The door bursts open and Merlin just about jumps out of his skin. Less than a moment ago, he was lounging on his bed reading a certain book: the book that has so far been the best teacher to his skills, but which might turn out to be the axe to his chopping block. It’s a multi-functional book. It is, after all, a little bit magic.
Normally, this isn’t a problem, given that Arthur never comes into his room (well, unless he’s looking for stray sorcerers, anyway).
Now, though, Arthur narrows his eyes, saying, ‘There you are, Merlin,’ in his most infuriatingly condescending tone, and Merlin tries to look as non-magical as possible. Then Arthur starts pushing him towards the bed, as though he has any business feeling that comfortable in Merlin’s room, and Merlin thinks, oh, no, you don’t, you fucking arsehole. He’s really not in the mood. Also, he really needs to pee, which is why he put the book down in the first place.
Annoyed, he says, ‘Arthur, let me go,’ in a tone he probably won’t be able to get away with, and sure enough, Arthur retorts with, ‘Hm, let me think about it,’ and ‘No, you know, I don’t think so,’ an edge to his voice, taking a hold of his struggling body and easily pushing it down on the bed, applying more pressure to Merlin’s bladder than is entirely comfortable right now. Merlin has no trouble imagining the superior, smug look on Arthur’s face and doesn’t even try to suppress the irritated little sound working its way up from his throat.
Sometimes, Merlin almost regrets starting this thing with Arthur.
Like that time, for instance, almost two months ago, when Merlin grabbed his courage with both hands, tried to control the tremble in his fingers, and grabbed Arthur’s face and kissed him. And Arthur just stood there like a bloody plank for a full minute, before kissing Merlin back with the utmost hesitancy. And definitely like that time, a week after that, when Arthur said, ‘I can’t – We – Look, Merlin, you’re a servant,’ before turning his back on Merlin and walking away.
Merlin hadn’t set Arthur’s hair on fire, then, but it was a close thing.
Quite often, Merlin almost forgets how insufferable Arthur can be, and then something like this happens, and Merlin sighs and closes his eyes and thinks of what a mess his life has become.
‘Look, Arthur, I know you think you’re being funny, but I really need to have a piss, all right? So if you could let me go for a moment?’
Arthur stills above him, just as his body is comfortably covering Merlin’s; the feeling of Arthur against his back is warm and intimate and, in spite of everything, Merlin sinks into the bed and lets himself want, just for a moment. Because, because it’s Arthur, and - yes, sometimes Merlin does realise just how pathetic he is. Then his bladder starts clamouring at him again, and he stretches, preparing to wriggle out.
Arthur tenses around him, says, ‘Do you now, Merlin? I do hope I’m not making you too uncomfortable, then,’ and promptly sits up, using his hips to press Merlin further down, and, oh, this is bad. This is terrible, because Merlin knows that tone of voice, and it means Arthur’s still pissed off (oh, haha) about earlier. And all right, maybe he shouldn’t have told Morgana about Arthur’s little horse-riding accident, but really, he’d been behaving like an utter prat. Even more so than usual. He’d had it coming to him, and Merlin doesn’t really feel sorry about it. ‘You’re going to be a prat about this, aren’t you?’
Arthur’s hands come up to circle Merlin’s wrists, and he leans forward again, using all of his considerable weight, whispering dangerously into Merlin’s ear, ‘You know how much I’d hate to think I was causing my traitorous manservant any discomfort.’ It’s possible Merlin whimpers at this point, and if he does, he doesn’t know whether it’s because of the pressure in his belly, becoming more urgent by the moment, or because Arthur lazily starts rolling his hips, hard length pressed to Merlin’s arse. Or, possibly, because of the feeling of doom languidly making itself comfortable in his bones.
It’s definitely the latter that makes Merlin suddenly struggle, growling, ‘Arthur, I swear –,’making things infinitely worse as Arthur pins him in place, and Merlin can see the smirk on his face as he says, ‘Go on, then, Merlin, show me you’ve been paying attention to what I’ve been trying to teach you,’ and then proceeds to lick Merlin’s neck. And bite down. And, oh God, this is entirely unfair, this, Arthur comfortably taking, giving, it’s what Merlin’s wanted for so long, what part of Merlin still can’t quite believe he might have; it makes his stomach do funny little flips in his belly, and it’s not like there’s a lot of room in there at the moment. When he says, ‘Arthur,’ he’s not quite sure he hit the note of annoyance he’d intended to.
