leashy_bebes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
leashy_bebes) wrote2011-01-08 11:02 am
leashy_bebes) wrote2011-01-08 11:02 am
Entry tags:
fic: Sparring and Submission
Title: Sparring and Submission
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, (also a bit of Gwaine/Percival)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Merlin leaves the training session weighed down with the usual armour, swords, and the rest – but he barely notices, his head still teeming with thoughts. To do that, to make Arthur work for the control he feels entitled to, to make him fight for it. What must that feel like? It's an interesting notion, to say the least. But it's just a notion, and Merlin thinks it'll always stay that way.
Word Count: ~3100
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Sir Leon can give Arthur a good fight, better than the others, and their sparring goes on for a long time, swords clashing and armour glinting in the sun. Merlin's not sure exactly how he ended up cheering for Arthur at training sessions, but it started only a few weeks after he arrived in Camelot and now it's a regular thing. He can't disguise an anxious noise when Leon gets in a good blow, sending Arthur to one knee. He recovers quickly though, and the fight goes on.
Merlin can't ignore the heat curling through him and he shifts awkwardly. It's just that Arthur is so damn strong, so sure of his own body. Even with Leon, once Arthur gets that split-second advantage, he makes it look easy. Leon hesitates, wrong-footed, and Arthur moves, quick one-two from his sword exploiting the other man's momentary lack of balance to send him sprawling one way, his sword the other. Leon makes an abortive grab for his weapon, but Arthur's in the way.
He's won and they all know it, so Arthur is gentle as he tips Leon onto his back and flicks the knight's visor up with the tip of his sword. Merlin can't hear them from this distance, but he probably wouldn't be able to even if he was standing right next to them, not through the blood pounding in his ears as his interest spikes.
Do you submit?
I do, Sire.
***
Merlin leaves the training session weighed down with the usual armour, swords, and the rest – but he barely notices, his head still teeming with thoughts. To do that, to make Arthur work for the control he feels entitled to, to make him fight for it. What must that feel like? It's an interesting notion, to say the least. But it's just a notion, and Merlin thinks it'll always stay that way.
And when things change between them, when he ends up sharing Arthur's bed most nights, then well... What does it really matter how he got there? They settle into a routine, and while Camelot is always full of peril, and while sometimes Merlin feels like he might buckle under the weight of his own lies, he wouldn't give Arthur up for the world. He doesn't need to make Arthur work for it, so he sort of forgets about it.
But then there's Gwaine. Gwaine who is Merlin's first new friend in ages, who is good at everything, especially at not asking awkward questions of Merlin. When Arthur assumes the role of regent in the wake of Morgana's betrayal, his first act is to make permanent the knighthoods he bestowed on Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan and Percival. Merlin is delighted, because they all deserve the honour, and because he has missed Lancelot, and because it means Gwaine will be staying.
He doesn't think anything of it at first, because Arthur has a wealth of new duties and of course, that has to mean Merlin gets just as many, too. But Gwaine doesn't take well to rules even when he's Sir Gwaine and he has responsibilities, and can't let wanderlust carry him away. And that's how Merlin ends up in the tavern with a handful of the knights, and the motley collection of servants and merchants and nobles that have been swept along by Gwaine's charm. It seems so obvious once he sees Gwaine playing with the long knife, twirling it absently between his fingers, possibly in the interests of drawing Sir Percival's attention to how nimble those fingers are.
"Hey," Merlin says in an low tone as one of the stable boys' more raucous stories distracts the group. "Teach me how to use one of those?"
Gwaine gives him a quiet look of surprise before nodding. Arthur might not believe it, but Gwaine can keep his mouth shut when he thinks there's a reason.
***
"Alright," Gwaine says a few days later, when they've stolen away to his rooms and Gwaine has handed him an elegant long knife. "Now, knives give you an advantage because you can get up closer than you can with a sword. But with all weapons really, it's all about balance."
"Balance," Merlin says, thinking of life and death, flood and drought. "Yeah, I get that."
"If their first weapon is a sword, then most men will overcompensate for the difference in weight, leave themselves open. Obviously that won't be a problem for you, but it might give you an additional advantage."
"Right," Merlin nods, extending his arm and testing how easy it is to move the blade around in smooth arcs.
