let me paint on your skin
(AI7) MERLIN/ARTHUR
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Fandom: Merlin
Warnings: slash, explicit descriptions of sex
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: For the Kinkme_merlin prompt: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur loves Merlin scratching at his back while Arthur’s fucking him.
-
Merlin has long fingers, fingers that end in short, blunt nails. They ought to be dirty, bits of grit under the edge from doing chores all day: mucking out the stables, sweeping Arthur’s room, cleaning his armor, poking the fire, and every other silly thing that Arthur can think of. They ought to be unsightly as the nails are rough and uneven from constant biting. It’s a filthy habit, for when Merlin is nervous or in deep thought, and yet.
Yet.
When Merlin helps Arthur into his clothes, drags his palms over the fabric to smoothen it out, the nails sometimes catch on his shoulder or the slight bump of a nipple. Completely by accident, of course, Merlin smiling gormlessly all the while, but Arthur spends the rest of the day with his cock hard. Then at night, Merlin takes the washcloth and helps him bathe, fingers trailing, grazing over slick skin. It’s never with force, merely the faintest glide of rough pads, and the arousal that has finally ebbed comes back to steal his breath.
Are you all right, sire? Merlin asks, properly concerned, and his hand pauses over Arthur’s heart.
Arthur lifts a brow, ever imperious, and merely says, To your task, Merlin. I don’t intend to catch a cold because it takes you bloody forever to give me a bath.
Merlin snorts but starts moving again, bringing the washcloth to the back of Arthur’s neck. You can wash yourself, if you want. God knows how competent you’ll be when you have people to do it for you.
He closes his eyes, leans back on the edge of the tub, and lets his lips curl at the corners. Shut up, you idiot. I don’t want to listen to your annoying voice tonight.
Merlin prattles on anyway, voice a soothing cadence, and his fingers dip over Arthur’s belly, nearly tangling with the yellow curls that trail even lower. Arthur blinks his eyes open - when did he close them? - and glances down . Something thuds dully in his chest (maybe his heart) and the sight of those slender fingers and translucent nails so close, so close, and Merlin murmurs, How did you get dirt here? Really, Arthur.
The water is clear and it’s only the suds that protect Arthur’s dignity as his cock swells, so fucking close to the heel of the other boy’s hand where it’s lifted over his skin, fingers pushing the washcloth side to side on his stomach.
Surely Merlin notices -
You’re tense, Merlin notes in a neutral tone that reveals nothing, nothing at all. Here, before you can complain that I don’t do my job at all -
And then there’s another hand crawling up his head, another set of fingers, another set of fingernails that - oh God - lightly scratch his skull from top to base. Noise grumbles in Arthur’s chest as he lowers his head, tilts it, and the nails travel down to the back of his neck and across his shoulders. Merlin hums and drags his hand to the front, nicks lightly at wet collarbones and then up the curve of Arthur’s neck to his jaw.
This isn’t in your job description, Merlin, he - definitely not purrs, especially not when Merlin leans closer and breathes right against Arthur’s ear - says in a quiet voice, looking sideways to meet Merlin’s eyes that stare back, the blue turning gold in candlelight.
Merlin quirks a smile. I can stop.
Do that and it’ll be the stocks for you, is the mild reply which ends in a startled gasp when the hand on his stomach lets go of the washcloth and grips something harder, hotter, a blunt nail catching right below the swollen head. Merlin.
Yes sire, and damn the boy for sounding amused.
-
There is a feast for some visiting baron or other and Arthur is already bored by the time the first course is over. Morgana is chatting with the baron’s daughter, who, Arthur has found out, shares the same radical ideas as his stepsister. It explains the unsettling light in Morgana’s eyes and her flighty gestures, more animated than they’ve seen her in months. Uther is pleased by this and yet Arthur knows that it could easily turn into anger if his father ever discovers just what sort of conversation they’re having.
He signals for more wine and Merlin dutifully approaches, bending low to refill Arthur’s cup, and the feathered hat comes into Arthur’s view.
Lovely costume, Merlin, he says because he can, mirth dancing at the edge of his voice. The court is grateful for the entertainment you’ve provided us.
