Pale Pink Satin - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Title: Pale Pink Satin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 3900
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cross-dressing, established relationship.
A/N: My Merlin fic muse wandered off for a few months, but I suddenly had the urge to write for this pairing again. This, naturally, resulted in porn. Modern AU.
Summary: When Merlin loses a bet against Arthur, he finds himself in high heels and suspenders for the evening. Arthur has to say that it feels very good to win.
The text comes while Arthur is waiting outside the theatre: I hate you. A lot.
He smiles fondly, glad that Merlin isn't there to see it. He would be far too smug for his own good - or for Arthur's own good, to be slightly more precise. It amounts to roughly the same thing these days. Fiddling with his phone, he sends back: a bet's a bet.
Despite his complaining, Merlin won't back out. He never does. The waiting crowd around the theatre mills back and forth, trading polite small-talk with each other in their separate groups. Arthur checks his pocket once more for the pair of tickets that he had bought for himself and Merlin. No doubt Morgana will complain about not being invited, but she and Gwen have accompanied them on their last four dates. It will be nice to finally get some time alone together once more. He's almost forgotten what that's like.
The minute hand on his watch is steadily creeping later and later. Queues form and filter past him, into the glamorous warmth of the building. Programmes are sold and merchandise is flogged and Merlin still isn't here. Arthur sighs. He can hardly say he's surprised, given Merlin's history with punctuality, but this time it's different. This time, waiting for him feels like a punishment dreamt up by the Greek gods.
It is one minute to curtain up when Merlin finally appears, tottering down the emptying street. Arthur spots him easily, and he has to look down in order to hide his grin. The reason why Merlin is so late is a rational one, for once: wearing heels that size, he is unable to take a single step without grabbing for the nearest wall for support.
He is wearing jeans and a suit jacket, smart-casual, nothing out of the ordinary. He manages to look a little too scruffy for the performance they are going to see, with messy hair and sleeves that are slightly too short for him. Arthur's eyes are firmly on his feet, however, staring at the black high heels that he's wearing. The bright light from the theatre glints on the patent leather, and the heel itself thins to a sharp point against the ground.
"I have no idea how women do this," Merlin says instead of giving any formal greeting. He grips onto Arthur's offered arm and clings onto it like it is a life-buoy. "These things are brutal."
"Mm," Arthur says, rather too distracted right now. It is very difficult to focus on teasing Merlin when he is far too busy looking down at those shoes on his feet. Merlin is much taller than him with the aid of the heels: usually, they are similar enough that it is impossible to notice much of a difference. The heels help. "Don't be such a girl, Merlin. Morgana manages it."
"Morgana is a cylon," Merlin declares. With Arthur's help, they begin to walk inside the theatre. "Or, well, if not a cylon then at least some other kind of robot. It's not human."
"You're a wuss, that's all," Arthur says. He hands over their tickets to the usher and barely notices the glare of disapproval at their lateness: he is still far too busy looking down. "You might have a point about Morgana, though. I'll give you that."
"You're so kind," Merlin mutters.
They tumble (almost literally) up the stairs, with Merlin clinging to the banister. Arthur's hand hovers near the small of his back, and while it's true that a bet is a bet and shouldn't be forfeited, Arthur is considering telling him he can take the shoes off. It might damage his pride, but that's better than damaging his feet, or his back, or his head when he falls over.
It's a short trip to their seats, however, and when they sit down Merlin slips the shoes off anyway without asking if that's alright. The lights have been turned down and the actors have already taken to the stage, bright make-up and loud voices. Sitting in the dark, Arthur tries not to think about the rest of the bet: after all, it hadn't only involved high heels.
*
They have to get a taxi back to Merlin's flat, and Merlin spends the entire time complaining about the damn shoes. In the mirror, Arthur can spot their driver giving them an odd look or two: Arthur really doesn't mind, not one bit, but he knows that the attention might make Merlin squirm.
"Can I take a peek?" he asks, murmuring the words into Merlin's ear. He smiles against the shell when he hears Merlin's surprised burst of laughter. His hands are tracing the inside seem of Merlin's jeans, unable to keep his hands off of him.
Merlin looks up, but their driver's eyes are mercifully on the road now. They aren't far from their destination, less than five minutes away, but even that feels too long to wait. Arthur nudges at Merlin's ear with his lips. "Please?" He barely manages to stop himself from laughing. "For the bet. I need proof you haven't chickened out."
"You're going to get real proof the second we get home," Merlin promises, and the barest idea of it makes the remaining stretch in the taxi seem as if it is going to last eternity. To make it seem longer (or shorter, Arthur is no longer sure of Merlin's motives) Merlin wriggles away from his grasp and reaches for the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn't do much more than tug them down an inch or two at the side, but it's enough: Arthur can see a flash of pink satin framed with black lace, and it is nearly enough to make him choke with a lethal cocktail of surprise, amusement and arousal.