"The main thing is always to be aware of your sparring partner," Gwaine says. "Always know where their feet and hands are – "
"Uh-huh."
"Because otherwise this happens," Gwaine says, easily flicking Merlin's knife out of his hand and sending it skittering away across the floor.
"Ass," Merlin mutters, stooping to pluck the knife from the edge of the hearth.
Gwaine smiles broadly and says, "Alright, that wasn't fair. Now. Stance."
"What's wrong with my stance?"
"Honestly, most things," Gwaine says sympathetically. "Now, here we go. Set your feet a little wider. Keep as relaxed as you can. Makes it easier for you to move, to respond."
Merlin nods and does as he's told.
***
They both have duties of course, so they don't manage to practice every day. Still, they fit in at least an hour, every other day, and after a couple of weeks Gwaine tells Merlin he's coming along well. Merlin doesn't think he's just being nice, because it's getting easier to handle the blade. Sometimes he moves the knife a certain way without thinking, without knowing why he's doing it, only to realise he's blocked one of Gwaine's thrusts. Another week, and Gwaine insists on padded shirts and vambraces for them both.
Arthur notices of course, or notices Merlin's absences anyway, and how often they coincide with Gwaine's. Merlin's sort of waiting for Arthur to voice his disapproval. Instead he just pulls that slightly constipated face which means he's not happy about all the time Merlin's spending with Gwaine, but can't bring himself to say anything because he's not sure what the complaint would reveal. When Merlin's been practicing with Gwaine most days for a month, even Percival loses something of his perpetually good natured expression when he sees them heading off together.
Merlin says as much one day after he's managed to fend off Gwaine's increasingly serious attacks for longer than ever before.
"Don't you worry about Percival," Gwaine says with a leer. "I'll make it up to him."
Merlin thinks he's starting to understand Arthur's thrill for the fight, because the joke's not even that funny, but he finds himself laughing breathlessly, tired, but he's feeling great. A few weeks after that, Merlin's managed to knock Gwaine's blade from his hand several times, and even set him on his arse one memorable time with the judicious application of a shoulder to the gut.
Gwaine throws up his hands one day and says, "Enough. I've done all I can with you, boy."
"Boy?" Merlin asks, spinning his knife on its point on the table top.
"Well, perhaps not," Gwaine allows. "Now, listen, Arthur leaves himself open low on the left when he fights with knives."
Merlin can feel the heat in his cheeks even as he protests, "Oh, no, what – "
Gwaine just looks amused.
***
Merlin thinks it's going to be ages before he gets a chance to show Arthur his new skills. Arthur is, as he never tires of reminding Merlin, a very busy and important man. Fortunately, he only has to wait a week before Arthur stirs in bed next to him one night. He touches Merlin's shoulder and says,
"We're going hunting tomorrow. Just us. Be ready to leave by the first bell."
It means I've missed you, so Merlin just agrees easily and turns further into Arthur's warmth.
He wakes before dawn and slides out of Arthur's grip, hastening to pack them a quick breakfast, as well as Arthur's hunting gear. He also runs down to his own room and reaches under his bed, pulling out the carefully wrapped knives Gwaine had casually given him a few weeks before. He adds them to his pack and is in the courtyard with the horses by the time Arthur comes outside.
"Angling for a day off, Merlin?" Arthur asks as he mounts his horse.
"What?"
"Well, this is unusually competent for you at this hour. Any hour, really," Arthur muses.
"Maybe I'm looking forward to the hunt," Merlin suggests.
Arthur casts a doubtful look over his shoulder at Merlin as he nudges his horse into a trot. Merlin bites down on a smile and follows him.
***
The hunt's just like any other. Arthur's tense and excited and in his element. Merlin's halfway between bored and distressed at the idea of Arthur killing a frankly unnecessary number of small fluffy things. So he makes more noise than he strictly needs to, and deliberately misunderstands Arthur's gestures, until Arthur sends him back to camp with the brace of rabbits he's killed so far and instructions to get lunch underway.
When he gets there, he uses magic to get the fire going and quickly prepares the rabbits. Then he digs about in his pack and pulls out the roll containing the knives, anxiously checking again that they're not too sharp. He's just shoving them away again when Arthur steps into the clearing, carrying a pheasant and a third rabbit.