Not at all, sire, says Merlin sweetly, a little too sweetly, straightening at the waist as he pulls back. Ah, your collar is a little crooked. Here, let me -
But Arthur isn’t even wearing a collar and then there are fingers splayed on his nape, fingernails dragging back with enough pressure to have Arthur’s face flushing. He shields his reaction behind his cup, glaring at his manservant from the corner of his eye, who merely smirks at him as he rejoins Gwen and the other servants.
The night drastically changes after that as Merlin tries his very best to make excuses to touch Arthur, to score his nails on exposed skin, or clothed muscle, or even Arthur’s thigh after Merlin cleverly manages to drop his hat on the prince’s lap.
Arthur tries to keep his breathing even and it should be easy; he doesn’t even get winded when he’s training his knights. Still, there’s a barely noticeable depth to every inhalation. He keeps thinking about Merlin’s hands, his nails all over his skin, recounting every twist and grasp and flick of wrist that drove him mad the night before with the barest sensation of sharp fingernails where he is most sensitive. It’s enough to thicken Arthur’s tongue in his mouth, to perspire from the heat of his thoughts.
Damn him, damn him, thinks Arthur furiously as he tries to shift surreptitiously on his seat, wanting to adjust the tightness in his breeches.
And like the devil himself, Merlin appears, unbidden, by Arthur’s elbow. Having fun yet, sire?
The cocky slide of Merlin’s voice sends red exploding in Arthur’s vision. He catches his manservant’s arm and brings him closer. Laugh while you still can, Merlin, says Arthur in a low voice and feels satisfaction bloom in his gut when the boy finally falters, hesitates. In a louder voice, Wait for me in my chambers; you still have plenty of unfinished chores to attend to, and to Lord Bailey he remarks casually as he lets go of Merlin, it is difficult to find good help nowadays, isn’t it?
-
The fire is blazing in his chambers when Arthur finally retires for the night. He isn’t tired, however, far from it; there’s frantic energy rushing through his veins and it is only a lifetime of strict discipline that has him moving with deceptive calm. Merlin is crouched in front of the fire, stroking the coals absently. Arthur watches the play of fiery light over the boy’s sharp cheekbones, turning his eyes molten for a moment.
Anything interesting there? Arthur asks as he deliberately steps closer until he’s practically looming over his manservant. Careful, Merlin, or you might start having actual thoughts.
Merlin stands and shuffles back, watching the blond warily all the while. Do you need anything, Arthur?
Arthur smiles, keeps his tone easygoing. Do I need anything? Perhaps an explanation as to what the hell you were thinking during the banquet?
Um.
Um, Arthur mimics and takes a step forward, and another, and another. Well?
Merlin shakes his head nervously, eyes still gold with a hint of blue (a trick of the light), and moves back for every time Arthur shortens the distance between them. He instinctively raises the poker as a shield and grimaces when Arthur cocks an eyebrow at it. Merlin drops the rod and it clatters loudly on the floor.
Come now, Merlin, I thought you liked playing games, Arthur mocks as he backs the boy into a corner. You were certainly enjoying it earlier.
It was nothing, Merlin bursts out, flattening himself to the wall at his back, pushing his head against the stone until he’s tilting it up because Arthur is still coming nearer. I just, you looked so bored and I thought you could use a laugh, yeah? It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Ha ha and all that.
Hilarious, Arthur agrees dryly and places a hand on either side of Merlin’s head. So funny, in fact, that I want to return the favor. As an act of appreciation.
Arthur -
Hush, he commands before pressing their lips together. It’s not Merlin’s hand, or his nails, but it sends the same kind of thrill up Arthur’s spine. To his surprise, Merlin instantly yields to him, leaning into the kiss as Arthur parts his lips, runs his tongue along the curves of Merlin’s mouth. Merlin moans and winds his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, boldly pulling the prince closer, tangling his hands in golden hair as he dirties the kiss.
Arthur, Arthur, he mutters needily, shamelessly arching against the other. Last night I, I thought, god, Arthur, I want -
Arthur kisses him harshly to stop the way Merlin stutters his name because it’s making his head spin, his heart pound, his groin rub on Merlin’s stomach. Merlin doesn’t seem to mind, hooking a leg around Arthur’s hip and rolling their erections together, crying into Arthur’s mouth. And his fingernails, fuck, they’re scratching on his scalp, digging deeply into his arm or shoulder, scraping over his nipples. It’s enough to send Arthur over the end, the feel of it, the slight burn that follows, knowing how there will be red marks wherever they dig into his skin. Arthur is panting now, out of breath, but Merlin won’t leave his mouth alone, following whenever Arthur pulls back for air.
