meeting.
Or, rather, said prat's chair.
Even still, Merlin doesn’t think it’s an awful turn of events. The coffee spills over the other's trousers and the lower-half of his pressed white shirt; soaks them both to his skin and his perfect chiselled face flashes with shock before it turns to fury. But Merlin is still dry and floating on cloud nine so, no, it’s not too terrible. He tries to quell his smile, aware that he must look like a nutter when he reaches across the bloke’s table, knocking one glass to the floor. When he reaches to catch it, his arm pushes another glass aside. He's forced to watch it splash against a third man at the table before it lands roughly in his lap (Merlin winces for that one because, really, that couldn’t have felt good).
It all happened in an effort to grab a napkin to clean up his original mess. He thinks that his lucky streak couldn't really be that shorted-lived; there has to be more.
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“Yes,” replies the original spillee slowly, bitingly. "My day was flowingly seamlessly before you showed up. Do you pay any attention at all to where you’re walking?”
Merlin presses the napkin in his hand against the bloke's dark trousers, hoping to soak up a bit of the spill and maybe salvage the moment his eyes catch the way the sunlight from overhead gleams over the stranger's golden hair, strong shoulders flexing under the starched white shirt he's wearing as he moves to push Merlin away. His Adam’s apple bobs over the knot of his blood red tie, blue eyes daring Merlin to respond as he presses his lips together in annoyance (Merlin recognises that look well enough, after all).
How well will his luck will hold up if he says, ‘Usually I do but I was too busy staring at you to watch my own feet'?
Long fingers rip the napkin free from Merlin’s hand. The stranger throws it down onto the table as he nods toward the door. “Go - away.”
One of the men beside him, the one Merlin’s series of spills missed, is dark-haired man with soft, friendly eyes who mumbles, “Arthur, it was an accident.” He nods to Merlin, gives him an encouraging smile. “We’ll stop by the hotel before we go on and let you change. No harm done.”
The blond man on Arthur’s other side retrieves the napkin Arthur stole from Merlin's fingers and dabs it against his own wet front, plucking the dripping shirt away from his chest with a wet squelch that makes them all grimace. “A mess is what this is.”
But it’s Merlin’s first lucky day in... forever. Best not to waste it.
He knows that, in most situations, he’d sidle away right about now and save himself the embarrassment of offering some kind of retribution he can’t afford like dry cleaning or a new shirt (the ones they’re wearing look like the expensive brands he fingers in the shop but never dares to look at the price tag of). Today, though, he shifts from one foot to the other, tugs self-consciously at the bottom of his scrub shirt and blurts, “I know we got off to a bloody awful start but maybe I could leave you with my number and we could try again another time. Maybe?” because - what the hell? and everything else that could go right today has, so why not push his luck just one step more (or maybe two, because he still has to make the walk to work without being hit by a bus)?
“No.”
Merlin nods and backs away, stumbling over his feet before he rights himself and thinks, ‘Well, it was nice while it lasted.’ He's just thankful the bus driver hit the brakes when he did. Luck must have held out a little bit...
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Gwen tells him she got a strange ring; that a man named Arthur says he has his mobile and, when she speaks, she pauses occasionally as though she's unsure of how to relay the message. "He said he'd like to return it to the idiot who left it at his table," she tells Merlin, looking confused, "and because he called from your mobile, I thought that might be you. When I asked, he laughed at your name - said it was a bloody awful thing to be called and wondered how he missed it when you propositioned him."
"Propositioned? He makes it sound like I'm a..." His lips move, speaking though no words come out. He probably looks like a fish which, if anything, makes him even angrier.
"Prostitute?" Gwen tries. The word sounds strange in her voice, twice as dirty as it usually does.
