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Arthur's grip on her arm is tight, punishing, and Merlin bites back a sound of protest as he drags her through the castle. His gait is long and he makes no move to slow down for her sake, taking the stairs two steps at a time and cutting off all circulation to her fingers while he's at it. They reach his chambers and Merlin is in one piece, if a little bruised and sore from the climb, but the murderous look on Arthur's face says she won't stay that way for long.
"Arthur, wait," she says, but he doesn't even glance at her as he shoves her inside and locks the door. "I can explain."
Arthur's shoulders bunch tight as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door, lifting his eyes to hers. "So explain," he says, mouth twisted in a snarl, "what the hell were you doing in Faulkner's chambers? After I made sure to tell you to stay away from him?"
"He isn't Faulkner!" Merlin snaps, all thoughts of reasoning with Arthur flying out the proverbial window. "I've been telling you that for days and you haven't believed me--"
Arthur begins to gnash his teeth and Merlin plows on ahead.
"--so I was trying to find something--something to prove--"
"Something to prove your utterly ridiculous claim?" Arthur scowls. "So? Have you?"
"I would have if you hadn't barged in and interrupted me," Merlin retorts mulishly, wary of Arthur's narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. "No one saw me, all right? I made sure I was alone."
"But you weren't. I trailed you there and you had no idea you were being followed. If it had been someone else--"
"Well, it wasn't," Merlin interrupts just as Arthur says, "Damn it, Merlin, I won't always be able to protect you!"
"I-I haven't--I don't need you to," Merlin stammers, palms sweaty, heart suddenly lodged in her throat. Her skin prickles from the spread of a blush and what's a cool spring day outside turns into blistering heat in the confines of Arthur's chambers. Her hands fist convulsively at her side and Arthur's eyes follow the movement so she brings them up, crosses her own arms over her chest, a defensive move that she doesn't realize she's mimicking.
"I can take care of myself," she says, belated, but it sounds all wrong after the heavy pause, lacking conviction, like she's saying it just to have something to say. Arthur's glance pins her in place and she wonders if he's thinking about all the times he's had to rescue her - wonders if she should bring up all the times she's had to rescue him - but she doesn't get much farther than wondering because he crosses the room in three quick strides and then there's just hands on her hips and a mouth over hers.
She swallows down a gasp because Arthur doesn't need another advantage, not with the way her heart is ramming in her chest, telling him with each frenzied beat how much she wants. Their mouths slot together, rushed and a little clumsy because of it, both of them trying to take the lead and set the pace. Merlin brings her hands up to bracket Arthur's face, tilt it the way she wants, but he just kisses her harder, bullies his way into her mouth when he realizes she won't retreat. The kiss is sloppy, in a way Merlin never thought could be so exciting, but Arthur has a way of turning her expectations on their heads and then leaving her stranded in the midst of discovery.
He's done that the last two times they got this close and Merlin remembers vowing to never let it happen again, but Arthur's tongue is daring and his hands are large and hot as they glide under her tunic and Merlin doesn't even try to resist. The backs of his knuckles brush against her navel and her stomach clenches tight as that place between her legs turns liquid; she doesn't make a sound but Arthur groans like he knows, teeth catching on her bottom lip, the bristle on his jaw making her skin sting.
"Arthur," she pants against his mouth, trying to make her voice rise above a mewl. "Are you going to stop?"
Arthur stills and Merlin wants to kick herself, wants to drag his hand lower and say don't stop, don't stop, but she can't do anything but go still right along with him, caught in a web of her own careless making. She knows what he's going to say - do you want me to stop? he'll ask, like he's asked every other time, and she won't be able to bring herself to say no. Her body throbs angrily and Merlin feels the sting of frustration in her eyes, shame and arousal warring inside her until all she wants is for someone to take the choice away.
She's still caught off guard when Arthur does.
"No," he says against her cheek, eyes a brilliant, ferocious blue. "I'm not going to stop."
He doesn't give her a chance to reply; just as well, because it isn't like Merlin could, voice and breath both trapped in her throat, aching and dizzy from want. Arthur catches her mouth again, thrusts his tongue inside like he owns it. The hand at her hip clenches hard - it hurts and Merlin revels in it, bucking up into the pressure, stunned to find that the bite of pain makes the pleasure sweeter. Arthur makes a low, hungry sound and she moans in return, feels like she's going to go up in flames when he knocks her legs apart and presses a hand between her thighs. He rocks the heel of his palm against her and Merlin digs short fingernails into his shoulders, bites at his jaw, overcome.