"We'll go after bigger game once we've eaten," Arthur says.
"Oh, good," Merlin mutters, turning the rabbits on their makeshift spits. He watches from the corner of his eye as Arthur throws himself down upon the ground and heaves a contented sigh, hands tucked behind his head while he watches the plume of smoke from their small fire.
It's nice to see him quiet and relaxed for the first time in what feels like ages, but it won't last. Sure enough, not ten minutes after they've eaten and rinsed their hands and faces in water from the nearby stream, Arthur sighs again and announces, "Bored,"
Now, Merlin thinks. "We could spar," he suggests.
Arthur pushes himself up on his elbows and looks over at Merlin. "I thought you hated sparring."
Merlin shrugs.
"I thought it was a waste of time for men with more muscles than brains?"
Merlin shrugs again. "I might have overstated that a little."
"Alright, then," Arthur says with a put upon sigh. "No whining when I beat you with the first strike."
"So cocksure," Merlin mutters.
"I beg your pardon, Merlin? I'm what?"
"Cocksure," Merlin repeats, bold and teasing. "Over-confident. Full of yourself. Honestly, Arthur we must work on your vocabulary."
Arthur just laughs and asks, "Sword or hunting knife?"
"Neither," Merlin says, reaching into his pack and pulling out the blades. He feels Arthur watching with interest as he unpacks them and hands one over.
"Where did you get these?" Arthur tests the balance and looks surprised at the quality. Which is fair enough, because Merlin wouldn't have had a clue where to start looking for good quality weaponry.
"A gift from Gwaine."
"I see," Arthur says, trying to look less impressed. Merlin hides a smile and Arthur goes on, "Wear this at least," and tosses one of his vambraces to Merlin. "I dread to think how useless you'd be one-handed."
Merlin buckles it on and watches as Arthur takes a couple of steps back, twirling the knife through his fingers in a flash of silver. Merlin falls into the stance Gwaine showed him, weight spread evenly on both feet, knees a little bent, ready to move in either direction. Arthur's eyebrows raise fractionally, but he just smirks and makes a show of tucking one hand behind his back.
"There," he says. "Now you'll have a fighting chance."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "Come on, then, Sire."
Arthur's still laughing when he feints left and moves to tap the flat of his blade against Merlin's ribs. His laughter is replaced by almost comical surprise when Merlin parries the attack easily, dancing back on the balls of his feet. They both move fairly slowly at first, Arthur obviously taken aback, and Merlin not willing to bring out his best moves too early. Merlin starts to feel a giddy kind of excitement welling up because he's doing it – he's aware of Arthur's hands and feet, and he knows him well enough to be fairly sure when he's feinting and when he's genuinely aiming to make contact.
"Well this is a pleasant surprise," Arthur says as they circle each other.
Merlin doesn't reply, just swipes low towards Arthur's belly. Arthur counters with a step back and a thrust from left to right diagonally across Merlin's chest. Merlin has to duck and weave to one side, hastily straightening up again and shifting his grip on the handle to something a bit steadier. The first time Merlin manages to tap the flat of his blade to Arthur's bicep, Arthur's so stunned that it gives Merlin time to press his advantage. He forces Arthur to take three steps back before he recovers, and even then he has to draw his arm out from behind his back for balance. That alone feels like a victory.
Their blades clash with metallic rings and Arthur looks at Merlin like he's seeing something new. When Arthur next breaks their careful circling of each other, it's with a flurry of concerted attacks. (He certainly doesn't look like he's fighting with Leon's skinny squire for a laugh now.) Merlin parries each one more desperately and haphazardly than the last. Then he remembers what Gwaine said – low on the left – and feints right, grabs a bit wildly at Arthur's forearm to stop the next blow, reaching across their bodies with his other hand and curling his wrist to jab the hilt of his knife into Arthur's ribs. Arthur's eyes widen and he huffs out a breath. Merlin skips away onto a steadier footing.