Merlin winces, and exclaims "Yes! That fucking wanker!" as he tears Gwen's mobile from her shocked fingers. The most recent text, dated yesterday, from his mobile reads: Inform the idiot I will have it tomorrow. 11 at Caffe Nero. Thank you. -Arthur
He seethes while he pulls a jumper over his head, runs his fingers through his hair and forgets his keys on the way out, not even apologising for slamming the door in Gwen's face when he leaves.
: : :
All in all, it works out in Merlin’s favour. He meets Arthur at the café, purposely spills a fresh cup of piping hot coffee over Arthur’s newest shirt and the cost of the macchiato is so worth the open-mouthed stare (and the quick peek at perfect stomach muscles under a freshly laundered wet button-up) he receives in response. Snagging his mobile off the table, Merlin is gone before Arthur has a chance to try and take it back or say more than a stuttered, “what the fuck?”
Arthur tells Merlin months later when they’re wrapped in Merlin’s faded blue sheets that he would have said more, would have snatched Merlin’s bony little wrist and not let him get away if he hadn’t been so focused on how amazing Merlin’s arse looked in his tattered, indigo-washed jeans and the fitted navy jumper that hadn’t come down low enough to cover the dip at Merlin’s lower back when he'd turned away and stalked out of the door, head shaking and muttering still slightly audible when he'd said, "what an absolute prat!"
Arthur had never been so mesmerized, left so speechless and -
Here, Merlin kisses him and says, “Less about me. More about you.”
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I can't wait for more.
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-a.
It’s the fire in Merlin’s eyes, the eagerness in the air around him that attracts Arthur’s attention. Hot coffee over his lap once was enough, even if it was an accident. The second time, when Merlin had taken the time to tear off the lid and skipped adding milk and sugar before he’d unceremoniously tossed it over Arthur’s chest, was on purpose and unforgivable.
He’s not sure what kind of fool Merlin takes him for. He’d snatched the number from his mobile before he’d headed to the café and programmed it into his own mobile under the name ‘World’s Biggest Idiot’ because he didn't think there was a person in the world (save Merlin's mum, probably) who didn't think he was an idiot, but he was fit enough and there was some part of Arthur that refused to forget him - to let him get away.
When he gathers his bearings, presses as much coffee out of his shirt and trousers as he can manage and fishes his mobile out of his pocket, he scrolls quickly through his contacts with one eye trained on the glaring screen and the other trained on moving quickly between the few people milling over the pavement. There is no sign of the navy blue jumper Merlin was wearing, no messy head of dark hair or even any ridiculously large ears so he keeps his own (normal-sized, thank you very much) ears keen for the sound of a ringing mobile when he presses the ‘dial’ button next to Merlin’s (aptly assigned) title.
Hey, I heard you were a wild one. Oooooh.
Arthur looks up, speaker against his ear ringing familiarly as the music grows louder, closer when he follows the noise. It's too perfectly timed to be coincidence. The door to the nearby shop is propped open, an ‘open’ sign hanging crooked off a battered nail over the entryway. The girl behind the register, young and spotted, bats her lashes and Arthur nods stiffly, entirely too aware of the way her eyes follow him as he focuses on the music, tracks it past the first three shelves.
If I took you home, it’d be a home run.
“Shit. I just got this damn thing back and I’ve already lost it - again.”
The toe of Arthur’s shoe smacks something, sends it skidding across the floor. When he looks down, he finds Merlin bent over with his fingers outstretched for his crooning mobile.
Hey, I heard you like the wild ones, wild ones, wild ones. Oooh.
“Hello?” Merlin’s lips part, release the word and a moment later Arthur's mobile repeats it, grainy through the speaker and not nearly as breathtaking as it had been the first time. “Hello?”
“These shirts are expensive.”
Eyes wide, infinitely blue and not the least bit fearful, Merlin says, “Maybe if you stopped being such a... clotpole, I wouldn't feel the need to douse coffee on you all the time.”
