Happy Friday Morning, all! To celebrate the fact that we've all made it another week without academic failure and/or hari kari, here is some porn. I tried for unrepentant porn, and I almost made it, but it got a little deep. It is like a necklace. The string is the deepness, and the beads are porn. Something like that. But I doubt anyone is reading this because they got to the word "porn" and the rest of the words turned into "wah wah wahh waaaahhh." C'est la vie.
Title: Today We Are Victors
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: 4766
Summary: The first thing Arthur Pendragon ever learned was that he could have almost anything he wanted. The history of Arthur's need.
Notes: Thanks to
snglesrvngfrend for beta magiczzz. Title from "You're All I Need" by Pilate.
The first thing Arthur Pendragon ever learned was that he could have almost anything he wanted. His first memories were of a nursery filled with toys and expensive pillows, free reign of a castle and lush grounds, and a nanny who almost always did whatever came into his little mind that he wanted her to.
The only thing Arthur’s ever wanted but not been given is to have a mother, like all the children in his picture books did. He asked and asked, but no one could ever get him one. He even wanted to ask his father, but Ilesa, the nanny, said he mustn’t, that the King would be very cross.
That denial made Arthur very greedy. If he couldn’t have her, then he would have everything else there was to have. So he raged and yelled and kicked until he was up to his ears in things he wanted. Some days, if he had been messy, it was a chore to get from the middle of his nursery to the door.
While it was nice to never be lacking in things to do, Arthur had something he liked much more than all his playthings. If he had been good all day, especially if he had stood before the King, looked straight ahead and not fidgeted with his crown, then before he went to bed he could have a treat.
Ilesa would help him into his nightgown, smooth his hair, and fortify his prayers with her strong, low voice. Then he would wait, his fingers intentionally smooth on the linen of his nightgown, to see if she would stay. He wasn’t allowed to yell for it.
Most times though, Arthur could tell if she would stay before she actually settled in the rocking chair. He knew when he had been good.
If she was staying, she would sit the rocking chair in the corner of the room, and that meant Arthur could come, Quickly, dear, the floor’s cold, and clamber up into her lap. Her arms would fold him close, gathering the excess of her skirts around his legs, and she would tuck his head under her chin. She always smelled good, faintly of flowers and bread and something that made him want to stay.
He always stayed quiet, content to be close and listen to her heart, warm and indulged. She would tell him he was sweet and stroke his hair until he fell asleep, his hands loosely fisted in her dress.
It was almost like having a mother. If he couldn’t have one who cared for him out of love, then he could have one who cared for him out of duty.
Which was almost enough for Arthur.
*
Now, Arthur rarely thinks about his mother, because there is nothing to think about. He doesn’t know much about her. His father never speaks of her, and everyone else’s love for her is faint and slowly wearing away, words on the pages of an old book.
It’s a mystery Arthur will never solve, and one which he feels doesn’t concern him. Unfortunately, his lack of thought doesn’t stop the ache inside of him. It’s been there as long as Arthur can remember, circling around in his belly like a caged dragon.
The ache compels him to own things. Secretly, he thinks he’s cursed to be forever greedy, drowning in a want he can’t quite seem to fill. There doesn’t seem to be a cure, and so Arthur just stands it. He does his best to throw out as much as he acquires.
He can’t throw out servants, obviously, but he blows through them like they’re practice targets. There is something immensely satisfying about taking these people to bed if they’re good. Treating them. They don’t love him, but they do worship him, and they have to do what he wants. Each and everyone one thanks him profusely when he’s done with them, and then dragon stops pacing for a little while.
As time passes, it becomes a very little while.
So he’s hungry. Ravenous, taking to pacing the castle and Camelot, looking for a fight or something better.
But still, he’s surprised that when he sees Merlin and his first thought is so intensely, Mine.
*
Arthur finds himself even more surprised by the staying power of his feelings, because Merlin is the worst servant he’s ever had. He can’t seem to do anything right, and he doesn’t even stay sacked. Even the key concept of good behavior being rewarded carnally escapes Merlin. He’s about as well behaved as someone who was raised by wolves.
That doesn’t stop the dragon from flapping its wings and growling, wondering why Arthur won’t just get on with it.