It’s all happening too fast and he’d intended to tease, to have his revenge on Merlin, but not this, not to this extent but good god, Arthur wants it, wants Merlin and his relentless mouth and restless hips and clawing hands.
And Arthur doesn’t know how to stop, not when Merlin mumbles incoherently into his mouth, Arthur, fuck me, please, I, fuck me, Arthur, Arthur.
With a groan, Arthur manhandles both of them to the bed, fumbles with Merlin’s neckerchief and shirt as Merlin helplessly runs his hands - palms, fingers, nails and all - under Arthur’s shirt, wherever he can reach, and makes a frustrated sound when the fabric limits his movement.
God Merlin, Arthur curses when he finally tugs the boy’s clothes off and throws them over his shoulder. He roughly yanks the breeches down Merlin’s legs and greedily places his hands on newly exposed skin, pale and smooth and surprisingly unblemished.
Off, pants Merlin as he unknots the laces, brings the shirt over Arthur’s head, pulls the breeches down and away. He gives a satisfied sigh when they’re finally skin to skin, every inch pressed together where they can, rubbing, rutting like dogs in heat, licking into each other’s mouth. Merlin is above him, all long limbs gilded in firelight, and Arthur strokes his skin, following the bumps of Merlin’s spine and over the subtle curve of his ass, right into the crease. Merlin’s breaths stutter and his hips buck, eyes wide and wild as they stare down at Arthur.
Fuck me, Merlin orders, voice rough, and Arthur wants to retort that no, Merlin can’t order him around, he’s the prince but instead he can only helplessly reach back and pull out a vial from under his pillow. Merlin sucks on his collarbone, fingers circling his bellybutton, and Arthur tilts the vial all the way so his hand gets coated in oil. He tosses the vial aside and impatiently grabs a handful of Merlin’s buttock, pulling it away to spread him open, for Arthur to massage the hole a few times before slipping his middle finger inside.
Merlin whimpers and pushes back on the digit, panting on the side of Arthur’s neck as his hands grip the blond’s arms, burrowing his nails deeply into the bunched muscles. Arthur gasps and pulls back his finger, slips it in, out, in, out, in, out until Merlin follows the rhythm, forehead pressing under Arthur’s jaw as he fucks himself on one, two, three fingers.
Now, now, now, Arthur, comes the needy whine and the sound of it makes Arthur twitch and throb, sharpens the arousal that spears through him. He frees his fingers and rolls them over, pushing one of Merlin’s legs over his shoulder to open him up. He fists himself a few times, moaning at the delicious feel of friction, until Merlin’s foot nudges him impatiently. Arthur braces himself on his hands and with a sudden gentleness, nudges Merlin’s entrance before pushing in slowly. Merlin moans and goes rigid, eyes clenching shut, and Arthur starts counting backward from one hundred because fuck, Merlin is tight and warm and slick around the head of him.
Arthur presses their foreheads together, harsh breaths mingling, and lets their hands tangle. Easy, easy, he tells Merlin in a choked voice, dropping quick kisses on his right eye, his nose, his cheek, and nibbles on the corner of a twisted mouth. Merlin, look at me.
Merlin opens his eyes, their gazes meeting and holding, and Merlin lets out a long breath. Okay, I’m good, okay.
Arthur drags their joined hands above Merlin’s head, holding it in place, as he pushes deeper into the boy. Merlin licks his lips and then bites on it, fingers tightening their grip while the rest sinks into Arthur’s arm. Arthur shudders once he’s finally in to the hilt, unable to stop the quick jab of his hips or the next one, and the next, deeper this time, and even deeper, heart lurching and thoughts scattered at how good Merlin feels, how tight, how warm, how fucking wonderful.