It’s an odd (their friends call it humorous but there was nothing funny about the moment Arthur shoved Merlin back against the bookshelf, more aware of the fullness of Merlin’s lips and less aware of his own voice as it demanded Merlin stop making up stupid words and realise that he couldn’t talk to him that way) start to a relationship but later, they’ll pride themselves on being unique.
Their life together starts in a café on a Monday, with Merlin in faded orange scrubs and Arthur in freshly pressed Versace.
Strangely enough, years later it will end very similarly.
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Arthur remembers weekend trips from London to Devon, surprising Merlin in A&E at Torbay with coffee (that Arthur manages to keep in the cup) and the silent, needy press of Merlin’s lips against his after a long week away. He remembers Merlin’s body bowed, hips raised and fingers wrapped tight around Arthur's hair. The way his lungs faltered when he looked down at Merlin’s face and couldn’t pull himself away from the depth of adoration in Merlin’s eyes. More clearly than that, he remembers Merlin’s head pillowed against his shoulder, dark hair stark over his skin and thin lids fluttering as Arthur’s hand traced the knobs in Merlin’s spine from top to bottom, fingers dipping slowly over and under. He’d hoped to stop right there, still himself and succumb to sleep before he said something silly like - “Come back to London with me.”
Right. Yes. Something silly just like that.
Even worse, Arthur doesn’t stop there. He rings Morgana a week later from Merlin’s flat as he stacks Merlin’s medical texts neatly in one box and tosses his thin, worn shirts messily in another. He speaks hopelessly on and on about Merlin until she says, “Uther will be furious, Arthur. This isn’t a... You’re serious, you understand? Serious.” When he tries to take it all back, explain that it’s not as serious as she suggests, he fumbles over his words and ends up telling her about Merlin’s cheekbones and the strangely endearing way he can’t seem to keep anything (coffee, most especially) in his hands when he walks. He’s expected to speak reverently about like the feel of Merlin’s tongue pressing deliciously to the head of his cock, something related to sex rather than feelings because he's a man and men aren't driven mad enough to invite their (male) lovers four hours from home, to London and all it includes, for love.
Merlin in London - in London with him.
“Furious,” Morgana repeats before she hangs up. “Make sure that this is what you want, Arthur. Make sure it’s enough to hold your ground.”
Uther seems unsurprised. He hardly glances away from the paperwork scattered across his desk when Arthur delivers the news. The repeat visits to Devon over the long weekends and the bit of extra work he’s been leaving behind when he heads home must have provided his father with all the hints he needed. Perhaps the gender of his partner wasn’t expected, but Uther isn’t a fool and he supposes the lack of birds Arthur has brought round for tea may have been some sort of sign...
His father is quiet, controlled, when he looks away from his documents saying, “The people love a family man, Arthur. A spouse in the medical field will mean something, maybe just enough to make them overlook the fact that he's a man, but children is what they'll want to see - a family. I refuse to allow the Pendragon name die with you, Arthur. See that there is an heir, a strong one, and your future still be secure despite your... odd partnership."
Arthur wonders if that’s Uther’s way of offering his blessing. He doesn’t dare ask the question aloud though because, to be fair, he doesn’t think an heir is too much to ask for if he gets to keep Merlin.
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Merlin is good at what he does - a people pleaser, easily fallen in love with (Arthur would know) - and has every doctor at St Thomas’ wrapped around his finger within a week of his arrival despite having tripped over a dozen electrical cords and nearly dousing the hospital director in coffee. Arthur treats Merlin to Roux for dinner that evening, hoping to quell his worry. Merlin fidgets the entire time, yanks at his tie obsessively and it takes all of Arthur’s patience to not straddle him in the middle of the restaurant.
He's also unsophisticated in a way that Arthur loves and hates but doesn't quite understand. After all, the concept of multiple forks shouldn't be a foreign one to any member of society.
Despite the mishaps, Merlin moves in legitimately a week later. No more single boxes at a time or a bag packed for one night at a time slung over his shoulder when he knocks.