He tries to remember the good behavior rule. This works quite well until he and Merlin start getting along. Then Arthur finds himself distracted by Merlin's smile and his nervous fingers. Arthur would like to suck those fingers into his mouth to see what noise Merlin might make. He can't focus on training his knights, which becomes intolerable when they start besting him in combat exercises. There's nothing like landing on your back, winded, looking into the face of one of your less talented knights. The shame is bad, but sitting up to see your generally incompetent manservant watching eagerly, his face concerned and excited, not because you've fallen, but because he's mesmerized by the pretty picture of court life he sees.
He starts training in the evenings while Merlin makes up his room. It allows him to work on his footing and avoid Merlin.
It works. Too well, apparently. His greed makes him get three new horses, and then it starts asking for wine. That Arthur is more than happy to provide.
At the next feast Arthur goes overboard. Merlin's there, refilling his cup, his fingers brushing Arthur's when he hands the goblet over and his own mouth stained lightly from the wine he's been sneaking. Arthur stares, and then he goes to work drowning the dragon's hungry cries.
But it all goes wrong after Arthur's fourth serving of wine. Then he starts listening to his greed. Every time Merlin looks at him from his post beside Gwen, Arthur thinks about him with his eyes shut, being so good, and he has to drink.
Arthur can see Merlin laugh, even from across the hall, and he's had enough. He weaves through the crowd, belly full of fire, until he can reach Merlin. Even then, he keeps going, just sticks out a hand to catch the crook of Merlin's elbow and drag him along.
The castle is filled with raucous noise and laughter, but Arthur pulls Merlin away from it, guiding him backwards and sputtering through the corridors. Merlin trips over his own feet and Arthur has to let go so Merlin can face the right way. Then he goes for a firm grip around the wrist, and compels him along.
Even with his blood soured by wine, Arthur knows the castle front to back, and top to bottom. He can remember a corner, mostly obscured by a dusty tapestry, near his old nursery. He used to hide from Ilesa there, when he had decided it wasn't a day worth being good for.
He thinks he'll visit it again, and reward himself for not being good at all.
The amazing thing is, Merlin doesn't object. He's his usual oblivious self, following Arthur blindly, staring up at the ceilings and ornaments they pass. He doesn't even try to pull his hand away, and something inside of Arthur stirs.
The tapestry is even more faded than Arthur remembers it, and the corner looks much smaller, but it will do. Arthur's not particularly concerned with space right now. Each arm of the corridor gets a cursory look, but the din of the hall is far away, and surely anyone else out at this time must be otherwise occupied.
Arthur prods Merlin into the corner, and takes a moment to look him over. Merlin's relaxed, leaning on the wall, his hands loose and he's smiling dopily at Arthur. Perfect. The word Mine settles in Arthur's chest, and then he pulls the tapestry to try and close the gap, so no one else can see.
"What're you doing?" Merlin finally asks, but he hardly sounds concerned.
"Nothing," Arthur says, dropping the tapestry, letting it swing where it will. He watches the shadow slip over Merlin's face, and then he's taking the two steps to stand toe-to-toe with Merlin, who looks at him with sleepy eyes.
"Hullo," Merlin murmurs.
Arthur flattens him to the wall. Merlin's body curves to take his weight and Merlin's eyes light up with something that's not fear, but perhaps the concern he lacked before. He doesn’t say anything, but watches Arthur carefully.
Arthur tracks the movements Merlin makes, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the slide of his tongue over his chapped lips. The tip of his tongue is purple from the wine.
Lust rips through Arthur and he can’t stand it any longer. He kisses Merlin, firmly but trying to keep himself in control. Merlin makes a little noise, his hands brushing Arthur’s thighs. His mouth is half-open, but unresponsive. His body against Arthur’s is still, like a small animal trapped. Arthur licks the parting of Merlin’s mouth, skims the edge of his teeth, makes a gentle sound of entreaty. He’s not sure where to put his hands, but they settle naturally and without his input, covering Merlin’s hip and his cheek, to show Arthur truly means no harm.