Defeat is inevitable, but Arthur is breathing hard when he finally knocks Merlin onto his back, flinging his knife aside and stealing the air from his lungs in the same instant. As Merlin crashes to the ground, Arthur drops to straddle his chest, knees pinning Merlin's upper arms to the forest floor. Arthur sets the tip of his knife to Merlin's bare throat and exerts the tiniest pressure, making Merlin tip his head back, his neck a long, vulnerable stretch, his heart thundering.
"Do you submit?" Arthur asks.
Merlin hesitates, just a minute, just long enough for Arthur's eyes to narrow dangerously.
"I do, Sire."
***
Arthur's on his feet and pulling Merlin to his knees inside a breath, making it look easy.
"Stay there," Arthur says, his voice a sharp crack, and Merlin doesn't even think about disobeying. He's gratified to notice the fine tremor in Arthur's hands as he pulls roughly at the laces on his breeches. He's half-hard already, and Merlin can't do more than bite his lip and watch as Arthur wraps a strong hand around his cock and strokes.
"Arthur," Merlin says, almost a whimper.
"Quiet."
The authority in his voice makes Merlin's toes curl even as Arthur rubs his thumb over Merlin's lower lip. He wets his lips without prompting, opens his mouth, and hears Arthur's breath catch. It's the only hesitation before he feeds his stiff length into Merlin's mouth, his free hand gripping Merlin's shoulder. Arthur is forceful and it's not easy, even though they've done this countless times before. Not like this, never like this.
Arthur keeps one hand on the back of Merlin's neck, or in his hair, and when he slips off the pace Arthur drags him back into it. Arthur is usually unexpectedly gentle, and this is unfamiliar, but Arthur breathes filthy endearments and encouragement, and Merlin finds himself making embarrassingly eager little noises. He tries to breathe and suck at the same time, chokes a little instead of accomplishing either. Arthur lets him go, lets him catch his breath, but only for a second.
Merlin doesn't think he can go much longer at a pace like this, although he desperately doesn't want to stop, his hands clawing helplessly in the air before settling on Arthur's thighs. But then he doesn't think he'll have to, because Arthur's breathing is already ragged, laboured. Sure enough it's only a few hot, aching moments before Arthur's grip eases and Merlin's able to control the pace, the depth, easing back a little to work his mouth and coax Arthur's orgasm from him with lips and tongue and soft whines.
Afterwards he presses his forehead to Arthur's hips and gulps in great breaths. He's tremblingly aroused, but useless with it, can't even do more than press the heel of his hand to his aching cock and groan shakily. He doesn't know how they end up sitting, Merlin between the splay of Arthur's legs, his arms trapped between their bodies, Arthur's hand rough over his shirt, softer when it dips inside to get at his skin. His head is spinning and it doesn't help when Arthur grips his thigh, not quite high enough to offer him any relief.
"Mine, aren't you?" Arthur demands. "Mine, mine, and you – "
"Yes," Merlin promises, "Yes, yours, do it, take me – "
"Merlin. When we get home," he says, breaking off to take Merlin's earlobe between his teeth and tug. "We'll spar again. In my chambers, and when I win – "
"If," Merlin gasps out.
Arthur's arm tightens around his waist. "When," he insists. "I'll fuck you like you've never had it before."
And Merlin is shameless, blurting out, "please – please – I need it – "
"Say it," Arthur demands, and for a moment Merlin's lost, confused, and then when he does understand, even thinking the words is almost his undoing.
He gathers his breath, and what's left of his wits, and says, "I submit, Sire."
Arthur moans, hoarse and he – finally, finally, finally – shoves a hand into Merlin's breeches, fingers curling around his cock. Merlin comes from the first touch, crying out, body arching against Arthur's arm, heat and sweet relief slamming through him, leaving him utterly useless.
Afterwards, there's silence. Merlin cranes his neck to peer at Arthur. He looks a bit stunned. His fingers are clumsy in Merlin's hair, over his stomach. He's fumbling and gentle as he coaxes Merlin around to face him, disarmingly tender as he pets softly at Merlin's face, his neck, his wet, swollen lips. Merlin groans and lets his head fall forward onto Arthur's shoulder.
"You'll learn the sword next," Arthur says, sounding exhausted, and very much like he's plotting something. "And I will teach you. I don't want you picking up any more of Gwaine's bad habits. Or his dirty tricks."
"Didn't learn that from Gwaine," Merlin mumbles.