Merlin, Merlin, it’s Arthur’s turn to chant as he thrusts and thrusts, rejoicing as Merlin groans under him, strains to meet his every frantic movement. Merlin’s jaw is slack and Arthur contents himself with licking at the boy’s parted lips, his teeth, the peak of tongue. Merlin arches up into him until his leg slips off. But Merlin is quick to wrap both of them this time around Arthur’s waist and the new angle makes him cry out, babble words that don’t make sense into Arthur’s mouth except for Oh god, Arthur, feel so good, oh yeah, fuck, there, harder, harder, Arthur, please, Arthur and his free arm goes around Arthur, hand splayed on the broad expanse of back, pads and nails raking against the flesh and sweat until they leave long, scarlet trails that notches the pleasure higher, sharpens it with pain. Arthur is pressing down hard on the hand he’s clasping, stretching the shoulder at its limit, and Merlin gives a shout because he’s coming, jumping off the edge in a giddy rush, and his cock spills even without a single touch. Merlin arches off the bed, spine curving, fingers grappling and clawing at Arthur’s back as his orgasm overwhelms him completely and it’s that, the drag of nails on his skin that burns and stings (and the feel of Merlin clenching all around him, all heat and pressure), that has him falling off the end after Merlin. He groans, voice so low that the sound disappears, as he rides out the aftershocks.
Arthur collapses on top of Merlin, breathing roughly, and he feels deliciously sore all over, frayed at the edges, and completely, utterly content. Merlin shoves weekly at his shoulder, muttering, Can’t breathe, Arthur, get off, and Arthur slips his softening cock out of Merlin and rolls on to his back. Instantly he winces, hissing, and Merlin turns to him, eyes heavy, frowning. What is it?
I’ve been mauled, is Arthur’s mumbled reply, settling more carefully on the bed.
Merlin blinks. What?
You, he says, fully intent on berating Merlin for the marks he’s left on Arthur’s back when Arthur makes the mistake of looking at him, at Merlin’s expression soft and sleepy, and the blond can’t help but sift his fingers through the boy’s wet fringe. Never mind. Go to sleep, Merlin.
Merlin does and Arthur is amused that his manservant is quick to follow orders that benefit him. A long moment passes and Arthur, after making sure that Merlin is truly asleep, grabs one of his hands and brings the fingers, those pale nails, to his lips.
-
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Fandom: Merlin
Warnings: slash, explicit descriptions of sex
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: For the Kinkme_merlin prompt: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur loves Merlin scratching at his back while Arthur’s fucking him.
-
Merlin has long fingers, fingers that end in short, blunt nails. They ought to be dirty, bits of grit under the edge from doing chores all day: mucking out the stables, sweeping Arthur’s room, cleaning his armor, poking the fire, and every other silly thing that Arthur can think of. They ought to be unsightly as the nails are rough and uneven from constant biting. It’s a filthy habit, for when Merlin is nervous or in deep thought, and yet.
Yet.
When Merlin helps Arthur into his clothes, drags his palms over the fabric to smoothen it out, the nails sometimes catch on his shoulder or the slight bump of a nipple. Completely by accident, of course, Merlin smiling gormlessly all the while, but Arthur spends the rest of the day with his cock hard. Then at night, Merlin takes the washcloth and helps him bathe, fingers trailing, grazing over slick skin. It’s never with force, merely the faintest glide of rough pads, and the arousal that has finally ebbed comes back to steal his breath.
Are you all right, sire? Merlin asks, properly concerned, and his hand pauses over Arthur’s heart.
Arthur lifts a brow, ever imperious, and merely says, To your task, Merlin. I don’t intend to catch a cold because it takes you bloody forever to give me a bath.
Merlin snorts but starts moving again, bringing the washcloth to the back of Arthur’s neck. You can wash yourself, if you want. God knows how competent you’ll be when you have people to do it for you.
He closes his eyes, leans back on the edge of the tub, and lets his lips curl at the corners. Shut up, you idiot. I don’t want to listen to your annoying voice tonight.
Merlin prattles on anyway, voice a soothing cadence, and his fingers dip over Arthur’s belly, nearly tangling with the yellow curls that trail even lower. Arthur blinks his eyes open - when did he close them? - and glances down . Something thuds dully in his chest (maybe his heart) and the sight of those slender fingers and translucent nails so close, so close, and Merlin murmurs, How did you get dirt here? Really, Arthur.