It's a rainy Monday and Arthur, sopping wet and freezing from the cold, has never felt as complete as he does when he pushes open the door, drops his keys on the nearby table and finds Merlin waiting with a towel and a shy grin.
“Welcome home.”
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F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5
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And I'm so glad you have it all written out already so that it won't be unfinished, but I'm really scared for the inevitable divorce scene D:
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Strangely enough, years later it will end very similarly. They've just moved in together and all I can see is their break up.
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-m.
It’s not easy to fall into the pattern of Arthur’s life. He is busy learning the ins and outs of politics on the front lines. His father insists he be around often to make sure the older, more mature members of Parliament see his face and understand his devotion to the career. One day he will be like them, a name to be recognised and respected just like his father (and his father before him, etc). Merlin works eight hour shifts at the hospital; Arthur is gone before he wakes and is home long after dinner is served. Every flat surface in the flat becomes the home of piles upon piles of paperwork and legislature that Merlin only understands half of (and that's giving him credit he's not sure he deserves). When he finally breaks down during one of Arthur's tirades about bigoted conservative ideals making marriage an impossibility without travel and says, “If you’re not Conservative, why do you try to act like you are? There’s nothing wrong with being Lib-Dem, but there’s a lot wrong with pretending to be something you aren’t,” over dinner one night, Arthur nearly packs Merlin’s boxes for him.
Arthur tells Merlin he has no idea what he’s talking about, assumes aloud that it's another one of Merlin’s hateful attacks on the political system and it isn’t until hours later when he’s sound asleep and Merlin is still awake, staring up at the ceiling and missing the old water stained walls of his flat in Devon, that he realises that he and Arthur have just had their first fight.
Merlin also hates how easily - and rather recklessly - Arthur flaunts his wealth. There are sheets made with a million threads of the softest, brightest red known to mankind on their bed. Their flat takes modern to an entirely new level; Merlin sometimes wakes up and wonders what year it is, if he's been reincarnated into the future. With a small block of concrete they get to call their own over the Thames, their view priceless and practically reeks of opulence.
It’s a lot to become accustomed to for someone like Merlin. Growing up in a small way, living from one day to the next and eating pot noodles for more than one meal a month out of necessity rather than desire, he doesn’t quite know how to behave in the posh restaurants Arthur frequents with his mates from Uni or how anyone can fathom spending two-hundred pounds on polos they’ll only wear once for a round of golf. They’ll spend more time talking then actually playing, anyway.
Sometimes there are minuscule debates where they sigh and give each other dirty looks for twenty minutes before Merlin gives in and let’s Arthur pay for lunch, dinner or whatever over-priced gift he wants to buy Merlin. Other days there are long, drawn out screaming matches that send them both to bed with dry, aching throats and tired eyes that say ‘I’m sorry’ though their lips refuse to offer the same apology.
They last, though. The first two years are quick-passing and unforgettable; marked by breathless kisses after Arthur’s trips out of town and loud, gasping nights in luxurious hotels when they sneak away for a weekend or two of their own. The good things make Merlin forget about their mid-week arguments and the cold meals he wraps and puts in the refrigerator for Arthur to eat when he comes home - sometimes minutes later, other times hours. They share pints at the pub with Arthur’s work mates, Leon and Lancelot (who, Merlin learns, have rather unkind stories to relay about the number of things Arthur called Merlin after their initial meeting in Devon). Morgana dotes on him, announces at their first meeting that he is everything Arthur said he was and so much more. She promptly adopts him as something of her own, shows him around the city, whispers warnings about Uther Pendragon’s hold on Arthur’s life and tells Merlin he should be sure to remind Arthur where he belongs - where he wants to be, rather than where Uther thinks he should be.