"I should hope not," Arthur says, pressing his lips to Merlin's temple and muttering, soft and fond, "Idiot."
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, (also a bit of Gwaine/Percival)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Merlin leaves the training session weighed down with the usual armour, swords, and the rest – but he barely notices, his head still teeming with thoughts. To do that, to make Arthur work for the control he feels entitled to, to make him fight for it. What must that feel like? It's an interesting notion, to say the least. But it's just a notion, and Merlin thinks it'll always stay that way.
Word Count: ~3100
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Sir Leon can give Arthur a good fight, better than the others, and their sparring goes on for a long time, swords clashing and armour glinting in the sun. Merlin's not sure exactly how he ended up cheering for Arthur at training sessions, but it started only a few weeks after he arrived in Camelot and now it's a regular thing. He can't disguise an anxious noise when Leon gets in a good blow, sending Arthur to one knee. He recovers quickly though, and the fight goes on.
Merlin can't ignore the heat curling through him and he shifts awkwardly. It's just that Arthur is so damn strong, so sure of his own body. Even with Leon, once Arthur gets that split-second advantage, he makes it look easy. Leon hesitates, wrong-footed, and Arthur moves, quick one-two from his sword exploiting the other man's momentary lack of balance to send him sprawling one way, his sword the other. Leon makes an abortive grab for his weapon, but Arthur's in the way.
He's won and they all know it, so Arthur is gentle as he tips Leon onto his back and flicks the knight's visor up with the tip of his sword. Merlin can't hear them from this distance, but he probably wouldn't be able to even if he was standing right next to them, not through the blood pounding in his ears as his interest spikes.
Do you submit?
I do, Sire.
Merlin leaves the training session weighed down with the usual armour, swords, and the rest – but he barely notices, his head still teeming with thoughts. To do that, to make Arthur work for the control he feels entitled to, to make him fight for it. What must that feel like? It's an interesting notion, to say the least. But it's just a notion, and Merlin thinks it'll always stay that way.
And when things change between them, when he ends up sharing Arthur's bed most nights, then well... What does it really matter how he got there? They settle into a routine, and while Camelot is always full of peril, and while sometimes Merlin feels like he might buckle under the weight of his own lies, he wouldn't give Arthur up for the world. He doesn't need to make Arthur work for it, so he sort of forgets about it.
But then there's Gwaine. Gwaine who is Merlin's first new friend in ages, who is good at everything, especially at not asking awkward questions of Merlin. When Arthur assumes the role of regent in the wake of Morgana's betrayal, his first act is to make permanent the knighthoods he bestowed on Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan and Percival. Merlin is delighted, because they all deserve the honour, and because he has missed Lancelot, and because it means Gwaine will be staying.
He doesn't think anything of it at first, because Arthur has a wealth of new duties and of course, that has to mean Merlin gets just as many, too. But Gwaine doesn't take well to rules even when he's Sir Gwaine and he has responsibilities, and can't let wanderlust carry him away. And that's how Merlin ends up in the tavern with a handful of the knights, and the motley collection of servants and merchants and nobles that have been swept along by Gwaine's charm. It seems so obvious once he sees Gwaine playing with the long knife, twirling it absently between his fingers, possibly in the interests of drawing Sir Percival's attention to how nimble those fingers are.
"Hey," Merlin says in an low tone as one of the stable boys' more raucous stories distracts the group. "Teach me how to use one of those?"
Gwaine gives him a quiet look of surprise before nodding. Arthur might not believe it, but Gwaine can keep his mouth shut when he thinks there's a reason.
"Alright," Gwaine says a few days later, when they've stolen away to his rooms and Gwaine has handed him an elegant long knife. "Now, knives give you an advantage because you can get up closer than you can with a sword. But with all weapons really, it's all about balance."
"Balance," Merlin says, thinking of life and death, flood and drought. "Yeah, I get that."
"If their first weapon is a sword, then most men will overcompensate for the difference in weight, leave themselves open. Obviously that won't be a problem for you, but it might give you an additional advantage."
"Right," Merlin nods, extending his arm and testing how easy it is to move the blade around in smooth arcs.
"The main thing is always to be aware of your sparring partner," Gwaine says. "Always know where their feet and hands are – "
"Uh-huh."