There’s a part of him, at the back of his mind, that wants to banish Arthur, make him get out of his room; this, this is the place where Merlin feels comfortable, where he can hide his little secrets, where he can be himself in every way – and now Arthur is here, inside, and tonight, when he’ll go to sleep he’s sure he’ll smell Arthur on his sheets, and, and. But then Arthur rolls his hips again, and fuck, he wants to lie there and take it all in, let Arthur rut against him, manhandle him, then maybe get a bit of his own back; and he wants to get off the bed right the fuck now, because he really needs to go.
Arthur seems completely unbothered, though, satisfied with his little plot for revenge, mouthing along the sensitive nerves of Merlin’s neck, licking behind his ears, knowing what it does to him. Merlin groans into the pillow, heat spilling further into his blood, and resigns himself to the fact that the prospect of relieving himself anytime soon is becoming more distant every second.
Arthur’s hips speed up and the movement exerts pressure both on Merlin’s dick and bladder, the sensations overwhelming him and curling into a ball of want and discomfort and need, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before; he feels helpless, boneless, unable to think of anything but this, unable to do anything but hold on.
Somewhere behind him, Arthur’s talking, God, yeah, and feels good, and look at you now, Merlin, you’re loving this, aren’t you?, and you just can’t help yourself, can you?. It’s only then that Merlin becomes aware that he’s desperately pushing back against Arthur, while trying to rub himself off on the bed, movements hopelessly uncoordinated, trying, trying for – and then, Arthur starts nipping at his ear, murmuring something he can’t quite make out, but that his (helpless, flailing) brain thinks a few moments later might have been little slut.
A feeling explodes hot and greedy in his stomach, obliterating everything else, and it should be anger, it should be indignation, but instead it’s lust, pure and simple, wantonly licking its lips, licking Merlin’s insides, because Arthur, Arthur’s. Arthur’s careful and in control, and the first few times they fucked, it was Merlin riding his cock, while Arthur stared up, a little disbelieving, a little horrified – a lot turned on, but careful, always careful, and he learned to touch Merlin, learned to be the slightest bit greedy, loves to have Merlin under him, arrogant prat that he is – and sometimes, sometimes he talks. Those are the times Merlin best manages to ignore that little air of, of reluctance about him; but he never, ever says anything filthy.
And Merlin, oh, Merlin’s.
Fuck, yes, and if he could still string a thought together, he’d be grateful for the fact that the words sound garbled as they tumble from his mouth, and he falls, he falls, scrabbling at the sheets now, and he needs just that little bit -
And then Arthur’s gone.
He’s stunned into motionlessness for a moment, the absence of weight on his back completely disorienting, and then he starts pushing his hips down, anyway, something empty, missing in his stomach, but unable to help himself, much-needed pressure on his prick, and then, suddenly, he’s standing on his feet. Well, for a certain definition of standing, anyway, because his legs don’t seem to understand that he’s upright, his knees refuse to lock, and Arthur, the heartless fucking bastard who just hauled him up, is saying, Merlin in an exasperated tone, and get up as if he wasn’t already, and Merlin’s stuttering, anger and disbelief making him trip over his words, ‘you –,’ and ‘- arsehole,’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘ – back’.
Arthur completely ignores him, easily catching his flailing hands, manhandling him until Merlin’s blinking down at his own hands leaning against the table, muttering ‘Come on,’ in the same condescending tone he might use to speak to sensitive, but slightly obnoxious women, and if Merlin weren’t focusing all his attention on not falling down to the floor, he would’ve had something to say to that. As it is, he vaguely considers kicking out one of his trembling legs, hoping it’d hit target, but just then, sensation seems to rush back into his body, his limbs, and unfortunately, his bladder, and he is abruptly reminded of the fact that he really needs to piss. He gasps at the feeling of it, unprepared for its intensity, and thinks, fuck this, he won’t have any aim like this, but he needs to, he needs to, oh, God, now, and he’s pulling down his breeches, about to turn around -
And then Arthur’s back, pressing a hand high up on Merlin’s back, holding him in place, slipping into his loose trousers to press a slick thumb at his entrance, hard. Merlin can’t help crying out, jerking away, because, fuck, no, not like this, not when every muscle in his body is clenched against – and he’s distantly aware that his voice sounds downright hysterical when he says, ‘No, Arthur, I can’t,’ and ‘Please’ and Arthur just says, ‘Hold still,’ pulling his shift over his head impatiently with a single, clumsy hand.