It has to be said that the arousal seems to be winning out.
"I was thinking about you while I was putting them on," Merlin confesses, barely above a whisper. They rarely talk like this, unable to do so without laughing.
"You were?"
"Mostly, I was thinking about all the ways I wanted to kill you," Merlin admits, but when Arthur reaches out to stroke his fingers along the top of the lace he relents. "I knew it was going to drive you mad all night."
"I can't wait to see it." Arthur's imagination has been going quietly wild, but he knows that nothing he pictures is going to compare to the real thing. The lace is a delicate pattern beneath his fingertip, and the smooth satin just below is incredibly soft. "I feel like I'm going crazy, waiting."
"Barely heard a word they said on stage," Merlin confides.
"I think I must be the one that lost the bet. This is torture," Arthur says. While he is indefinitely glad that he isn't the one that ended up in heels for the night, having to keep his hands to himself and wait is something that he feels certain should have been banned in all civilised countries by now. It isn't reasonable to expect any man to be able to restrain himself in the face of such temptation.
He looks up and sees that they are approaching Merlin's flat. The neighbourhood is the kind of place that Arthur would never find himself ordinarily, far removed from the over-priced, over-large buildings in his own area. It isn't as well-maintained and there are cracks in the pavement, but he always feels more at home here than he does in the luxurious apartment funded by his father's money. This place is Merlin: it is chaotic and scruffy and brilliant.
He pays their driver, over-tipping by accident, and they walk up to Merlin's front door. Arthur has to hold himself back from crowding in too close: Merlin's neighbours already think that they are bizarre perverts. It would probably be best not to encourage such a belief.
The trip upstairs is an absolute agony, and by the time that Merlin finally unlocks the door of his flat Arthur is all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, tingling with excitement. "Do you want something to drink?" Merlin offers, closing the door once they are both inside. "I think there are some beers in the fridge if you're-"
With Arthur's mouth crushed against him, Merlin never gets the opportunity to finish his offer. Arthur holds him back against the wall in his hallway, his hands holding onto Merlin's hips with far more force than is necessary. Against his mouth, Merlin's lips curl into a smug smile, as if he knows exactly what he does to Arthur and he finds it hilarious. "C'mon," Arthur mutters, pulling Merlin by the front of his jacket towards his bedroom. "Will isn't in, right?"
"Out with the lads," Merlin answers.
They have nothing to be embarrassed about, then, and no reason to keep quiet. They tumble and trip over the clutter on Merlin's bedroom floor on their way; Merlin's bedroom is physically incapable of remaining tidy for more than twelve hours. Even after he'd cleaned it all up, within a matter of hours clothes would invade the floor once more and set up their territory. Books will block every path and abandoned shoes will lie in wait of unsuspecting feet.
With a shove, Arthur pushes Merlin back onto the bed and remains standing at the edge, feet on the ground. He has to lean over in order to kiss Merlin, the sweet, hungry pressure of their mouths something that is quietly addictive. Merlin's jeans-clad legs wrap around his hips, dragging him inwards, but all that Arthur can think about is getting rid of the denim that separates them. He wants to see what is underneath. Needs it, now.
He pulls back and his hands find the heels on Merlin's feet. He runs his palm over the stocking-clad skin and down onto the patent leather. The heel sticks out like a weapon. "We're putting these back on as soon as you're out of those trousers," he declares, because, well, that's part of the bet, isn't it? If he allowed Merlin to take them off early, it would be unsporting - or something like that. He's beyond caring about the reasoning, really.
He takes them off with a great deal of care and places them on the mattress near Merlin's head. Merlin glances towards them for a brief moment, a smile on his face. The expression doesn't change at all when Arthur scrambles for the opening to his jeans, yanking them down his hips in a haphazard, rushed fashion. It ends in a tangle of material that gets flung without care onto the ground: all he can do is stare at what has been revealed, heat rushing through his body from his belly to his groin.
The fleeting impressions of pink satin and black lace from the small peeks he'd grabbed in the taxi really did not do justice at all to the sight before him now. Merlin is wearing stockings that cover his legs all the way up to his thighs. Thin straps of lace, such a dark black against his pale skin, attach the stockings to his suspender-belt, which is where the pretty pink material comes in. So girly and feminine, it ought to be obscene to see Merlin wearing it.
It is obscene. For Arthur, that just turns him on a little bit more.