Merlin shivers, and Arthur lets the kiss go naturally, put neither of them pull away. Arthur's breathing against his mouth, rubbing one of his thighs between Merlin's gently, coaxing. He can feel Merlin, half-hard against his hip, but he can't do more until Merlin consents.
He's not a monster. He won’t push his power like that.
"Come on," he murmurs softly, his fingers touching Merlin's at their sides. Brushing his thumb over the crease of Merlin's palm, Arthur brushes one kiss against the dry corner of Merlin's mouth. Merlin's swallow is loud, and his fingers are clammy and warm.
That’s the moment Merlin gives in to him.
Merlin’s kiss is very soft, hesitant like he’s not kissed much. Arthur echoes it, one hand still tangled with Merlin's, the other in Merlin's hair so he can tilt Merlin's head up the inch needed to better connect them. Merlin lets him lead, curls his tongue against Arthur’s when they slip together. It sends a frisson through Arthur’s belly, makes him groan and lean in harder.
Merlin's free arm loops around Arthur's waist, urging his weight forward, and Arthur rolls his hips into the movement. They both pull apart to suck in air, foreheads touching. Arthur does it again, and Merlin follows him. The push-pull of friction aches, and when Merlin lets go of his hand to reel his mouth in, Arthur's grateful.
It goes from soft and unsure to frantic and clutching from one kiss to the next. One moment Arthur's cradling Merlin's hips, languidly tasting the wine Merlin was drinking, and the next he's growling, his fingers dragging over the warm jut of Merlin's collarbones and the rough of his shirt. Merlin's the same, his palms against the long muscles of Arthur's thighs so he can control the rhythm of their bodies, whimpering urgently.
They must make some picture, a secret tableau trapped behind the one everyone else sees. Arthur's eyes are closed, but he knows what it looks like, an image he won't soon forget.
Merlin gasps into his mouth when Arthur finds the right spot to rub against, and the thought breaks up, leaving only want shining out of the shards. He drags up Merlin’s shirt so he can get his hands on skin, but by now plain skin’s not good enough.
“Let me,” Arthur whispers, his fingers skimming Merlin’s belly to find the laces on his breeches. Merlin nods as best he can with Arthur’s mouth stuck to his. It’s easy work made hard by Arthur’s clumsy fingers, but then he gets it and can pull Merlin’s breeches over his hips and down his thighs before crowding back into Merlin’s heat so none of it is wasted.
The shirt Arthur is wearing is worth more than anything Merlin’s ever owned, but that doesn’t mean that he cares that the wet tip of Merlin’s cock is dragging across his belly, leaving a light smear behind. All the same, Arthur strips the shirt off, dropping it beside them, letting Merlin’s cock skid against the flat plane of his stomach. He has to spare a moment to palm the length of Merlin’s cock, circling the tip. Merlin twitches in his palm, swells to fit it better, and Arthur squeezes him once before moving on. His own breeches are easier. The laces are old, and Arthur knows exactly how to get his thumb in and pull so they loosen.
Arthur’s done this before, performed these drunken fumblings in several of the dark corners of the castle, but every time is like new. It feels like Arthur’s body is singing when he crashes into Merlin, and kissing is infinitely better than anything else he normally does with his mouth.
Because he’s versed in this, Arthur can keep mostly quiet by focusing on the rush of his breathing and keeping his mouth against Merlin’s. But there’s no hope for Merlin. He’s gasping constantly, soft Ohs breaking the tide of his breath and washing into Arthur’s mouth.
The rhythm is rough, and there is a good possibility Arthur will be sore tomorrow when he patrols with his father, a secret, good hurt that even wine can’t take away. He shivers, pushing into the hollow of Merlin’s hip, slipping to push against his belly.
Merlin holds him close, too tight, whispering into his mouth, “I-I’m going-”
“Yes,” Arthur exhales. Like he has to be told. He pushes his palms into the stone wall and grinds into Merlin, into the sudden wet, into his own spiraling white orgasm.
The only thing Arthur can hear is the wild beat of his heart and his heavy swallows. Merlin takes his weight again, and the wall supports them both until Arthur can feel his fingertips again. Then he pushes off Merlin, tugs his breeches back up, grimacing at the stick of them before he picks up his shirt and shrugs it back on. He combs his fingers through his hair, and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away the moist ghost of their kisses.