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But, for all of Morgana’s whispered warnings, the swift clutches to Merlin’s wrist to assure she has his attention when she reminds him about keeping Arthur focused (“What he wants, Merlin. Make Arthur think of Arthur.”), Uther is always distantly pleasant when he and Merlin happen to meet each other. It’s never on purpose but Merlin supposes bringing Arthur lunch once a week in Parliament where he and Uther work in offices next to each other makes their meetings not quite unexpected.
Openly, he doesn’t speak a word against Merlin and when he mentions it - Uther’s passiveness, his ease of conversation - to Morgana one afternoon, she passes him a glare that could freeze the Thames in July. “Have you not been listening, Merlin? Uther is in politics; polite conversation is his profession. You know first-hand what an arse Arthur is but very few others are very knowledgeable about that, yes? They’re both closed books and reading their pages is difficult - Uther, especially. Don’t assume that he’s on your side, Merlin. Never let your guard down; his attacks are often indirect but powerful nonetheless.”
Arthur bites into his pasta, chewing slowly as he listens to Merlin repeat the entire conversation. When he’s done meal and story both finished, Arthur says, “My father hasn’t said anything at all in regards to this relationship. Despite Morgana’s declarations, if he was unhappy, he would have directly and purposely let us both know he was displeased with the status quo. He works in politics; his speciality is making things go his way.”
“I thought working in politics means you’re meant to make things go the way the people want, not yourself.”
“Mind your mouth, Merlin,” Arthur warns. Merlin knows he’s toeing the line and doesn’t respond. Arthur thinks male nurses are silly and Merlin thinks politics are all a grand scheme to swindle money out of people (not that he complains when he sips coffee on the patio and watches the sun rise slowly over the Thames, all paid for by centuries of well-invested, politically-earned funds) but their guests all think they’re well-educated and perfectly matched when they stare at bookshelf upon bookshelf of Merlin’s medical texts (and how were they to know the tomes there were actually tiny in comparison to what doctors studied?) alongside Arthur’s books on political theory, law and guides to surviving Oxford (Arthur claims they’re rubbish; he tells anyone who will listen than all you need is long, sleepless nights and more pints than you can count on the weekends). “Tell Morgana to mind her own business and then follow the same advice. You sound like an idiot when you talk about things you don’t understand.”
Merlin glares at Arthur’s back, silently hoping it burns a hole in his posh collared white shirt. When he doesn’t see the smoke, a flash of flame ignited, he changes his tactic and wonders which tie he wants to strangle Arthur in his sleep with. Red, blue, green? Something with or without stripes?
Sod it all, his bare hands will do the job just as well.
Morgana texts him that night while he’s stretched across the sofa, the Thames dark in the window beside him but greater London still alight with life long after the sun has faded in the distance and blackness has filled the once bright space.
It’s starting, Merlin. Stop it. Stop it soon.
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Freya is small with pale skin and dark features that don’t quite match the softness of her look; round in the face and thin everywhere else. Arthur leans over, presses his lips close to Merlin’s ear and says, “She’s my exact opposite, this will never work."
Merlin is defiant, pushing Arthur away as he stands with his hand out and a smile on his lips. He introduces himself, nods to Arthur and calls him some made-up, embarrassing name in a slightly endearing way that makes Freya smile.
Arthur showers Freya with the big, epic questions that don’t really matter in the end like her family lineage and where she hails from (“Christ, Arthur, just ask where she grew up. We don’t all ‘hail’’ from somewhere, yeah?”) in a tone that is neither kind nor inquisitive, sounding more like an attack than an interview. The stress, Uther’s constant reminders that he expects his heir soon (“I’m not getting younger, Arthur, and neither are you.”) are clearly weighing on him and their prospects, despite the very generous sum of money they’ve offered, have been acceptable at best. None have given Arthur answers he approves of and most haven't even bothered to answer Merlin's questions. For the most part, they've done little more then stare at Arthur's toned arms, styled hair and chiselled face before shooting Merlin questioning glances that say, 'how did you get so lucky?'