Inside the pink underwear, Merlin's erection is proud and masculine, pushing against the confines of the material. As if to add insult to injury, there is a tiny pink bow on the waistband. Arthur runs his fingers along the suspenders, pinging the elastic just to see how tight it is. His fingers travel upwards so that he can feel just how smooth the silky material of the underwear is, soft but tight against Merlin's cock.
The touch of his fingers is enough to make Merlin wriggle impatiently. "I feel ridiculous," Merlin complains. Arthur looks up at his face and sees the red blush there, embarrassment spelled out on Merlin's skin.
"We can stop if you want," he offers. "You can take it off."
A bet is a bet, but a boyfriend is a boyfriend and if this has gone too far he is willing to back off. Arthur knows that he is a prat (Merlin reminds him often enough) but he likes to believe that he is not a cruel one. If Merlin wants to, they can stop and pretend it never happened.
"You like it," Merlin says, uncertain at first. He looks down at himself, at his nylon-covered legs and the silk of his underwear. When he meets Arthur's eyes again, he gives a casual smile. "I like that you like it."
Arthur pauses, giving him enough time to change his mind entirely, before he leans down to kiss him once more. Light and fleeting, it is a 'thank you'. "You're fantastic," he tells him, a compliment that he would usually have to disguise under several levels of bullshit. Tonight, he allows it to stand on its own.
Merlin wriggles appreciatively. "I know," he says. "Let's get the shoes back on."
Arthur reaches for the left shoe and takes his time slipping it back onto Merlin's foot, light with his hands and careful as it fits snugly around his toes. He strokes down the spike of the heel and then reaches for the remaining shoe, repeating the process. The gentle whisper of his fingers is enough to make Merlin bite on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, but the ticklish glee is still apparent on his face. Arthur can't help but smile along with him.
"Jacket off," he says, looking down. "You can keep the shirt on, though."
"How kind of you," Merlin responds, as he shifts and wriggles on the bed in order to remove the required clothing.
Truthfully, it has nothing to do with kindness at all, and Arthur is sure from his tone that Merlin knows that. He likes the sight of the shirt on Merlin, a little too large, and the contrast it offers with the feminine lingerie down below. Merlin is a perfect sight spread out like that, his jacket thrown in the same direction as his discarded jeans. While he has difficulty expressing it, Arthur considers himself lucky that Merlin continues to put up with him despite his sometimes apparently questionable behaviour.
It is difficult to make himself stop stroking Merlin's legs, the feel of the stockings under his hands impossible to resist, but he knows that he has to if he wants this to go any further tonight. Judging from the impatient sounds puffing from Merlin's chest, he isn't going to be allowed to linger too long.
He makes himself break away from Merlin for long enough to reach for the spot where he stores his lube: Arthur knows this bedroom as well as he knows his own. He even knows where Merlin keeps his secret stash of chocolate, hidden away from Will. That is jealously guarded knowledge. He moves back to the bed, feeling the way that the mattress dips under his knee. Merlin watches him, head tilted to the side. Waiting.
"How do you want to do this?" Merlin asks, putting the choice into Arthur's hands.
It's a short, sweet journey from that question to Merlin on his hands and knees on the bed, panties on display. Arthur stands by the edge of the bed with Merlin's high heeled feet right beside his thighs. With two slick fingers he works Merlin open, easing that tight ring of muscles and preparing the way. It doesn't take long, with them. They've both had enough experience with this and with each other's bodies.
He doesn't bother with taking the pink underwear off: he pushes it to the side after pulling down his own trousers and underwear, exposing Merlin's ass to him, a pasty shade of white. There are red indents on his skin where the elastic has been a little bit too tight, and Arthur runs one finger along the patterned line.
"Arthur," Merlin whines, as impatient as always. "Hurry up. Please."
Merlin rarely begs, although 'please' is a frequent occupant of his vocabulary. Manners, and nothing more. His mother brought him up to be a polite young boy, and if that includes saying 'please' during sex then Arthur would be the last one to argue: but it isn't begging. It isn't desperate enough for that. Doesn't matter, now. Arthur knows they'll get there in the end.
With Merlin's urging, he takes himself in hand and pushes inside with easing, rocking motions. Merlin's hands curl into fists, holding onto his bedspread, and Arthur can hear it as he pushes a deep breath out of his chest. It's hard to focus on Merlin's reactions at all when he is buried deep inside of him, when the urge to pound into him is almost impossible to resist.
"I'm fine," Merlin pants. "Fine."
Arthur takes him at his word, holding onto Merlin's hips and thrusting with shallow desperation. He looks down as he moves, eyes focused on the sight of his dick pushing into Merlin's ass, and the pushed-aside panties that frame his cock. Merlin's body rocks back and forward with every solid push inside of him, and it makes Arthur want everything harder, everything faster.