The water is clear and it’s only the suds that protect Arthur’s dignity as his cock swells, so fucking close to the heel of the other boy’s hand where it’s lifted over his skin, fingers pushing the washcloth side to side on his stomach.
Surely Merlin notices -
You’re tense, Merlin notes in a neutral tone that reveals nothing, nothing at all. Here, before you can complain that I don’t do my job at all -
And then there’s another hand crawling up his head, another set of fingers, another set of fingernails that - oh God - lightly scratch his skull from top to base. Noise grumbles in Arthur’s chest as he lowers his head, tilts it, and the nails travel down to the back of his neck and across his shoulders. Merlin hums and drags his hand to the front, nicks lightly at wet collarbones and then up the curve of Arthur’s neck to his jaw.
This isn’t in your job description, Merlin, he - definitely not purrs, especially not when Merlin leans closer and breathes right against Arthur’s ear - says in a quiet voice, looking sideways to meet Merlin’s eyes that stare back, the blue turning gold in candlelight.
Merlin quirks a smile. I can stop.
Do that and it’ll be the stocks for you, is the mild reply which ends in a startled gasp when the hand on his stomach lets go of the washcloth and grips something harder, hotter, a blunt nail catching right below the swollen head. Merlin.
Yes sire, and damn the boy for sounding amused.
-
There is a feast for some visiting baron or other and Arthur is already bored by the time the first course is over. Morgana is chatting with the baron’s daughter, who, Arthur has found out, shares the same radical ideas as his stepsister. It explains the unsettling light in Morgana’s eyes and her flighty gestures, more animated than they’ve seen her in months. Uther is pleased by this and yet Arthur knows that it could easily turn into anger if his father ever discovers just what sort of conversation they’re having.
He signals for more wine and Merlin dutifully approaches, bending low to refill Arthur’s cup, and the feathered hat comes into Arthur’s view.
Lovely costume, Merlin, he says because he can, mirth dancing at the edge of his voice. The court is grateful for the entertainment you’ve provided us.
Not at all, sire, says Merlin sweetly, a little too sweetly, straightening at the waist as he pulls back. Ah, your collar is a little crooked. Here, let me -
But Arthur isn’t even wearing a collar and then there are fingers splayed on his nape, fingernails dragging back with enough pressure to have Arthur’s face flushing. He shields his reaction behind his cup, glaring at his manservant from the corner of his eye, who merely smirks at him as he rejoins Gwen and the other servants.
The night drastically changes after that as Merlin tries his very best to make excuses to touch Arthur, to score his nails on exposed skin, or clothed muscle, or even Arthur’s thigh after Merlin cleverly manages to drop his hat on the prince’s lap.
Arthur tries to keep his breathing even and it should be easy; he doesn’t even get winded when he’s training his knights. Still, there’s a barely noticeable depth to every inhalation. He keeps thinking about Merlin’s hands, his nails all over his skin, recounting every twist and grasp and flick of wrist that drove him mad the night before with the barest sensation of sharp fingernails where he is most sensitive. It’s enough to thicken Arthur’s tongue in his mouth, to perspire from the heat of his thoughts.
Damn him, damn him, thinks Arthur furiously as he tries to shift surreptitiously on his seat, wanting to adjust the tightness in his breeches.
And like the devil himself, Merlin appears, unbidden, by Arthur’s elbow. Having fun yet, sire?
The cocky slide of Merlin’s voice sends red exploding in Arthur’s vision. He catches his manservant’s arm and brings him closer. Laugh while you still can, Merlin, says Arthur in a low voice and feels satisfaction bloom in his gut when the boy finally falters, hesitates. In a louder voice, Wait for me in my chambers; you still have plenty of unfinished chores to attend to, and to Lord Bailey he remarks casually as he lets go of Merlin, it is difficult to find good help nowadays, isn’t it?
-
The fire is blazing in his chambers when Arthur finally retires for the night. He isn’t tired, however, far from it; there’s frantic energy rushing through his veins and it is only a lifetime of strict discipline that has him moving with deceptive calm. Merlin is crouched in front of the fire, stroking the coals absently. Arthur watches the play of fiery light over the boy’s sharp cheekbones, turning his eyes molten for a moment.