"Because otherwise this happens," Gwaine says, easily flicking Merlin's knife out of his hand and sending it skittering away across the floor.
"Ass," Merlin mutters, stooping to pluck the knife from the edge of the hearth.
Gwaine smiles broadly and says, "Alright, that wasn't fair. Now. Stance."
"What's wrong with my stance?"
"Honestly, most things," Gwaine says sympathetically. "Now, here we go. Set your feet a little wider. Keep as relaxed as you can. Makes it easier for you to move, to respond."
Merlin nods and does as he's told.
They both have duties of course, so they don't manage to practice every day. Still, they fit in at least an hour, every other day, and after a couple of weeks Gwaine tells Merlin he's coming along well. Merlin doesn't think he's just being nice, because it's getting easier to handle the blade. Sometimes he moves the knife a certain way without thinking, without knowing why he's doing it, only to realise he's blocked one of Gwaine's thrusts. Another week, and Gwaine insists on padded shirts and vambraces for them both.
Arthur notices of course, or notices Merlin's absences anyway, and how often they coincide with Gwaine's. Merlin's sort of waiting for Arthur to voice his disapproval. Instead he just pulls that slightly constipated face which means he's not happy about all the time Merlin's spending with Gwaine, but can't bring himself to say anything because he's not sure what the complaint would reveal. When Merlin's been practicing with Gwaine most days for a month, even Percival loses something of his perpetually good natured expression when he sees them heading off together.
Merlin says as much one day after he's managed to fend off Gwaine's increasingly serious attacks for longer than ever before.
"Don't you worry about Percival," Gwaine says with a leer. "I'll make it up to him."
Merlin thinks he's starting to understand Arthur's thrill for the fight, because the joke's not even that funny, but he finds himself laughing breathlessly, tired, but he's feeling great. A few weeks after that, Merlin's managed to knock Gwaine's blade from his hand several times, and even set him on his arse one memorable time with the judicious application of a shoulder to the gut.
Gwaine throws up his hands one day and says, "Enough. I've done all I can with you, boy."
"Boy?" Merlin asks, spinning his knife on its point on the table top.
"Well, perhaps not," Gwaine allows. "Now, listen, Arthur leaves himself open low on the left when he fights with knives."
Merlin can feel the heat in his cheeks even as he protests, "Oh, no, what – "
Gwaine just looks amused.
Merlin thinks it's going to be ages before he gets a chance to show Arthur his new skills. Arthur is, as he never tires of reminding Merlin, a very busy and important man. Fortunately, he only has to wait a week before Arthur stirs in bed next to him one night. He touches Merlin's shoulder and says,
"We're going hunting tomorrow. Just us. Be ready to leave by the first bell."
It means I've missed you, so Merlin just agrees easily and turns further into Arthur's warmth.
He wakes before dawn and slides out of Arthur's grip, hastening to pack them a quick breakfast, as well as Arthur's hunting gear. He also runs down to his own room and reaches under his bed, pulling out the carefully wrapped knives Gwaine had casually given him a few weeks before. He adds them to his pack and is in the courtyard with the horses by the time Arthur comes outside.
"Angling for a day off, Merlin?" Arthur asks as he mounts his horse.
"What?"
"Well, this is unusually competent for you at this hour. Any hour, really," Arthur muses.
"Maybe I'm looking forward to the hunt," Merlin suggests.
Arthur casts a doubtful look over his shoulder at Merlin as he nudges his horse into a trot. Merlin bites down on a smile and follows him.
The hunt's just like any other. Arthur's tense and excited and in his element. Merlin's halfway between bored and distressed at the idea of Arthur killing a frankly unnecessary number of small fluffy things. So he makes more noise than he strictly needs to, and deliberately misunderstands Arthur's gestures, until Arthur sends him back to camp with the brace of rabbits he's killed so far and instructions to get lunch underway.
When he gets there, he uses magic to get the fire going and quickly prepares the rabbits. Then he digs about in his pack and pulls out the roll containing the knives, anxiously checking again that they're not too sharp. He's just shoving them away again when Arthur steps into the clearing, carrying a pheasant and a third rabbit.
"We'll go after bigger game once we've eaten," Arthur says.