He leans down heavily onto Merlin, resting more of his weight upon his back as he drives inside him with jerking snaps of his hips. Beads of sweat form on his skin, pants pushed down only as much as they need to be. Merlin shivers and whimpers when his cock glides across his prostate, sweet stimulation.
In response, Arthur reaches underneath Merlin's body and finds his hard cock, barely contained within the flimsy material of his underwear. He pushes his hand below the black lace and wraps his hand around the hard, red member. Merlin moans and sighs with pleasure when he does so, hand joining in the rhythm of his hips.
"You're gorgeous like this, Merlin," Arthur pants, close to his ear. He wishes he was better at this, wishes that he knew exactly what to say to convey what it is that Merlin does to him so effortlessly.
Merlin doesn't respond with words, panting and whining instead. He pushes back against Arthur, making him take him deeper. Merlin's going to come soon, Arthur has become an expert at predicting his orgasms - but with himself right on the edge, Arthur doesn't know if he has the will-power to outlast him.
He tries to slow down, and he screws his eyes shut as he struggles to think of anything that could help him to hold back: cold, bland, boring thoughts. He makes a vital mistake after a moment, though - he looks down.
He looks down and sees the sight before him, Merlin's ass clenched around his dick and the pink panties shoved to the side. Merlin's long legs look shapely and strong covered with the material of the stockings, and his heels are almost falling off of his feet because his toes are curling in sweet pleasure. Face flushed, he is beautifully debauched.
Arthur pulls out abruptly: he hears Merlin whimper at the loss but he can't react, feeling the jerk in his belly that means he's about to come. His hips thrust forward, the tip of his cock rubbing against the satin of Merlin's panties, and that is all that it takes. With an open-mouthed cry he grips on with more force than he should to Merlin's hips and climaxes, eyes screwing shut against his will. It blocks out the sight of his cum splashing onto Merlin's back, as it lands on the back of his shirt and on his arse through that pale pink satin.
He goes still and releases his grip on Merlin's hips. Opening his eyes and looking down, he sees the wet patch on the white material of Merlin's shirt and can't help grinning. "You are an utter bastard," Merlin complains.
It doesn't help him to stop smiling.
"C'mon, turn round," he says, with a light swat to Merlin's backside to getting him moving. Merlin whines at him in frustration, but he does as he is asked: with a huff that makes it seem as if rolling over is the most Herculean task in the world, he shifts around to sit facing Arthur.
Arthur steps back within the open invitation of Merlin's legs, and his hand reaches inside Merlin's tight panties in order to grasp Merlin's cock. It is harder than he has felt it in a long time, and the barest touch of his hand alone is enough to make Merlin's breath leave his chest in a shiver.
Arthur steps closer still, crowding into Merlin's space as he drags his hand along Merlin's prick, palm smeared with precome already. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Merlin rests his head against Arthur's clothed chest. It's a sweet, heavy sensation, with Merlin's breath puffing hot and heavy through his shirt.
Arthur strokes Merlin's cock, constrained by the material enclosing them in. With Merlin's hips shuffling and rocking desperately, pushing himself up into Arthur's waiting grasp, Arthur can't help but smile with a degree of smugness. He loves feeling like this, able to see and hear how desperate Merlin is for him. Their relationship is an odd one, hidden under layers of bickering and affectionate insults, but it's when they are together like this that it all melts away. He gets to see that Merlin needs him, no matter how much they both pretend otherwise.
With a satisfied grunt, Merlin thrusts his hips up into Arthur's hand and spills, staining the underwear that he's wearing. There's a flood of stickiness across Arthur's hand, so when he withdraws it from Merlin's cock he makes sure to wipe it clean on Merlin's shirt - serves him right.
Merlin remains where he is, leaning heavily against Arthur, for a long moment. His breathing is heavy, but the weight of his body against Arthur's chest is peaceful. Arthur wraps his arms around him and kisses the top of his head, lips lingering there.
"Next time we do that, you have to fuck me," Arthur murmurs. The thought of Merlin taking him while he's dressed up like this, high-heels and pink panties, makes him wish that he could get hard again within seconds.
Merlin laughs in an amused puff of air against Arthur's chest. He pulls back, mischief glinting in his eyes. "The next time we do this, you're going to be the one in heels," he states as if he is declaring a prophecy.
Arthur isn't likely to consent that that any time soon, although he knows that by now Merlin has perfected the art of manipulating him in every way he wants. He is tightly wound around Merlin's finger, and can't even summon up the desire to want to break free.
"You want to bet on it?" he challenges Merlin, even though that is what got them into this situation in the first place. He can't say that it worked out too badly for either of them.
Merlin meets his eyes, gleefully defiant. "You're on," he states, and they grin.