Then he’s ready to go. Merlin hasn’t moved. He’s just slumped against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slowly, his belly glistening. If Arthur wasn’t completely satisfied and ready for bed, then he’d probably be testing how cold the floor is.
He settles for a soft, “Hey,” which startles Merlin out of his reverie. His eyes are dark and startled, and he immediately hikes his breeches up. Arthur watches him carefully, and when Merlin finally looks at him again, Arthur’s mouth quirks into a smile that Merlin echoes faintly.
With his hand on the tapestry Arthur says, “Thank you,” and pushes his way out into the corridor, leaving Merlin behind. Arthur can feel Merlin’s eyes on him, but he keeps moving.
*
Merlin is there, too bloody early, to help Arthur into his armor. Arthur can tell Merlin is nervous. He can’t seem to stop fiddling, and it takes twice as long as it should for everything to get settled in its place.
A better man would talk to Merlin, tell him that that is what happens in court, chivalry and decorum be damned.
But Arthur can’t seem to stop yawning, so instead he curses the morning until Merlin smiles, his fingers quickly fastening Arthur’s cape.
*
The leaves turn colour before the dragon in Arthur’s belly comes after him again, reminding him of Mine. He’s sitting in his favourite chair in front of the fire, waiting for Merlin to bring him something to eat, boredom stretching his memory out.
There have been a few others since Merlin, pretty girls curtseying before the pink had even gone out of their cheeks, but Arthur’s hung on to the imagined picture of them, their skin and their mouths and their hard rhythm.
But mostly Arthur remembers Merlin’s eyes, full and dark, all for him. His chest goes tight and he shifts on the chair, just in time for Merlin to come in, babbling about trouble in the kitchen.
“Anyway,” Merlin says, abashed smile in place as Arthur sweeps out of the chair, “here’s your dinner.”
Arthur’s not hungry for food any more. He brushes past the chair he’s supposed to sit in, in favour of getting closer to Merlin, who’s standing there, his hands folded primly in front of him.
Merlin smiles his Well, Go On Then smile, like Arthur just missed the table. The smile falls off his face when Arthur rips his right hand free of the left and guides it to the bulge of his cock, cupping his own fingers around.
Merlin’s hand closes around him, and then stills. His eyes are wide, frozen on Arthur’s face, horrified and wanting, both. Arthur smiles. He pushes their layered hands against his cock and can’t help his stuttering inhale. Pleasure skitters down his spine and flushes into his belly.
He twists his hand so his palm is on Merlin’s, and he leads Merlin over the chair in front of the fire. Arthur sits, sinks into the plush fur covering the back, warm from the fire, almost as warm as his thoughts of what he wants. He holds out his hand for Merlin’s again and pulls until Merlin’s knees nestle in between his own. Squeezing knees and fingers Arthur tugs again, watching Merlin’s face as he bends, bends, falls.
“Have you ever?” Arthur asks, his free fingers tapping on the arm of the chair, like he’s the King and Merlin is simply paying his respects. Merlin shakes his head, licks his own mouth, and Arthur has to touch him.
Merlin’s hair is soft, and rippled with light from the fire. His cheekbones are smooth and the pink of his mouth parts when Arthur touches him with a thumb. The gust of breath over the pad of his thumb might as well be on his cock.
With his next breath Arthur’s undoing the same old laces, pushing himself free to arch against his stomach. He shivers, even though the room is warm and they’re so close to the fire.
From his place, Merlin looks up at Arthur, hesitant, wanting.
“Here,” Arthur murmurs roughly, taking himself in one hand and guiding Merlin with the other until they meet. Merlin kisses the crown first, taking his time before he carefully sucks Arthur in.
Even through the heel of his boot it hurts when Arthur digs into the stone. But it’s nothing, nothing compared to the feeling of Merlin’s mouth around him, his tongue kitten-licking what he was just kissing.
