leashy_bebes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
leashy_bebes) wrote2012-02-03 07:41 pm
leashy_bebes) wrote2012-02-03 07:41 pm
Entry tags:
fic: You Burn, In Me (1/1)
Writing to a deadline = deanon on all the things!!
Title: You Burn, In Me
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Merlin meets one of Arthur's requests. (Re-post from here on KMM)
Content Notes: Consensual face-slapping, shades of D/s, a hint of a fetish for (leather) gloves
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit
Word Count: ~2800
Merlin's fingers are always long, tricky, quick and clever, always able to capture Arthur's attention at the least appropriate moments. But normally they're pale like the rest of him, and marked with little nicks from his work, a couple of them just a bit crooked. Imperfect.
But now, like this, sheathed in clinging brown leather, they are transformed into something else, something smooth and strong and only just this side of daunting. Arthur runs his tongue across his suddenly dry lips and Merlin catches the movement, looking from Arthur to his own gloved hands with an expression of puzzlement on his face.
He looks back to Arthur and his lips twitch in an obvious effort to suppress a smile. "You really like this," he comments, and it's not quite a question.
Arthur nods anyway, and Merlin grins down at his hands, flexing his fingers before knitting them together. Arthur tracks the movements helplessly with his eyes, watching the supple leather curve as Merlin shifts.
"Take off your shirt and come over here," he says.
Arthur nods and scrambles to obey, shivering in the cool air. When he crosses the room and stops in front of Merlin, he gets an almost shy smile in return before Merlin's hands settle on his hips, then skim up over his bare waist. The leather feels warm, soft, and the sweeping path that Merlin's hands take across his back is familiar, but Arthur can't help shivering again, for another reason this time. When he opens his eyes, Merlin is looking at him attentively, his head cocked to one side.
"Merlin – "
"Shh," Merlin says, and he lifts one hand to press a finger to Arthur's lips. Arthur feels his heart thump painfully hard, just once, and he can't stop his eyes fluttering closed, and Merlin says, "Oh..."
There's a breathless moment of silence and then Merlin's hands cup his face, warm and certain. Merlin presses the barest ghost of a kiss to his lips and then it's the tip of his thumb sweeping across Arthur's mouth. Arthur can't help himself, parts his lips and breathes in, inhaling the taste of the leather and the rough little noise that Merlin lets out, both just as heady as each other. Merlin's thumb pushes forward further and Arthur just lets it, the stroke of leather over his tongue making something hot and dizzying shoot through him.
Merlin's other hand leaves his face, chasing across his body in a haze of soft warmth and solid strength beneath it. His fingers walk their way down Arthur's stomach, plucking easily at the lacings on his breeches. Not for the first time, Arthur thinks that it's quite telling that Merlin's incompetence only extends so far. Then he can't think at all, because Merlin's hand dives into his breeches, his fingers reaching and curling and even if it wasn't already obvious, now there's certainly no way Merlin can't miss the fact that Arthur's hard. He's been getting that way ever since he managed to blurt out what it is he wants, and watching Merlin pull the soft, dark leather over his long pale fingers was the final straw.
Arthur can't help himself, moans around the intrusion of Merlin's thumb, bites down hard, the leather bitter and unmistakeable in his mouth. Merlin's eyes darken and he strokes Arthur a couple more times. Arthur's helpless, his hips shoving forward, dignity long since forgotten.
"God, you are – " Merlin mutters, and then his thumb is gone, fingers tangling in Arthur's hair as he pulls him into a brutal, biting kiss, the taste of leather strong between their mouths. His other hand tightens around Arthur's length, an agonisingly slow upward stroke, his thumb and forefinger lingering to play over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture there and making Arthur shudder in his grip.
"Merlin – " Arthur says again, his hands coming up to tighten convulsively in the back of Merlin's shirt, pressing their bodies closer, Merlin's hand crushed awkwardly between them.
"Get on your knees," Merlin tells him, his voice soft, and Arthur shivers again, nodding and stealing another kiss, a last moment of Merlin's warm leather-clad palm against the aching heat of his shaft.