Anything interesting there? Arthur asks as he deliberately steps closer until he’s practically looming over his manservant. Careful, Merlin, or you might start having actual thoughts.
Merlin stands and shuffles back, watching the blond warily all the while. Do you need anything, Arthur?
Arthur smiles, keeps his tone easygoing. Do I need anything? Perhaps an explanation as to what the hell you were thinking during the banquet?
Um.
Um, Arthur mimics and takes a step forward, and another, and another. Well?
Merlin shakes his head nervously, eyes still gold with a hint of blue (a trick of the light), and moves back for every time Arthur shortens the distance between them. He instinctively raises the poker as a shield and grimaces when Arthur cocks an eyebrow at it. Merlin drops the rod and it clatters loudly on the floor.
Come now, Merlin, I thought you liked playing games, Arthur mocks as he backs the boy into a corner. You were certainly enjoying it earlier.
It was nothing, Merlin bursts out, flattening himself to the wall at his back, pushing his head against the stone until he’s tilting it up because Arthur is still coming nearer. I just, you looked so bored and I thought you could use a laugh, yeah? It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Ha ha and all that.
Hilarious, Arthur agrees dryly and places a hand on either side of Merlin’s head. So funny, in fact, that I want to return the favor. As an act of appreciation.
Arthur -
Hush, he commands before pressing their lips together. It’s not Merlin’s hand, or his nails, but it sends the same kind of thrill up Arthur’s spine. To his surprise, Merlin instantly yields to him, leaning into the kiss as Arthur parts his lips, runs his tongue along the curves of Merlin’s mouth. Merlin moans and winds his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, boldly pulling the prince closer, tangling his hands in golden hair as he dirties the kiss.
Arthur, Arthur, he mutters needily, shamelessly arching against the other. Last night I, I thought, god, Arthur, I want -
Arthur kisses him harshly to stop the way Merlin stutters his name because it’s making his head spin, his heart pound, his groin rub on Merlin’s stomach. Merlin doesn’t seem to mind, hooking a leg around Arthur’s hip and rolling their erections together, crying into Arthur’s mouth. And his fingernails, fuck, they’re scratching on his scalp, digging deeply into his arm or shoulder, scraping over his nipples. It’s enough to send Arthur over the end, the feel of it, the slight burn that follows, knowing how there will be red marks wherever they dig into his skin. Arthur is panting now, out of breath, but Merlin won’t leave his mouth alone, following whenever Arthur pulls back for air.
It’s all happening too fast and he’d intended to tease, to have his revenge on Merlin, but not this, not to this extent but good god, Arthur wants it, wants Merlin and his relentless mouth and restless hips and clawing hands.
And Arthur doesn’t know how to stop, not when Merlin mumbles incoherently into his mouth, Arthur, fuck me, please, I, fuck me, Arthur, Arthur.
With a groan, Arthur manhandles both of them to the bed, fumbles with Merlin’s neckerchief and shirt as Merlin helplessly runs his hands - palms, fingers, nails and all - under Arthur’s shirt, wherever he can reach, and makes a frustrated sound when the fabric limits his movement.
God Merlin, Arthur curses when he finally tugs the boy’s clothes off and throws them over his shoulder. He roughly yanks the breeches down Merlin’s legs and greedily places his hands on newly exposed skin, pale and smooth and surprisingly unblemished.
Off, pants Merlin as he unknots the laces, brings the shirt over Arthur’s head, pulls the breeches down and away. He gives a satisfied sigh when they’re finally skin to skin, every inch pressed together where they can, rubbing, rutting like dogs in heat, licking into each other’s mouth. Merlin is above him, all long limbs gilded in firelight, and Arthur strokes his skin, following the bumps of Merlin’s spine and over the subtle curve of his ass, right into the crease. Merlin’s breaths stutter and his hips buck, eyes wide and wild as they stare down at Arthur.
Fuck me, Merlin orders, voice rough, and Arthur wants to retort that no, Merlin can’t order him around, he’s the prince but instead he can only helplessly reach back and pull out a vial from under his pillow. Merlin sucks on his collarbone, fingers circling his bellybutton, and Arthur tilts the vial all the way so his hand gets coated in oil. He tosses the vial aside and impatiently grabs a handful of Merlin’s buttock, pulling it away to spread him open, for Arthur to massage the hole a few times before slipping his middle finger inside.