"Oh, good," Merlin mutters, turning the rabbits on their makeshift spits. He watches from the corner of his eye as Arthur throws himself down upon the ground and heaves a contented sigh, hands tucked behind his head while he watches the plume of smoke from their small fire.
It's nice to see him quiet and relaxed for the first time in what feels like ages, but it won't last. Sure enough, not ten minutes after they've eaten and rinsed their hands and faces in water from the nearby stream, Arthur sighs again and announces, "Bored,"
Now, Merlin thinks. "We could spar," he suggests.
Arthur pushes himself up on his elbows and looks over at Merlin. "I thought you hated sparring."
Merlin shrugs.
"I thought it was a waste of time for men with more muscles than brains?"
Merlin shrugs again. "I might have overstated that a little."
"Alright, then," Arthur says with a put upon sigh. "No whining when I beat you with the first strike."
"So cocksure," Merlin mutters.
"I beg your pardon, Merlin? I'm what?"
"Cocksure," Merlin repeats, bold and teasing. "Over-confident. Full of yourself. Honestly, Arthur we must work on your vocabulary."
Arthur just laughs and asks, "Sword or hunting knife?"
"Neither," Merlin says, reaching into his pack and pulling out the blades. He feels Arthur watching with interest as he unpacks them and hands one over.
"Where did you get these?" Arthur tests the balance and looks surprised at the quality. Which is fair enough, because Merlin wouldn't have had a clue where to start looking for good quality weaponry.
"A gift from Gwaine."
"I see," Arthur says, trying to look less impressed. Merlin hides a smile and Arthur goes on, "Wear this at least," and tosses one of his vambraces to Merlin. "I dread to think how useless you'd be one-handed."
Merlin buckles it on and watches as Arthur takes a couple of steps back, twirling the knife through his fingers in a flash of silver. Merlin falls into the stance Gwaine showed him, weight spread evenly on both feet, knees a little bent, ready to move in either direction. Arthur's eyebrows raise fractionally, but he just smirks and makes a show of tucking one hand behind his back.
"There," he says. "Now you'll have a fighting chance."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "Come on, then, Sire."
Arthur's still laughing when he feints left and moves to tap the flat of his blade against Merlin's ribs. His laughter is replaced by almost comical surprise when Merlin parries the attack easily, dancing back on the balls of his feet. They both move fairly slowly at first, Arthur obviously taken aback, and Merlin not willing to bring out his best moves too early. Merlin starts to feel a giddy kind of excitement welling up because he's doing it – he's aware of Arthur's hands and feet, and he knows him well enough to be fairly sure when he's feinting and when he's genuinely aiming to make contact.
"Well this is a pleasant surprise," Arthur says as they circle each other.
Merlin doesn't reply, just swipes low towards Arthur's belly. Arthur counters with a step back and a thrust from left to right diagonally across Merlin's chest. Merlin has to duck and weave to one side, hastily straightening up again and shifting his grip on the handle to something a bit steadier. The first time Merlin manages to tap the flat of his blade to Arthur's bicep, Arthur's so stunned that it gives Merlin time to press his advantage. He forces Arthur to take three steps back before he recovers, and even then he has to draw his arm out from behind his back for balance. That alone feels like a victory.
Their blades clash with metallic rings and Arthur looks at Merlin like he's seeing something new. When Arthur next breaks their careful circling of each other, it's with a flurry of concerted attacks. (He certainly doesn't look like he's fighting with Leon's skinny squire for a laugh now.) Merlin parries each one more desperately and haphazardly than the last. Then he remembers what Gwaine said – low on the left – and feints right, grabs a bit wildly at Arthur's forearm to stop the next blow, reaching across their bodies with his other hand and curling his wrist to jab the hilt of his knife into Arthur's ribs. Arthur's eyes widen and he huffs out a breath. Merlin skips away onto a steadier footing.
Defeat is inevitable, but Arthur is breathing hard when he finally knocks Merlin onto his back, flinging his knife aside and stealing the air from his lungs in the same instant. As Merlin crashes to the ground, Arthur drops to straddle his chest, knees pinning Merlin's upper arms to the forest floor. Arthur sets the tip of his knife to Merlin's bare throat and exerts the tiniest pressure, making Merlin tip his head back, his neck a long, vulnerable stretch, his heart thundering.