Then he's sinking to his knees and the floor is a cold hard shock compared to the heated lust tangling through him, and Merlin is looking at him with this weirdly fond, indulgent expression that should be incompatible with a situation like this. Especially when Merlin's next step is to reach one gloved hand – the one he had been stroking Arthur with, he realises abruptly, because he can see the slick shining evidence of his own arousal on the leather – towards Arthur's mouth, and to say, in an increasingly familiar tone of authority,
"Clean it up."
Arthur is hopeless, helpless to guard against the noise he makes as he pitches forward unsteadily, pressing a kiss to Merlin's palm. Then he licks, across the palm at first, one taste for himself before he starts chasing down the wet smears. Merlin lets out a shuddering breath and his free hand runs through Arthur's hair, pushing it away from his face.
"Good," he says, his voice hushed and trembling. "Good."
Arthur attends more fiercely to his task because he is sure he's flushing red right now, sure the confused tangle of arousal and shame and desperate want must be written plainly on his face. It's only when he backs up enough to draw Merlin's index finger into his mouth that Arthur realises he's holding onto Merlin's hips, fingers curled fiercely, keeping him close.
"God, Arthur," Merlin mutters, and he pulls his finger back slowly, tugging Arthur's lower lip into a pout. Arthur sucks hard, pulling Merlin back in, and the laugh he gets in response is decidedly shaky. With the glove clean Arthur indulges himself, sucking two of Merlin's fingers down to the knuckle, every sense full of nothing but Merlin and leather and need. Arthur fixes his eyes on Merlin as he works his tongue between Merlin's fingers, doesn't care a bit that he must look every inch as wanton and desperate as he feels.
Merlin's breath shudders out and he touches his free hand to Arthur's cheek, his hair, even drawing one leather-clad finger over the line of Arthur's eyebrow, the soft skin under his eye. Arthur murmurs helplessly and sucks hard enough that he feels it in his jaw when Merlin slides his fingers out and back in, tips curling just enough to catch on the backs of Arthur's lower teeth for a second. Then Merlin pulls free altogether and dots the wet leather against Arthur's wetter lips. His eyes are wide, faintly disbelieving, and he looks Arthur up and down with another shaky breath.
Arthur's hands are still on Merlin's hips, the sharp angles grounding him somehow, fitting as perfectly as they do in his palms. He tightens his grip, spreads his fingers wider to work them under Merlin's shirt, unable to swallow down a groan at the feel of his skin.
"Lovely," Merlin says, and Arthur can't help but agree. He cranes his head forward and presses his mouth to Merlin's palm, his shaking inhalation laden with leather and heat. He kisses Merlin's palm, sucks Merlin's leather-sheathed thumb into his mouth and pins Merlin with a look, one that never fails to make Merlin's breath catch in his throat. Sure enough, Merlin gives a shuddery little chuckle and curls his fingers around Arthur's jaw, his eyes dark.
Arthur releases Merlin's thumb with a soft murmur of approval and says, "Merlin." Then, the word still unfamiliar enough to make something strange and powerful shoot through him, "Please."
Merlin bites his lip, looking briefly troubled. "Are you sure?" he asks, and there's apprehension in his voice, like there had been earlier when Arthur had forced out the words.
("I want you to..." Arthur cleared his throat and blurted, "I want you to strike me. My face." Merlin frowned, squinted up at Arthur and asked, "Is this a trick? Like, I go through with it and you chuck me in the stocks for a month, that sort of - " And Arthur interrupted him, said, "Merlin," and something in his voice must have persuaded Merlin of the truth of it because his face turned serious and thoughtful)
Arthur knows Merlin doesn't understand, but that's okay. Arthur barely understands himself. He nods.
Merlin swallows visibly and says, "Alright. Okay. Just...no stocks, okay?"
"No stocks," Arthur promises solemnly.
Merlin smiles and that gloved hand comes to rest on Arthur's cheek again, soft, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Arthur leans into the touch, and Merlin's smile softens, becoming something gentle and wonderful, something that fills up the whole world.
"Close your eyes," Merlin tells him gently. Arthur straightens his head, lifting his chin slightly to meet Merlin's eyes before he shuts his own.
The first slap makes Arthur gasp even though it's not that hard, not hard enough to do more than tingle. It's the sound, more than anything else that gets to him, shockingly loud in the quiet room.