Merlin whimpers and pushes back on the digit, panting on the side of Arthur’s neck as his hands grip the blond’s arms, burrowing his nails deeply into the bunched muscles. Arthur gasps and pulls back his finger, slips it in, out, in, out, in, out until Merlin follows the rhythm, forehead pressing under Arthur’s jaw as he fucks himself on one, two, three fingers.
Now, now, now, Arthur, comes the needy whine and the sound of it makes Arthur twitch and throb, sharpens the arousal that spears through him. He frees his fingers and rolls them over, pushing one of Merlin’s legs over his shoulder to open him up. He fists himself a few times, moaning at the delicious feel of friction, until Merlin’s foot nudges him impatiently. Arthur braces himself on his hands and with a sudden gentleness, nudges Merlin’s entrance before pushing in slowly. Merlin moans and goes rigid, eyes clenching shut, and Arthur starts counting backward from one hundred because fuck, Merlin is tight and warm and slick around the head of him.
Arthur presses their foreheads together, harsh breaths mingling, and lets their hands tangle. Easy, easy, he tells Merlin in a choked voice, dropping quick kisses on his right eye, his nose, his cheek, and nibbles on the corner of a twisted mouth. Merlin, look at me.
Merlin opens his eyes, their gazes meeting and holding, and Merlin lets out a long breath. Okay, I’m good, okay.
Arthur drags their joined hands above Merlin’s head, holding it in place, as he pushes deeper into the boy. Merlin licks his lips and then bites on it, fingers tightening their grip while the rest sinks into Arthur’s arm. Arthur shudders once he’s finally in to the hilt, unable to stop the quick jab of his hips or the next one, and the next, deeper this time, and even deeper, heart lurching and thoughts scattered at how good Merlin feels, how tight, how warm, how fucking wonderful.
Merlin, Merlin, it’s Arthur’s turn to chant as he thrusts and thrusts, rejoicing as Merlin groans under him, strains to meet his every frantic movement. Merlin’s jaw is slack and Arthur contents himself with licking at the boy’s parted lips, his teeth, the peak of tongue. Merlin arches up into him until his leg slips off. But Merlin is quick to wrap both of them this time around Arthur’s waist and the new angle makes him cry out, babble words that don’t make sense into Arthur’s mouth except for Oh god, Arthur, feel so good, oh yeah, fuck, there, harder, harder, Arthur, please, Arthur and his free arm goes around Arthur, hand splayed on the broad expanse of back, pads and nails raking against the flesh and sweat until they leave long, scarlet trails that notches the pleasure higher, sharpens it with pain. Arthur is pressing down hard on the hand he’s clasping, stretching the shoulder at its limit, and Merlin gives a shout because he’s coming, jumping off the edge in a giddy rush, and his cock spills even without a single touch. Merlin arches off the bed, spine curving, fingers grappling and clawing at Arthur’s back as his orgasm overwhelms him completely and it’s that, the drag of nails on his skin that burns and stings (and the feel of Merlin clenching all around him, all heat and pressure), that has him falling off the end after Merlin. He groans, voice so low that the sound disappears, as he rides out the aftershocks.
Arthur collapses on top of Merlin, breathing roughly, and he feels deliciously sore all over, frayed at the edges, and completely, utterly content. Merlin shoves weekly at his shoulder, muttering, Can’t breathe, Arthur, get off, and Arthur slips his softening cock out of Merlin and rolls on to his back. Instantly he winces, hissing, and Merlin turns to him, eyes heavy, frowning. What is it?
I’ve been mauled, is Arthur’s mumbled reply, settling more carefully on the bed.
Merlin blinks. What?
You, he says, fully intent on berating Merlin for the marks he’s left on Arthur’s back when Arthur makes the mistake of looking at him, at Merlin’s expression soft and sleepy, and the blond can’t help but sift his fingers through the boy’s wet fringe. Never mind. Go to sleep, Merlin.
Merlin does and Arthur is amused that his manservant is quick to follow orders that benefit him. A long moment passes and Arthur, after making sure that Merlin is truly asleep, grabs one of his hands and brings the fingers, those pale nails, to his lips.
-