Whatever the outcome of this particular bet, Arthur gets the impression that it is going to be fun.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 3900
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cross-dressing, established relationship.
A/N: My Merlin fic muse wandered off for a few months, but I suddenly had the urge to write for this pairing again. This, naturally, resulted in porn. Modern AU.
Summary: When Merlin loses a bet against Arthur, he finds himself in high heels and suspenders for the evening. Arthur has to say that it feels very good to win.
The text comes while Arthur is waiting outside the theatre: I hate you. A lot.
He smiles fondly, glad that Merlin isn't there to see it. He would be far too smug for his own good - or for Arthur's own good, to be slightly more precise. It amounts to roughly the same thing these days. Fiddling with his phone, he sends back: a bet's a bet.
Despite his complaining, Merlin won't back out. He never does. The waiting crowd around the theatre mills back and forth, trading polite small-talk with each other in their separate groups. Arthur checks his pocket once more for the pair of tickets that he had bought for himself and Merlin. No doubt Morgana will complain about not being invited, but she and Gwen have accompanied them on their last four dates. It will be nice to finally get some time alone together once more. He's almost forgotten what that's like.
The minute hand on his watch is steadily creeping later and later. Queues form and filter past him, into the glamorous warmth of the building. Programmes are sold and merchandise is flogged and Merlin still isn't here. Arthur sighs. He can hardly say he's surprised, given Merlin's history with punctuality, but this time it's different. This time, waiting for him feels like a punishment dreamt up by the Greek gods.
It is one minute to curtain up when Merlin finally appears, tottering down the emptying street. Arthur spots him easily, and he has to look down in order to hide his grin. The reason why Merlin is so late is a rational one, for once: wearing heels that size, he is unable to take a single step without grabbing for the nearest wall for support.
He is wearing jeans and a suit jacket, smart-casual, nothing out of the ordinary. He manages to look a little too scruffy for the performance they are going to see, with messy hair and sleeves that are slightly too short for him. Arthur's eyes are firmly on his feet, however, staring at the black high heels that he's wearing. The bright light from the theatre glints on the patent leather, and the heel itself thins to a sharp point against the ground.
"I have no idea how women do this," Merlin says instead of giving any formal greeting. He grips onto Arthur's offered arm and clings onto it like it is a life-buoy. "These things are brutal."
"Mm," Arthur says, rather too distracted right now. It is very difficult to focus on teasing Merlin when he is far too busy looking down at those shoes on his feet. Merlin is much taller than him with the aid of the heels: usually, they are similar enough that it is impossible to notice much of a difference. The heels help. "Don't be such a girl, Merlin. Morgana manages it."
"Morgana is a cylon," Merlin declares. With Arthur's help, they begin to walk inside the theatre. "Or, well, if not a cylon then at least some other kind of robot. It's not human."
"You're a wuss, that's all," Arthur says. He hands over their tickets to the usher and barely notices the glare of disapproval at their lateness: he is still far too busy looking down. "You might have a point about Morgana, though. I'll give you that."
"You're so kind," Merlin mutters.
They tumble (almost literally) up the stairs, with Merlin clinging to the banister. Arthur's hand hovers near the small of his back, and while it's true that a bet is a bet and shouldn't be forfeited, Arthur is considering telling him he can take the shoes off. It might damage his pride, but that's better than damaging his feet, or his back, or his head when he falls over.
It's a short trip to their seats, however, and when they sit down Merlin slips the shoes off anyway without asking if that's alright. The lights have been turned down and the actors have already taken to the stage, bright make-up and loud voices. Sitting in the dark, Arthur tries not to think about the rest of the bet: after all, it hadn't only involved high heels.
*
They have to get a taxi back to Merlin's flat, and Merlin spends the entire time complaining about the damn shoes. In the mirror, Arthur can spot their driver giving them an odd look or two: Arthur really doesn't mind, not one bit, but he knows that the attention might make Merlin squirm.
"Can I take a peek?" he asks, murmuring the words into Merlin's ear. He smiles against the shell when he hears Merlin's surprised burst of laughter. His hands are tracing the inside seem of Merlin's jeans, unable to keep his hands off of him.
Merlin looks up, but their driver's eyes are mercifully on the road now. They aren't far from their destination, less than five minutes away, but even that feels too long to wait. Arthur nudges at Merlin's ear with his lips. "Please?" He barely manages to stop himself from laughing. "For the bet. I need proof you haven't chickened out."
"You're going to get real proof the second we get home," Merlin promises, and the barest idea of it makes the remaining stretch in the taxi seem as if it is going to last eternity. To make it seem longer (or shorter, Arthur is no longer sure of Merlin's motives) Merlin wriggles away from his grasp and reaches for the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn't do much more than tug them down an inch or two at the side, but it's enough: Arthur can see a flash of pink satin framed with black lace, and it is nearly enough to make him choke with a lethal cocktail of surprise, amusement and arousal.