"Arthur?"
Arthur just nods, breathless, then lifts his head again, eyes still closed. Merlin breathes out slowly and his hand connects with the right side of Arthur's face again, stinging a little this time.
"Yes?"
"God. Yes. Yes."
Merlin's fingers brush over Arthur's cheekbone, down to skim along the line of his jaw. The leather gloves have warmed to almost skin-temperature, but they're so smooth, a decadent slide, dragging against the fine grain of Arthur's stubble.
"Do it again," Arthur grits out. "Harder this time."
"Arthur – "
"Do it, Merlin."
It seems like it all happens out of order, disjointed and shocking. The crack of the strike is much louder this time, and it's ringing in his ears when he realises the force of it knocked his head around to one side, and he's only just getting used to that realisation when the pain blossoms over the left side of his face. The inside of his cheek stings too, and Arthur wonders whether he bit himself or if it was just from the impact against his teeth.
As Arthur suspected, the sting of pain and the building glow of heat in his cheeks is only part of it. Being struck like that, open-handed, shows an utter lack of respect for Arthur as a prince and as a warrior. If anyone else did this, or even attempted it, no one would question Arthur for defending his honour in whatever way he saw fit. To do nothing, though, or more than that, to relish it and ask for more, is foreign to him. It is as though it strips away the solid ground beneath his feet, leaves him gasping and shocked, like the feeling in a dream where you miss a step and wake up still thinking you're falling. Something he's always depended on is gone and all he's left with is a shivery awareness of Merlin, and a razor-sharp focus on his gloved hands.
Arthur turns back to face Merlin, chin tilted up, very deliberately meeting his eyes. Merlin's cheeks look almost as red as Arthur's feel, high spots of colour on his face and something dark and wanting rising in his eyes to counter the anxious twist of his mouth.
"Arthur – "
Those soft, leather fingertips dot over his cheek again and Arthur can't help a hiss at the sensitivity.
Merlin bites his lip, shifts his feet. "Is it – is it what you thought? Do you like it?"
"No. And yes. In that order," Arthur tells him. "Again."
Merlin swallows, already shaking his head. "No – "
"Merlin. Yes."
"You're – you're the prince, Arthur. You can't walk around looking like you've been slapped silly."
Much as Arthur hates it, Merlin has a point. He can already feel the prickling of heat settling into a throb, the promise of an ache. Still, though. Arthur can't remember the last time he was this turned on, and the bump in the front of Merlin's breeches says that maybe he's not as perturbed as this lip-chewing hesitance would imply.
"Once more," he bargains. "Hard. And then no more today."
Merlin wets his lips and then presses them together, nods tightly.
"And after," he says. "I want your prick."
Merlin's eyes close for a second and he blows out a heavy breath. This time when he draws his hand back there's no hesitance and the blow lands before Arthur was really expecting it, hard enough to make his eyes water and his ear ring. It startles him in the middle of a breath and he has to gasp for air afterwards, his hands finding Merlin's hips and yanking him in, pulling him a stumbling half-step forward so Arthur can press his forehead to Merlin's stomach and wait for his pulse to stop roaring in his ears.
"Oh god," Merlin says. "Shh."
Arthur doesn't know who he thinks he's telling to shh, because Merlin is the one whose breath is edged with a ragged moan, who's whispering all manner of nonsense in between shh, shh. He moves his head, the coarse material of Merlin's breeches rough against his face, and the hot length of him discernible through that. Arthur breathes a hot, open-mouthed breath against the front of Merlin's breeches and feels the leather gloves tangle and snag in his hair when Merlin grabs for him. Unless Arthur's much mistaken, Merlin actually sways on his feet, rendered silent for at least a moment.
Arthur's eyes are drawn back to Merlin's face again and again while he fumbles Merlin out of his breeches far enough to get his mouth on Merlin's cock. He takes it deep, so the taste is instant and heady, so it's overwhelming. Merlin hisses out a breath and pulls out far enough to annoy Arthur who follows, pressing Merlin's dick back between his lips.
"Arthur," Merlin says, warning. "You'll make me – "
"Don't care," Arthur tells him. "Do it."