"Fuck," he curses, low, and Merlin looks up to find his eyes wide, pupils blown. He looks ragged, mouth bruised and hair falling into his eyes, like Merlin's every shaky breath chips away at his armor, until all she has to do is sigh to break him apart. His hand is a relentless source of pressure right where Merlin needs it most, and even as they stop to stare she can't keep her hips from moving, rubbing off against him, the friction frustratingly muted through canvas and linen. Arthur's mouth drops open on a pant and he squeezes, right there, rougher than she ever thought he could be, until she's so wet she wouldn't be surprised if she'd soaked through the breeches.
She trembles, claws at the back of his neck, needing to score skin with her nails. Orgasm builds in her until she's a writhing, shaking mess, until she can taste it, soursweet at the back of her throat, until she's one confident press of Arthur's hand away, one nudge, one brush, one little touch and--
He pulls away.
She gasps for air like she's been drowning, burns like she's been lit on fire. Arthur steps back and she has to bite the inside of her cheek until it bleeds to keep her eyes from going gold, from forcing him back in place, his hand on her where it belongs. Merlin opens her eyes when she's wrestled control back into place, aching like she's been beaten all over, like she'd kill to hurt a little more. Arthur is an arm's length away, and he looks so raw and wild it takes Merlin a second to realize he's undressing, what all that golden skin means.
"Take that off," Arthur says, eyes flickering to the heavy rise and fall of her chest. His voice is rough, mouth tight like it shred his throat on the way out. Merlin can't look away from the bulge in his trousers, even as she obeys, lifting the tunic over her head and holding it in front of her, prickling shy under the weight of his stare.
"Drop it," he orders, in the same belligerent tone he uses to tell her to clean that, shine that, bring me more bread. Merlin narrows her eyes and takes her time folding the tunic and pointedly placing it on the hearth, nerves calmed by the familiar motions. She straightens and stands in front of Arthur in breeches and bandages wound across her chest, tries to keep from hyperventilating when Arthur stalks closer and grabs her wrist. She releases a punched out breath when he traces the curve of her spine, fingers flirting with the frayed edge of the bandages, searching for a seam.
Merlin's used to binding her breasts flat by now - living as Arthur's manservant for as long as she has been does lend to some practice in that department - but she'd been in a hurry this morning, and hadn't tightened the bandages as much as she should have. The coarse fabric fell loose enough against her breasts that it abraded the skin every time she moved, but Merlin doesn't know how badly until Arthur unwinds the bandages and lets them drop to the floor.
Her breasts are sensitive on a good day, nipples prone to tightening at the slightest chill wind, but that's nothing compared to the way they are now, red tipped and rubbed raw. Arthur makes a noise that chases a shiver on Merlin's skin and her hands fly to his shoulders, hoping to hold him back, because he looks ravenous and Merlin doesn't think she can stand his mouth on her just now. It's a futile effort; Arthur doesn't seem to notice her fingers digging into his bunching muscles, and her sound of protest is lost in a low groan as he bends his head and takes her into his mouth.
He sucks hard, and it hurts. Merlin shouts at the unforgiving scrape of his teeth, claws at his back and yanks on his hair but he doesn't stop, just pulls her closer like he knows what she really wants, like every gasped Arthur is actually harder, harder. Every tug of his mouth on her breast sends a bolt of heat through her body, until she thinks she could come from just the rough laps of his tongue and the clinch of his teeth.
Merlin stiffens in surprise when the backs of her knees hit the bed - she wasn't aware they'd moved, but all of a sudden she's flat on her back and Arthur's sucking deep purple bruises into her skin, rocking her deeper into the mattress as his hips seek purchase against hers. Merlin's legs spread on instinct, and Arthur hisses as he falls into the cradle of her body, notched tight even with two layers between them. He pulls back and a wash of cool air makes Merlin's nipples so hard she has to lift a hand and pinch them to ease the pain.
Arthur's looking at her as if he's never seen her before; he shifts on the bed as if to move away and Merlin wants to scream in frustration, wound so tight she can't manage much more than a strangled sound. She thinks she could twist her tongue around a please, but she's seen too many women begging for Arthur's favor, and his head is already big enough as is. So she tightens her legs around his hips instead, uses her feet to urge him closer.