He almost wants to say, "I'm not sure, really."
Under Arthur’s gaze, Freya stutters and looks away. Her brows draw together, colour-streaked fingers grip nervously at the fraying hem of her dress - a garment that has clearly seen better days.
When Merlin cuts in, sensing her distress and knowing full-well what it feels like to be on the other side of Arthur’s gaze - blue and clear, determined and unapologetic in their demand for understanding - he asks her easier things. The things that matter. He learns, quickly and with ease that she doesn’t play sports but enjoys running in the spring. “More to be outside and in nature than for the actual running,” she explains. Merlin tells her he understands completely, that he can’t put one foot in front of the other most days but he likes getting out and trying when the weather isn’t gloomy. Back and forth, they talk about music and books they enjoy, occasionally including Arthur in the conversation but mostly leaving him to listen which - Merlin thinks - helps Freya ease out of her shell. The conversation turns to school and she admits that she is without her parents, living desperately on her own. As she tugs again at the edge of her dress (Merlin’s hands itch to reach out and hold hers, calm her and tell her she’s not alone) she admits that she heard about the surrogacy from a girl they’d interviewed earlier and thought that maybe, if she came, she might impress them just a little. “I need money for University,” Freya starts slowly, looking down at her feet as they tap nervously against the marble flooring, “and I realise I’m not exactly what you’re looking for but I’m... yeah.”
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Merlin loves her. Behind Arthur’s back, he schedules to meet her at The Ship Tavern where things are tight and cosy, not posh enough to make her feel small in her thin second-hand shirt and torn jeans. Over separate plates of Farmer’s bake, they talk about nothing related to surrogacy and everything related to Freya and Merlin. She talks about art, her appreciation for the work of those who draw with digital tablets but how, for her, nothing compares to the way her heart races with a pencil or a piece of coloured coal in her hands, moving deftly over a piece of paper quickly, so independent that sometimes even she doesn’t know what she’s drawing. There is paint under her nails and she smiles when he mentions it, replying a moment later that she loves painting with her fingers but canvases are expensive and second-hand paints don't do much on paper. Shyly, sounding just a little embarrassed and very much like she might regret saying anything, Freya even tells Merlin about her absolute addiction to greasy burgers and chips. “I don’t have them often but when I do, I can’t stop myself once I start. I gorge; it’s terrible. And strawberries. I love strawberries.”
While admitting he has a terrible weakness for pub food, Merlin asks, “Have you ever been to The Ledbury?” It takes only a split second, a quick flash of disappointment in Freya’s eyes to remind him that, no, Freya has never been to The Ledbury because Freya, like Merlin once was, is poor. It’s the entire reason they’re sitting across from each other, talking about Freya’s love of art and swimming (“I’d swim in a puddle, if I fit.”) and the death of her family (all of non-medical reasons. There are no diseases she’s aware of in her family line and she asks him quietly if having a terrible go at life will be what makes the difference to Arthur ).
“I’ve heard it’s very good.” She pushes past the awkwardness with a brave, earnest smile that says she’s not as hurt as Merlin assumes she is. “I've never been for myself though, no.”
“It’s terrible; you’re not missing anything. They make rabbit lasagne and partridge -"
“In a pear tree?”
“No, I might actually consider eating it if it was.”
It’s easy to smile with Freya. She has a lot of the young exuberance Merlin remembers having when he was nineteen and baby-faced, teetering on his own grown-up legs for the very first time and starving to make it through university without having to call his mum for money he knew she didn’t have. He feels for her, sees so much of himself in the way she nods eagerly with his stories about work and how she throws her head back and laughs loudly, without worry for where they are or what anyone might think, when he tells her about meeting Arthur for the first time. Lowly, so no one around can hear, they stupidly sing the song that had inspired it all and when they part an hour later with full bellies and matching grins, Merlin is convinced she’s the one - that, as far as he’s concerned, Freya is the only real option.
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