It has to be said that the arousal seems to be winning out.
"I was thinking about you while I was putting them on," Merlin confesses, barely above a whisper. They rarely talk like this, unable to do so without laughing.
"You were?"
"Mostly, I was thinking about all the ways I wanted to kill you," Merlin admits, but when Arthur reaches out to stroke his fingers along the top of the lace he relents. "I knew it was going to drive you mad all night."
"I can't wait to see it." Arthur's imagination has been going quietly wild, but he knows that nothing he pictures is going to compare to the real thing. The lace is a delicate pattern beneath his fingertip, and the smooth satin just below is incredibly soft. "I feel like I'm going crazy, waiting."
"Barely heard a word they said on stage," Merlin confides.
"I think I must be the one that lost the bet. This is torture," Arthur says. While he is indefinitely glad that he isn't the one that ended up in heels for the night, having to keep his hands to himself and wait is something that he feels certain should have been banned in all civilised countries by now. It isn't reasonable to expect any man to be able to restrain himself in the face of such temptation.
He looks up and sees that they are approaching Merlin's flat. The neighbourhood is the kind of place that Arthur would never find himself ordinarily, far removed from the over-priced, over-large buildings in his own area. It isn't as well-maintained and there are cracks in the pavement, but he always feels more at home here than he does in the luxurious apartment funded by his father's money. This place is Merlin: it is chaotic and scruffy and brilliant.
He pays their driver, over-tipping by accident, and they walk up to Merlin's front door. Arthur has to hold himself back from crowding in too close: Merlin's neighbours already think that they are bizarre perverts. It would probably be best not to encourage such a belief.
The trip upstairs is an absolute agony, and by the time that Merlin finally unlocks the door of his flat Arthur is all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, tingling with excitement. "Do you want something to drink?" Merlin offers, closing the door once they are both inside. "I think there are some beers in the fridge if you're-"
With Arthur's mouth crushed against him, Merlin never gets the opportunity to finish his offer. Arthur holds him back against the wall in his hallway, his hands holding onto Merlin's hips with far more force than is necessary. Against his mouth, Merlin's lips curl into a smug smile, as if he knows exactly what he does to Arthur and he finds it hilarious. "C'mon," Arthur mutters, pulling Merlin by the front of his jacket towards his bedroom. "Will isn't in, right?"
"Out with the lads," Merlin answers.
They have nothing to be embarrassed about, then, and no reason to keep quiet. They tumble and trip over the clutter on Merlin's bedroom floor on their way; Merlin's bedroom is physically incapable of remaining tidy for more than twelve hours. Even after he'd cleaned it all up, within a matter of hours clothes would invade the floor once more and set up their territory. Books will block every path and abandoned shoes will lie in wait of unsuspecting feet.
With a shove, Arthur pushes Merlin back onto the bed and remains standing at the edge, feet on the ground. He has to lean over in order to kiss Merlin, the sweet, hungry pressure of their mouths something that is quietly addictive. Merlin's jeans-clad legs wrap around his hips, dragging him inwards, but all that Arthur can think about is getting rid of the denim that separates them. He wants to see what is underneath. Needs it, now.
He pulls back and his hands find the heels on Merlin's feet. He runs his palm over the stocking-clad skin and down onto the patent leather. The heel sticks out like a weapon. "We're putting these back on as soon as you're out of those trousers," he declares, because, well, that's part of the bet, isn't it? If he allowed Merlin to take them off early, it would be unsporting - or something like that. He's beyond caring about the reasoning, really.
He takes them off with a great deal of care and places them on the mattress near Merlin's head. Merlin glances towards them for a brief moment, a smile on his face. The expression doesn't change at all when Arthur scrambles for the opening to his jeans, yanking them down his hips in a haphazard, rushed fashion. It ends in a tangle of material that gets flung without care onto the ground: all he can do is stare at what has been revealed, heat rushing through his body from his belly to his groin.
The fleeting impressions of pink satin and black lace from the small peeks he'd grabbed in the taxi really did not do justice at all to the sight before him now. Merlin is wearing stockings that cover his legs all the way up to his thighs. Thin straps of lace, such a dark black against his pale skin, attach the stockings to his suspender-belt, which is where the pretty pink material comes in. So girly and feminine, it ought to be obscene to see Merlin wearing it.
It is obscene. For Arthur, that just turns him on a little bit more.
Inside the pink underwear, Merlin's erection is proud and masculine, pushing against the confines of the material. As if to add insult to injury, there is a tiny pink bow on the waistband. Arthur runs his fingers along the suspenders, pinging the elastic just to see how tight it is. His fingers travel upwards so that he can feel just how smooth the silky material of the underwear is, soft but tight against Merlin's cock.