"Come here," she tries to command, but authority doesn't come as easily to her as it does to Arthur, and it comes out plaintive instead. "Arthur."
Her voice is throaty, deep enough that it's not too difficult to pass it off as a boy's, but it threads on Arthur's name, falls apart soft. Arthur tenses and the muscles of his arms stand out in stark relief; Merlin thinks he'll flee in the next second but he pulls off his trousers instead and crawls over her, large and imposing and utterly perfect.
Their mouths find each other again and Merlin loses herself in the feel of his bare chest pressed against her own, coarse hairs making her prickle and squirm. Her nails dig into the solid muscle of his shoulder before she rakes them down his spine; his broad back leaves so much skin to cover and she wants to mark him all over, thin red scratches that spell out her name, and his, and what this means. Arthur groans as she claws at him, whether in protest or encouragement she's not sure, but it doesn't matter. They've gone beyond hesitance, and there's no room for please or can I in the heat building between them. Anything - everything - goes, and the thought should frighten her because she isn't ready for so much exposure, doesn't think she can handle letting Arthur take her apart or trusting him enough to put her back together again.
"Merlin," Arthur gasps against her mouth, wrenches her from the spiral of her thoughts. He sounds as wrecked as she feels and she would take comfort in that if the raw edge to his voice didn't devastate her so. "Damn it, Merlin--Merlin--"
"Yeah, yes," she answers, doesn't even care to know the question. "Arthur, yes, pl--" She bites her tongue on the word and breathes in sharply through her nose, prays he didn't catch her near slip. Arthur lets out a soft, strained laugh against her throat and Merlin curses the indifferent gods, manages to turn her face a scant few inches away before Arthur drags her back to his mouth.
"I won't make you beg," he says, low, amused, and Merlin opens her mouth to say as if you could, snaps it shut again when he yanks her trousers down her legs and fits himself in between. "Not today."
Arthur lifts himself up, hands pressed on either side of her head, and looks at her. Merlin fights the urge to draw him back down, to shield herself with his body so she doesn't have to deal with his scrutiny. She's not an eye sore, but she knows she's nothing compared to the ladies that are constantly vying for his favor - she's not soft and smooth, trussed up and perfumed. She's bony, and has angry red stripes across her unimpressive breasts; she has ugly knees and rough hands, smells like the poultice she accidentally spilled on herself this morning and the horses she tended. But that doesn't seem to be what Arthur sees when he looks at her, because his eyes narrow and chest heaves and breath escapes him in a hiss as he says,
"God, Merlin. You drive me fucking crazy."
He doesn't kiss so much as devour her, and Merlin trembles against the onslaught of his attentions, bucking up against him and spreading her legs, shameless and aching as the line between want and need blurs out of existence. Arthur doesn't seem capable of leaving her mouth - well enough since Merlin can't bear to let him go - but his hands are restless, rough from impatience. The drag of his touch against her ribs make her shudder; she quakes when he palms her hips and pets the inside of her thighs, finds her hot and damp. Merlin would be embarrassed at the blatant evidence of her arousal if she couldn't feel him rutting against her leg, hard and demanding and every bit as out of control as she feels.
He thrusts his tongue into her mouth just as he slides a finger inside her cunt, and Merlin jerks, startled, clenches down hard. Arthur makes a low, hungry noise and the kiss turns brutal, one long finger turns into two, and the stretch and burn makes Merlin fist a hand in his hair and yank.
"Arthur," she says, and god but she sounds nothing like herself, voice flayed and shot straight to hell. Their mouths part with a slick sound and their noses brush as blue meets fierce, electric blue and Merlin wants to turn away, because this close Arthur can see every flinch and grimace and shocky widening of her eyes. His fingers pump in and out of her, relentless, and he thumbs tight little circles around her clit, primal satisfaction softening the harsh lines of his face when she jerks and whines.
"Good?" he asks, more breath than word, and works her faster, hand snapping against her cunt with wet, obscene smacks.
"I don't know," Merlin says, "I don't--" because it doesn't occur to her to lie when every muscle in her body is tightening in anticipation, when she's seconds away from flying apart into a million frantic pieces. She squeezes her eyes shut against the heat in his, almost an instinct now to hide the glinting gold she knows appears when control slips through her fingers, and she arches off the bed, yell trapped in her throat when--
"No," she manages to say, "no, Arthur, don't," when he wrenches his hand away. Her thighs strain with effort as she tries to grind up into him, and she wants to scream and cry and kill him when he evades. Arthur must see some of the impotent fury on her face because he places a sticky wet hand on her hip and pulls her close, shudders and bites at her jaw.