Merlin feels his own hair standing on end as the piece of clothing finally leaves him, hanging on his arms, after catching painfully on his nose, and he’s making disagreeable noises, opens his mouth to – and then Arthur takes a hold of his cock, stripping him in a steady, impossible rhythm that makes him whine, makes his entire world twist in uncomfortable waves that he can’t help but drown into, wanting, as Arthur’s thumb slowly pushes into his body. It’s almost painful as his body doesn’t want to let him in, but Arthur’s been generous with the oil and it’s only a little uncomfortable. He’s relieved for all of one moment when Arthur pulls back, but then two fingers push into him instead; Merlin feels like he’s going to go out of his mind, Arthur murmuring, ‘Go on, take it,’ and Merlin’s only peripherally aware of how rough his voice sounds, of Arthur’s eyes on his face.
When it’s Arthur’s cock, finally, pressing into his entrance, Merlin feels like he’s unravelling at the seams, and he can’t, he just – he has to relax, lets himself go, just a little bit, can’t keep this up, and he’s surprised when his cock leaks nothing but precome, Arthur’s hand still moving, a little more erratically now. His arsehole can’t help but still clench a bit, though, only at half-strength now, and when Arthur shoves in, all the way, it’s tighter than it should be, fuller, a little too tight and Merlin’s arms are barely keeping him upright against the table.
He’s long stopped listening to the sounds coming from his own mouth, but when Arthur starts to move, Merlin becomes aware of the heavy panting in his ear – Arthur sounds breathless, wanting; a hand comes up, hesitating only for a fraction of a second, to turn his head to the side, and he hears Arthur whisper, ‘Yeah, like this, so beautiful, fuck.’ And then he starts fucking Merlin in earnest, little hitching moans somehow not quite covered by Merlin’s louder ones, not pulling out as far as he normally would, having to put a little more effort into pushing back in. And although Merlin literally can’t pee, it does nothing to relieve the pressure, the tightness of his bladder, the discomfort of it, of Arthur too tight in his arse, and it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be this good, but Arthur’s cock seems to be hitting nerves Merlin wasn’t aware of having, and he feels pleasure helplessly curl all the way into his toes, his mouth falling open, tongue running over his lips. He can almost taste it, bliss just out of his reach.
To make matters worse, Arthur somehow finds it in himself to stop for a moment, one hand letting go of the table, stroking firmly over Merlin’s stomach, stretching his discomfort almost to the unbearable, and setting a whole new set of nerves alight, the feeling somehow going straight to his prick. There’s a sob caught deep in Merlin’s chest, and Please falls brokenly from his lips, and then again and again, turning into a meaningless litany; Merlin’s eyes are open, but he can’t see a thing anymore, the world a foggy haze around him, and he slowly breathes it in, until there’s nothing anymore, until he just is, until he’s on the edge of something, something he doesn’t even have words for, something that goes on, and on, and on. His orgasm hits him out of nowhere, more sensation than he can handle, and he’s knocked breathless with it, the world shining an immaculate white for just a moment, almost painfully bright, before becoming the warmest, gentlest shade of black.
He’s limp with it, only gradually becoming aware that Arthur’s holding him up, just stroking him lazily now. And then Arthur’s hand leaves him, leaves his oversensitive skin, and in an instant he has to shut his whole body down, because he almost – and he can’t hold it now, Arthur’s cock still inside him, keeping him open, he’s going to, he’s going to. Then Arthur pulls out, and Merlin’s head tips down, further still, concentrating on breathing, on not moving, on not – there’s a thunk and when Merlin can bring himself to open his eyes, he finds Arthur’s deposited a large bowl in front of him, the one he’d been using to practise his transformation spells on (it’s a little lopsided, but Merlin stubbornly maintains it’s always been that way). He’d make some kind of snide remark about his chamber pot being right there, but he’s too relieved to do anything but take a hold of himself, and –
And Arthur’s hand clamps around his own, stopping him from finally getting relief, and Merlin seriously considers getting violent.
‘Just a little longer,’ Arthur says, and it’s only the sound of it, the faintest tremble there, voice surprisingly fat with want and need and a lot of filthy things Merlin can’t put a name to that stops him from using his magic to get out of this, that lets him stand through the exquisite torture of Arthur pushing his cock back into him, even though it seems impossible, the world flickering in and out of existence at the edge of Merlin’s vision. And then Arthur’s there anyway, moving his hips in soft little jerks, barely there, just enough to let Merlin feel it, and pries Merlin’s hand away from his cock, holding it more firmly himself, and says, ‘Go on, then,’ a soft, indulgent whisper in his ear.