Arthur groans, and he can’t help urging Merlin on further. Merlin can’t go deep like some of the girls can, but Arthur doesn’t mind. This is the one of the few times when Merlin takes direction well, and with Arthur’s hand cupping his jaw they find the right, shallow way that steals Arthur’s breath and makes him sink down in the chair, whispering tender obscenities to Merlin’s bent head.
*
After Merlin’s gone, Arthur dreams of him wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, his voice hoarse when he says, “Sleep well, sire,” and it’s difficult to feel rested.
Morgana, in one of her fits of maternal feeling, asks him if he’s alright the next morning.
“Fine,” he says, purposely gruff. “Just the changing of the seasons.”
*
Mostly, Arthur’s fine. He trains to fight, fights, and regales everyone with stories to keep their fancy. He’s good at what he does.
But sometimes Arthur feels loneliness fall onto him, like the crisp snowflakes that drift down outside and absorb into his skin. He finds himself seeking out Merlin when he’s turning down Arthur’s bed or collecting Arthur’s unwashed clothes. It’s too hard to reach out when Merlin’s unaware of him, but as soon as Merlin turns and his eyes catch Arthur’s Arthur has invaded his space. He leans in, mindful of Merlin’s unyielding, and kisses him until Merlin relents and kisses back, melting into Arthur.
It doesn’t go any further. Clearly, Merlin has no idea what he wants, and Arthur can’t find the words to articulate his own desires.
*
It’s late. Too late, really, but Arthur can’t sleep, and watching the snow fall outside makes him cagey.
He slips out of his chambers and into the corridor that his father’s guards never patrol. It winds through much of the castle, making stealing around unnoticed very easy. Arthur’s been using it since he could walk.
It goes right past Gaius’ quarters, and Arthur ducks into the darkness, keeping his feet as silent as cat’s paws as he navigates Gaius’ work table. Merlin’s sound asleep in his room, but Arthur doesn’t feel bad shaking him.
“Merlin,” he whispers, “Merlin, wake up.”
Merlin twitches into consciousness, mumbling indistinctly. He squints up at Arthur, and then, apparently deciding Arthur’s a dream, turns his face back into his pillow.
Arthur’s less of a dream when he digs his hands into Merlin’s armpits and drags him out of the bed. Merlin grumbles and staggers away from Arthur’s support, rubbing his face and looking around blearily.
“Let’s go,” Arthur does his best commanding whisper, and he’s pleased that Merlin follows, looking drugged-tired behind Arthur’s left shoulder.
A pleasant hum starts to obscure the worried, anxious part of Arthur’s mind when they cross from the corridor into his room. He’s safe in his domain, and he’s not alone.
Merlin’s standing in the middle of the room, in just his sleep clothes, with his eyes closed and his head tilted like he might have just gone back to sleep. He stirs when Arthur touches his jaw, opens his eyes and his mouth for Arthur’s kiss. He must be very tired, because he leans into Arthur’s body and sucks on his tongue with more obedience than he’s ever displayed before.
That alone has Arthur stiff against Merlin’s thigh. He would feel silly for being so easy, but he can’t find the shame in asking Merlin for what he wants this way. Especially not when Merlin’s fingers rub lazily over the hard line of his cock, searching for the way in to his skin.
They strip and kiss, fumbling around the room until they’re naked and tipping onto Arthur’s bed, sinking into the plush furs. Arthur squirms until he’s on top, his weight settling on Merlin’s, their legs tangled, cocks bumping. He groans, his mouth slipping down to suck a mark into the skin of Merlin’s jaw, tasting soap and the tang of sweat.
“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin whispers, his body opening like a flower before he curls his limbs around Arthur to hold him close. Helpless against the intoxicating feel of skin Arthur ruts into the open space between Merlin’s spread thighs, his cock catching the crease.
“Wait,” he says abruptly, pulling away. Merlin’s hands are forced to fall, but his legs still keep Arthur in and Arthur has to push out of the warmth of them and into the cool air away from the bed. He moves through the mostly dark room until his fingers find the latch of his clothing cupboard. Inside, on top of his pile of clean tunics, is a bottle of oil, for muscle aches and keeping skin moist during winter training exercises.