For a moment he thinks Merlin will argue, but those leather-sheathed hands settle on his face instead, the firm pressure a reminder of those same hands dealing out hard slaps.
"Come on, then," he tells Arthur softly. "Take it."
He doesn't try to control Arthur's movements, only cradles his face like something precious and lets Arthur have it just as deep and messy and raw as he wants. It doesn't take much to send Merlin over the edge and when he comes his fingertips tighten on Arthur's face, eight matching dots of pressure over the burn. Arthur swallows most of Merlin's seed, wipes what he doesn't catch from his chin and sucks it from his fingers. Merlin honest-to-god whimpers, dropping to his knees opposite Arthur with a thud.
The kiss they share is heated and clumsy. Merlin is always wrung-out and languid after an orgasm, melting against Arthur, his gloved hands clumsy at first as one circles Arthur's cock again, the other curling around the back of his neck, running over his shoulders. Arthur pulls Merlin in closer, lets them slide to the ground, cold stone under Arthur's shoulderblades.
"For God's sake," Merlin says when he gets his hand back on Arthur's prick. The words sound like they're coming through gritted teeth. "These fucking gloves. I have to feel you."
That means he's going to take off the gloves, Arthur realises. His stomach lurches, and he begs, "No, don't." He reaches down to tangle his fingers with Merlin's, alternate stripes of skin-leather-skin along his shaft.
"You're just so – " Merlin says, his voice hot, flooding through Arthur's whole body. He guides Arthur into a slow rhythm and then pulls his hand back.
Arthur's on the verge of protest when Merlin spits into his left hand and – yes, yes – slicks two fingers of his left. Arthur does his best to keep up the slow movements Merlin started, rolling his hips up towards his hand until Merlin swats his thigh and tells him to hold still.
The slow inward slide of Merlin's finger makes Arthur gasp. The leather is thin enough that Merlin's finger isn't so much bigger than usual. But it's half dry and Arthur's face is still burning from being slapped, and he can still taste come every time he swallows. Arthur lets out a wordless shout and presses his face to his own arm.
"Tell me how this feels," Merlin orders suddenly, and Arthur groans.
"Good," he manages. "Really good. Feels like – Like..."
Merlin twists his finger inside Arthur and insists, "Tell me."
"Feels like – yours," Arthur babbles and there's a shaky silence before Merlin kisses him.
"Yeah," he agrees. "Feels like mine."
Arthur looks down at his cock in his hand, red and straining, at Merlin's free hand on his thigh, at Merlin's face, shocked and aroused and heart-stoppingly devoted.
"Arthur," Merlin says. "Arthur."
Arthur squeezes his prick as he comes, keeping the pleasure sharp-edged and constant. He can feel his body clenching wildly around Merlin's finger and wonders how the hell he is ever going to deal with his manservant wearing gloves again.
Title: You Burn, In Me
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Merlin meets one of Arthur's requests. (Re-post from here on KMM)
Content Notes: Consensual face-slapping, shades of D/s, a hint of a fetish for (leather) gloves
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit
Word Count: ~2800
Merlin's fingers are always long, tricky, quick and clever, always able to capture Arthur's attention at the least appropriate moments. But normally they're pale like the rest of him, and marked with little nicks from his work, a couple of them just a bit crooked. Imperfect.
But now, like this, sheathed in clinging brown leather, they are transformed into something else, something smooth and strong and only just this side of daunting. Arthur runs his tongue across his suddenly dry lips and Merlin catches the movement, looking from Arthur to his own gloved hands with an expression of puzzlement on his face.
He looks back to Arthur and his lips twitch in an obvious effort to suppress a smile. "You really like this," he comments, and it's not quite a question.
Arthur nods anyway, and Merlin grins down at his hands, flexing his fingers before knitting them together. Arthur tracks the movements helplessly with his eyes, watching the supple leather curve as Merlin shifts.
"Take off your shirt and come over here," he says.
Arthur nods and scrambles to obey, shivering in the cool air. When he crosses the room and stops in front of Merlin, he gets an almost shy smile in return before Merlin's hands settle on his hips, then skim up over his bare waist. The leather feels warm, soft, and the sweeping path that Merlin's hands take across his back is familiar, but Arthur can't help shivering again, for another reason this time. When he opens his eyes, Merlin is looking at him attentively, his head cocked to one side.