Merlin’s baffled by this, by Arthur’s cock still gently moving in him, Arthur’s hand around him, and after everything they have done, this, this suddenly seems too intimate, and for the life of him, he can’t let go. Arthur doesn’t even seem surprised – when Merlin surely is – just lets his other hand come up to rest on Merlin’s belly, moving in slow, soothing strokes, increasing the pressure again, saying, ‘Go on, it’s all right,’ and that’s it. Suddenly, something loosens inside Merlin and a slow, glorious stream pours out. His prick hasn’t gone entirely soft yet, and his aim isn’t the best, and every time Arthur pushes in the stream frustratingly falls back to the merest trickle, but it feels so good, so good, and Merlin’s head blindly falls back to Arthur’s shoulder.
He’s flooded with an unbelievable relief, warm and golden and spreading through his entire body, but most obvious in the finally relaxing muscles of his belly, where Arthur’s fingers slowly dig in, hunting out the soreness, exacerbating it; exacerbating the loss of tension. He wants to purr with it, satisfaction and relaxation spreading through him, and then Arthur’s hand veers off course for a moment, pinching at a nipple, then the other, and Merlin jerks helplessly, no longer caring about the embarrassing sounds leaving his mouth. It takes him a while to realise that he’s trembling, and he doesn’t know whether it’s just begun, or whether it started a long time ago, but he can feel it now, and Arthur’s murmuring into his ear, low and urgent, ‘That’s it, go on, let go,’ while lapping at the shell of his ear, and it should be completely ridiculous, but somehow it’s not.
It seems like it’s never going to end, but then the flow finally becomes a dribble, and Arthur’s hand warmly covers the empty spaces under his skin. They both stare as just a few more drops fall down, Arthur still moving just the tiniest bit inside of Merlin. Time stretches as they both stand there, Merlin feeling entirely boneless, feeling so light it’s possible he’s floating, letting himself lean into Arthur, even the muscles in his legs quivering around his bones.
But Arthur’s still hard, and the bowl is dangerously full, and he has, apparently, more brain function left than Merlin does, prying Merlin’s fingers off the table, manoeuvring them gently towards the wall. By some miracle, Merlin manages not to fall over, breeches still around his ankles (he doesn’t remember them sliding down his legs all the way down there), as Arthur positions him, palms flat against the stone, shift still hanging from his arms, legs spread and joints locked, saying, ‘Hold on.’
Merlin ends up with his face pressed against the wall on the first stroke, and Arthur growls a little, having to move in closer, saying something that sounds like ‘completely useless,’ but Merlin’s arms simply refuse any kind of cooperation; and so they do it like this, cold stone against his overheated cheek as Arthur fucks him, chafing just a little, but he’s much too far gone to care.
He lets Arthur take him, own him, and Arthur’s not the slightest bit hesitant this time, biting his neck, snarling, ‘Fuck, Merlin, yeah, come on, take it,’ a little wildly, and Merlin thinks yes, yes, yes. Yes. When Arthur comes, it’s with a moan Merlin wants to lick from his lips, except he finds himself entirely incapable of so much as turning his head, so he just stands there, holding on, marvelling at the fact his legs haven’t collapsed.
They end up on the bed, chest to back, though Merlin has no memory of getting there, and he wants to laugh, the feeling warm and bubbly in his chest, when he realises Arthur’s still mostly dressed. Arthur’s hand has gone back to stroking soothing circles on his belly, and the muscles there keep tightening, then relaxing, Merlin arching into the touch, just a little. He bumps his head against Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing, until he gets the message and leans down, offering up his lips.
And Merlin, Merlin’s a good kisser, fantastic in fact, and like this, he tries to own Arthur just a little bit himself, tries to lick the words thank you and please and mine (pleasemine) into his mouth. Arthur just leans into it, surrendering his tongue when Merlin asks for it, and when Merlin pulls back to look at him, to really look at him for the first time since he stepped into this room, Arthur’s looking utterly debauched and is staring at Merlin’s mouth, like he wants some more of it, and Merlin couldn’t stop the smile curving up the corners of his own lips if he wanted to.
Yes, sometimes, Merlin almost regrets this thing with Arthur, but then he remembers the tremble in Arthur’s body as Merlin first sank onto him, remembers the careful touch of his fingers on Merlin’s skin, and teeth sunk helplessly into Merlin’s shoulder as Arthur reined himself in when they fucked for the third time. He remembers Arthur’s voice murmuring gruffly, ‘Stay,’ as Merlin tried to sneak off into the night more than a week later, and Merlin finds he doesn’t regret anything at all.