The touch of his fingers is enough to make Merlin wriggle impatiently. "I feel ridiculous," Merlin complains. Arthur looks up at his face and sees the red blush there, embarrassment spelled out on Merlin's skin.
"We can stop if you want," he offers. "You can take it off."
A bet is a bet, but a boyfriend is a boyfriend and if this has gone too far he is willing to back off. Arthur knows that he is a prat (Merlin reminds him often enough) but he likes to believe that he is not a cruel one. If Merlin wants to, they can stop and pretend it never happened.
"You like it," Merlin says, uncertain at first. He looks down at himself, at his nylon-covered legs and the silk of his underwear. When he meets Arthur's eyes again, he gives a casual smile. "I like that you like it."
Arthur pauses, giving him enough time to change his mind entirely, before he leans down to kiss him once more. Light and fleeting, it is a 'thank you'. "You're fantastic," he tells him, a compliment that he would usually have to disguise under several levels of bullshit. Tonight, he allows it to stand on its own.
Merlin wriggles appreciatively. "I know," he says. "Let's get the shoes back on."
Arthur reaches for the left shoe and takes his time slipping it back onto Merlin's foot, light with his hands and careful as it fits snugly around his toes. He strokes down the spike of the heel and then reaches for the remaining shoe, repeating the process. The gentle whisper of his fingers is enough to make Merlin bite on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, but the ticklish glee is still apparent on his face. Arthur can't help but smile along with him.
"Jacket off," he says, looking down. "You can keep the shirt on, though."
"How kind of you," Merlin responds, as he shifts and wriggles on the bed in order to remove the required clothing.
Truthfully, it has nothing to do with kindness at all, and Arthur is sure from his tone that Merlin knows that. He likes the sight of the shirt on Merlin, a little too large, and the contrast it offers with the feminine lingerie down below. Merlin is a perfect sight spread out like that, his jacket thrown in the same direction as his discarded jeans. While he has difficulty expressing it, Arthur considers himself lucky that Merlin continues to put up with him despite his sometimes apparently questionable behaviour.
It is difficult to make himself stop stroking Merlin's legs, the feel of the stockings under his hands impossible to resist, but he knows that he has to if he wants this to go any further tonight. Judging from the impatient sounds puffing from Merlin's chest, he isn't going to be allowed to linger too long.
He makes himself break away from Merlin for long enough to reach for the spot where he stores his lube: Arthur knows this bedroom as well as he knows his own. He even knows where Merlin keeps his secret stash of chocolate, hidden away from Will. That is jealously guarded knowledge. He moves back to the bed, feeling the way that the mattress dips under his knee. Merlin watches him, head tilted to the side. Waiting.
"How do you want to do this?" Merlin asks, putting the choice into Arthur's hands.
It's a short, sweet journey from that question to Merlin on his hands and knees on the bed, panties on display. Arthur stands by the edge of the bed with Merlin's high heeled feet right beside his thighs. With two slick fingers he works Merlin open, easing that tight ring of muscles and preparing the way. It doesn't take long, with them. They've both had enough experience with this and with each other's bodies.
He doesn't bother with taking the pink underwear off: he pushes it to the side after pulling down his own trousers and underwear, exposing Merlin's ass to him, a pasty shade of white. There are red indents on his skin where the elastic has been a little bit too tight, and Arthur runs one finger along the patterned line.
"Arthur," Merlin whines, as impatient as always. "Hurry up. Please."
Merlin rarely begs, although 'please' is a frequent occupant of his vocabulary. Manners, and nothing more. His mother brought him up to be a polite young boy, and if that includes saying 'please' during sex then Arthur would be the last one to argue: but it isn't begging. It isn't desperate enough for that. Doesn't matter, now. Arthur knows they'll get there in the end.
With Merlin's urging, he takes himself in hand and pushes inside with easing, rocking motions. Merlin's hands curl into fists, holding onto his bedspread, and Arthur can hear it as he pushes a deep breath out of his chest. It's hard to focus on Merlin's reactions at all when he is buried deep inside of him, when the urge to pound into him is almost impossible to resist.
"I'm fine," Merlin pants. "Fine."
Arthur takes him at his word, holding onto Merlin's hips and thrusting with shallow desperation. He looks down as he moves, eyes focused on the sight of his dick pushing into Merlin's ass, and the pushed-aside panties that frame his cock. Merlin's body rocks back and forward with every solid push inside of him, and it makes Arthur want everything harder, everything faster.