Across the room, Merlin has struggled up onto his elbows to watch. He’s sleep-rumpled and obviously well-kissed, pale and long and wonderful. Arthur crawls back into the cage of Merlin’s body, settling into his place in this snow-smothered quiet dark. He catches Merlin’s mouth once, and then drizzles oil all over his stomach and the arc of his cock.
“What, oh,” Merlin says, his eyes slipping shut as Arthur rubs the oil into his hips and inner thighs, “what’re you doing?”
“This,” Arthur replies, tucking his hips in between Merlin’s thighs and grinding up against him. The oil smoothes the way and they slip together easily. Merlin groans, almost too loud, until he covers his mouth with his hand. His other hand clutches Arthur’s wrist.
Arthur can’t breathe. His head is swimming, dizzy and filled with Yes, yes, yes and his arms almost give out. He has to collapse onto Merlin, which forces Merlin’s thighs higher up his hips, pulling noise from both of them, a grunt from Merlin and a noisy inhale from Arthur. His lungs burn with the intake, but he doesn’t care, tugging Merlin’s hair so they can kiss messily.
They struggle half onto their sides, pushing droplets of oil onto the sheets where they’ll stain and stay forever. It’s everywhere on them, staining them too, catching the low light of the fire and spreading it down into their skin.
Merlin can’t keep his eyes open, which Arthur knows means he’s almost finished. His hands fit to the shape of Arthur’s hips, pulling him closer, leaving red crescent moon marks on Arthur’s skin.
Pleasure rocks through Arthur, and he shoves forward, into the pain. Straining, his cock pulsing, Arthur can’t think of anything at all, not even Mine.
There’s nowhere for him to fall, so he just lays on Merlin, feeling the heat of Merlin’s cock slip against him until Merlin stiffens, groaning into his palm again. His muscles feel like they don’t belong to him, but somehow they listen to him when Merlin’s palm presses against his breastbone, encouraging him off. Arthur slumps to the side, worn out, and closes his eyes.
They snap back open when Merlin’s heat and weight leave the bed. Merlin touches the mess on his stomach carefully, his eyes on that or the floor. He crouches, digs under Arthur’s tunic, and comes out with his sleep shirt. Stretching, he gets his breeches.
Arthur frowns. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.
“Stay,” he says finally, watching the light from the fire wave across Merlin’s shoulder blades. Merlin stops, clothes in his hand, several strides from the bed. He looks over his shoulder, and Arthur beckons him back to the bed. Merlin settles on the edge of the bed, his back to Arthur. He tucks his clothing against the leg of the bed carefully before rubbing a hand over his jaw, fingers skimming Arthur’s careless mark.
The line of his spine seems vulnerable to Arthur, one long, smooth curve leading up to the nape of his neck and the sweet curl of his dark hair. Arthur traces all the vertebrae he can reach, his fingers bumping over the bones until he can’t get any higher and then he has to use words.
“Come here,” he says, and watches Merlin take a deep breath before he leans back on Arthur’s pile of pillows, tucking his feet under the rumpled covers. Arthur waits, but all Merlin does is close his eyes, his hands folded nervously on his belly.
A fierce little joy comes to life inside Arthur, something he doesn’t remember but that he knows.
He gathers up the blankets and furs, cocooning him and Merlin in, and then he pins Merlin down with his body, their still-slippery bellies pressed together and their legs interlocked. Merlin hesitates for only the briefest moment, and then he carefully curls his fingers around Arthur’s bicep, letting Arthur twine around him and rest against his shoulder.
If he wonders why, then he’s smart enough to not ask. Not that Arthur could tell him what he doesn’t know anyway. All he does know is that this is somehow right.
They more or less settle, warm from the fire and satisfied. Arthur can’t help his animal affection, and he ends up pressing his tongue to Merlin’s throat, both to taste their combined sweat and to feel the shiver that hums through his mouth to his brain. Merlin whispers his name, hoarse and happily wondering, and Arthur ducks back down. He behaves himself though, only kissing Merlin’s slow pulse once before he makes a pillow of the place where Merlin’s heart rests. Their breathing starts to match, and the drifting is sweet, firelight fading, the world narrowing to one simple, body-warmed spot where Arthur feels comfortable enough to fall asleep, his hands curled against Merlin’s skin.