"Do you submit?" Arthur asks.
Merlin hesitates, just a minute, just long enough for Arthur's eyes to narrow dangerously.
"I do, Sire."
Arthur's on his feet and pulling Merlin to his knees inside a breath, making it look easy.
"Stay there," Arthur says, his voice a sharp crack, and Merlin doesn't even think about disobeying. He's gratified to notice the fine tremor in Arthur's hands as he pulls roughly at the laces on his breeches. He's half-hard already, and Merlin can't do more than bite his lip and watch as Arthur wraps a strong hand around his cock and strokes.
"Arthur," Merlin says, almost a whimper.
"Quiet."
The authority in his voice makes Merlin's toes curl even as Arthur rubs his thumb over Merlin's lower lip. He wets his lips without prompting, opens his mouth, and hears Arthur's breath catch. It's the only hesitation before he feeds his stiff length into Merlin's mouth, his free hand gripping Merlin's shoulder. Arthur is forceful and it's not easy, even though they've done this countless times before. Not like this, never like this.
Arthur keeps one hand on the back of Merlin's neck, or in his hair, and when he slips off the pace Arthur drags him back into it. Arthur is usually unexpectedly gentle, and this is unfamiliar, but Arthur breathes filthy endearments and encouragement, and Merlin finds himself making embarrassingly eager little noises. He tries to breathe and suck at the same time, chokes a little instead of accomplishing either. Arthur lets him go, lets him catch his breath, but only for a second.
Merlin doesn't think he can go much longer at a pace like this, although he desperately doesn't want to stop, his hands clawing helplessly in the air before settling on Arthur's thighs. But then he doesn't think he'll have to, because Arthur's breathing is already ragged, laboured. Sure enough it's only a few hot, aching moments before Arthur's grip eases and Merlin's able to control the pace, the depth, easing back a little to work his mouth and coax Arthur's orgasm from him with lips and tongue and soft whines.
Afterwards he presses his forehead to Arthur's hips and gulps in great breaths. He's tremblingly aroused, but useless with it, can't even do more than press the heel of his hand to his aching cock and groan shakily. He doesn't know how they end up sitting, Merlin between the splay of Arthur's legs, his arms trapped between their bodies, Arthur's hand rough over his shirt, softer when it dips inside to get at his skin. His head is spinning and it doesn't help when Arthur grips his thigh, not quite high enough to offer him any relief.
"Mine, aren't you?" Arthur demands. "Mine, mine, and you – "
"Yes," Merlin promises, "Yes, yours, do it, take me – "
"Merlin. When we get home," he says, breaking off to take Merlin's earlobe between his teeth and tug. "We'll spar again. In my chambers, and when I win – "
"If," Merlin gasps out.
Arthur's arm tightens around his waist. "When," he insists. "I'll fuck you like you've never had it before."
And Merlin is shameless, blurting out, "please – please – I need it – "
"Say it," Arthur demands, and for a moment Merlin's lost, confused, and then when he does understand, even thinking the words is almost his undoing.
He gathers his breath, and what's left of his wits, and says, "I submit, Sire."
Arthur moans, hoarse and he – finally, finally, finally – shoves a hand into Merlin's breeches, fingers curling around his cock. Merlin comes from the first touch, crying out, body arching against Arthur's arm, heat and sweet relief slamming through him, leaving him utterly useless.
Afterwards, there's silence. Merlin cranes his neck to peer at Arthur. He looks a bit stunned. His fingers are clumsy in Merlin's hair, over his stomach. He's fumbling and gentle as he coaxes Merlin around to face him, disarmingly tender as he pets softly at Merlin's face, his neck, his wet, swollen lips. Merlin groans and lets his head fall forward onto Arthur's shoulder.
"You'll learn the sword next," Arthur says, sounding exhausted, and very much like he's plotting something. "And I will teach you. I don't want you picking up any more of Gwaine's bad habits. Or his dirty tricks."
"Didn't learn that from Gwaine," Merlin mumbles.
"I should hope not," Arthur says, pressing his lips to Merlin's temple and muttering, soft and fond, "Idiot."
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