He leans down heavily onto Merlin, resting more of his weight upon his back as he drives inside him with jerking snaps of his hips. Beads of sweat form on his skin, pants pushed down only as much as they need to be. Merlin shivers and whimpers when his cock glides across his prostate, sweet stimulation.
In response, Arthur reaches underneath Merlin's body and finds his hard cock, barely contained within the flimsy material of his underwear. He pushes his hand below the black lace and wraps his hand around the hard, red member. Merlin moans and sighs with pleasure when he does so, hand joining in the rhythm of his hips.
"You're gorgeous like this, Merlin," Arthur pants, close to his ear. He wishes he was better at this, wishes that he knew exactly what to say to convey what it is that Merlin does to him so effortlessly.
Merlin doesn't respond with words, panting and whining instead. He pushes back against Arthur, making him take him deeper. Merlin's going to come soon, Arthur has become an expert at predicting his orgasms - but with himself right on the edge, Arthur doesn't know if he has the will-power to outlast him.
He tries to slow down, and he screws his eyes shut as he struggles to think of anything that could help him to hold back: cold, bland, boring thoughts. He makes a vital mistake after a moment, though - he looks down.
He looks down and sees the sight before him, Merlin's ass clenched around his dick and the pink panties shoved to the side. Merlin's long legs look shapely and strong covered with the material of the stockings, and his heels are almost falling off of his feet because his toes are curling in sweet pleasure. Face flushed, he is beautifully debauched.
Arthur pulls out abruptly: he hears Merlin whimper at the loss but he can't react, feeling the jerk in his belly that means he's about to come. His hips thrust forward, the tip of his cock rubbing against the satin of Merlin's panties, and that is all that it takes. With an open-mouthed cry he grips on with more force than he should to Merlin's hips and climaxes, eyes screwing shut against his will. It blocks out the sight of his cum splashing onto Merlin's back, as it lands on the back of his shirt and on his arse through that pale pink satin.
He goes still and releases his grip on Merlin's hips. Opening his eyes and looking down, he sees the wet patch on the white material of Merlin's shirt and can't help grinning. "You are an utter bastard," Merlin complains.
It doesn't help him to stop smiling.
"C'mon, turn round," he says, with a light swat to Merlin's backside to getting him moving. Merlin whines at him in frustration, but he does as he is asked: with a huff that makes it seem as if rolling over is the most Herculean task in the world, he shifts around to sit facing Arthur.
Arthur steps back within the open invitation of Merlin's legs, and his hand reaches inside Merlin's tight panties in order to grasp Merlin's cock. It is harder than he has felt it in a long time, and the barest touch of his hand alone is enough to make Merlin's breath leave his chest in a shiver.
Arthur steps closer still, crowding into Merlin's space as he drags his hand along Merlin's prick, palm smeared with precome already. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Merlin rests his head against Arthur's clothed chest. It's a sweet, heavy sensation, with Merlin's breath puffing hot and heavy through his shirt.
Arthur strokes Merlin's cock, constrained by the material enclosing them in. With Merlin's hips shuffling and rocking desperately, pushing himself up into Arthur's waiting grasp, Arthur can't help but smile with a degree of smugness. He loves feeling like this, able to see and hear how desperate Merlin is for him. Their relationship is an odd one, hidden under layers of bickering and affectionate insults, but it's when they are together like this that it all melts away. He gets to see that Merlin needs him, no matter how much they both pretend otherwise.
With a satisfied grunt, Merlin thrusts his hips up into Arthur's hand and spills, staining the underwear that he's wearing. There's a flood of stickiness across Arthur's hand, so when he withdraws it from Merlin's cock he makes sure to wipe it clean on Merlin's shirt - serves him right.
Merlin remains where he is, leaning heavily against Arthur, for a long moment. His breathing is heavy, but the weight of his body against Arthur's chest is peaceful. Arthur wraps his arms around him and kisses the top of his head, lips lingering there.
"Next time we do that, you have to fuck me," Arthur murmurs. The thought of Merlin taking him while he's dressed up like this, high-heels and pink panties, makes him wish that he could get hard again within seconds.
Merlin laughs in an amused puff of air against Arthur's chest. He pulls back, mischief glinting in his eyes. "The next time we do this, you're going to be the one in heels," he states as if he is declaring a prophecy.
Arthur isn't likely to consent that that any time soon, although he knows that by now Merlin has perfected the art of manipulating him in every way he wants. He is tightly wound around Merlin's finger, and can't even summon up the desire to want to break free.
"You want to bet on it?" he challenges Merlin, even though that is what got them into this situation in the first place. He can't say that it worked out too badly for either of them.
Merlin meets his eyes, gleefully defiant. "You're on," he states, and they grin.
Whatever the outcome of this particular bet, Arthur gets the impression that it is going to be fun.