"I want to," he begins, takes a deep breath and releases it against the frenzied jump of her pulse, "I want to do--so many things, Merlin, but I can't--I need to get in you, I can't--"
"So do it," Merlin snaps, stretched beyond her limits, throbbing all over and so, so close. "Just make me come."
Arthur startles her by laughing - a real shout of laughter, with his head thrown back, shoulders shaking - and when he settles back on top of her he's still trembling with amusement, eyes crinkled and lips curved, and Merlin is hit by a wave of longing so vicious it's almost pain. She doesn't think, doesn't think she can, just drags his mouth down and kisses him and kisses him, arms wound tight around his neck.
"Is that any way to talk to your prince?" Arthur whispers, and his eyes are soft but the edge of arousal is evident in his voice, the way he can't stop rubbing himself off against her side.
"Sorry," Merlin whispers back. "Make me come, sire."
Arthur's hands clench convulsively on her hips, hard enough to bruise, and Merlin would raise her eyebrows if she could think about anything beyond getting him to touch her. She bites at his lips and is about to tug on his hair again when Arthur hooks her knees over his arms and pushes himself inside with a slow unending slide, trembling faintly due to the strain of restraint, breath coming in shallow pants against her throat. Merlin's toes curl hard enough to hurt as he fills her, and she clenches around him helplessly, aching to relieve the pressure centered in her cunt, but unsure how.
"I want to fuck you on your hands and knees," Arthur says, low enough that she almost can't hear him over the sound of blood pounding in her ears. "Head down, my hand in your hair." His hand drags up her side and over her breast before he fists it in her hair and draws her head back. Merlin looks at him through slitted eyes, vision blurred from the intensity of their connection, the frenzied beat of her heart. "I want to lick you," he says, and Merlin moans as his hips twitch, as he begins to grind them together in tiny teasing circles, "here, Merlin, until--until you come--"
"Arthur," she says, but she means please. She's dizzy from wanting, drunk on the sight and smell and taste of him -- the feel of him inside, large and demanding, insisting on getting his way, as always. Merlin brushes their open mouths together and when her voice fails her, she silently wills him to move.
He does, and Merlin tries to ignore the slight widening of his eyes, the one that indicates he didn't start thrusting out of his own volition. She closes hers instead, kisses him and shivers as they notch together, as her hips rise to meet his. This is nothing like the confused, painful fumbling she underwent in Ealdor, and Merlin isn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't - couldn't have been - this: the steady, gentle pressure on her clit and effortless movement of his body; the creak of the mattress and sweat dripping into her open, panting mouth; the way he trembles and gasps every time he sinks into her; the look in his eyes.
She comes when his mouth curves noiselessly around her name, and there's a moment of absolute stillness that Merlin can't be sure she didn't orchestrate - if it was in her mind, or if time stopped for her, just then - and then her body is wracked by orgasm, jerking violently under Arthur as he fucks her through the aftershocks until she's limp and boneless and loose. Fissures of pleasure continue to coast through her body every time he moves, collect in her swollen lips and nipples and cunt, and Merlin is almost afraid she'll come again, doesn't know if she can handle so much pleasure so soon.
She looks at him through the blur of her lashes, unsure if the gold has retreated from her irises but needing to see him just the same. His mouth is open on a pant and he looks -- wrecked, reaching and retreating, straining for that terrible elusive something just outside reach. When he grasps it he goes tense, muscles bunching and breath spent on a soundless moan, cock driving into her with increasing force until he stills, and blinks, and falls into her.
Merlin's chest clenches and she forgets how to breathe, and she knows nothing will ever cause her to forget that look on his face: not age, not magic, not death. Arthur presses a wet kiss on her shoulder and Merlin fights to keep the panic at bay, because she's not prepared for revelations of this magnitude but can't silence the litany of mine that rings in her head.
Arthur's heavy, slumped on her the way he is, but Merlin feels frighteningly light, as if she's lost some essential, weighty part of her. As if she's given it to Arthur.
Oh, she thinks, staring blankly at the canopy. Oh, hell.
fin