"Merlin – "
"Shh," Merlin says, and he lifts one hand to press a finger to Arthur's lips. Arthur feels his heart thump painfully hard, just once, and he can't stop his eyes fluttering closed, and Merlin says, "Oh..."
There's a breathless moment of silence and then Merlin's hands cup his face, warm and certain. Merlin presses the barest ghost of a kiss to his lips and then it's the tip of his thumb sweeping across Arthur's mouth. Arthur can't help himself, parts his lips and breathes in, inhaling the taste of the leather and the rough little noise that Merlin lets out, both just as heady as each other. Merlin's thumb pushes forward further and Arthur just lets it, the stroke of leather over his tongue making something hot and dizzying shoot through him.
Merlin's other hand leaves his face, chasing across his body in a haze of soft warmth and solid strength beneath it. His fingers walk their way down Arthur's stomach, plucking easily at the lacings on his breeches. Not for the first time, Arthur thinks that it's quite telling that Merlin's incompetence only extends so far. Then he can't think at all, because Merlin's hand dives into his breeches, his fingers reaching and curling and even if it wasn't already obvious, now there's certainly no way Merlin can't miss the fact that Arthur's hard. He's been getting that way ever since he managed to blurt out what it is he wants, and watching Merlin pull the soft, dark leather over his long pale fingers was the final straw.
Arthur can't help himself, moans around the intrusion of Merlin's thumb, bites down hard, the leather bitter and unmistakeable in his mouth. Merlin's eyes darken and he strokes Arthur a couple more times. Arthur's helpless, his hips shoving forward, dignity long since forgotten.
"God, you are – " Merlin mutters, and then his thumb is gone, fingers tangling in Arthur's hair as he pulls him into a brutal, biting kiss, the taste of leather strong between their mouths. His other hand tightens around Arthur's length, an agonisingly slow upward stroke, his thumb and forefinger lingering to play over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture there and making Arthur shudder in his grip.
"Merlin – " Arthur says again, his hands coming up to tighten convulsively in the back of Merlin's shirt, pressing their bodies closer, Merlin's hand crushed awkwardly between them.
"Get on your knees," Merlin tells him, his voice soft, and Arthur shivers again, nodding and stealing another kiss, a last moment of Merlin's warm leather-clad palm against the aching heat of his shaft.
Then he's sinking to his knees and the floor is a cold hard shock compared to the heated lust tangling through him, and Merlin is looking at him with this weirdly fond, indulgent expression that should be incompatible with a situation like this. Especially when Merlin's next step is to reach one gloved hand – the one he had been stroking Arthur with, he realises abruptly, because he can see the slick shining evidence of his own arousal on the leather – towards Arthur's mouth, and to say, in an increasingly familiar tone of authority,
"Clean it up."
Arthur is hopeless, helpless to guard against the noise he makes as he pitches forward unsteadily, pressing a kiss to Merlin's palm. Then he licks, across the palm at first, one taste for himself before he starts chasing down the wet smears. Merlin lets out a shuddering breath and his free hand runs through Arthur's hair, pushing it away from his face.
"Good," he says, his voice hushed and trembling. "Good."
Arthur attends more fiercely to his task because he is sure he's flushing red right now, sure the confused tangle of arousal and shame and desperate want must be written plainly on his face. It's only when he backs up enough to draw Merlin's index finger into his mouth that Arthur realises he's holding onto Merlin's hips, fingers curled fiercely, keeping him close.
"God, Arthur," Merlin mutters, and he pulls his finger back slowly, tugging Arthur's lower lip into a pout. Arthur sucks hard, pulling Merlin back in, and the laugh he gets in response is decidedly shaky. With the glove clean Arthur indulges himself, sucking two of Merlin's fingers down to the knuckle, every sense full of nothing but Merlin and leather and need. Arthur fixes his eyes on Merlin as he works his tongue between Merlin's fingers, doesn't care a bit that he must look every inch as wanton and desperate as he feels.
Merlin's breath shudders out and he touches his free hand to Arthur's cheek, his hair, even drawing one leather-clad finger over the line of Arthur's eyebrow, the soft skin under his eye. Arthur murmurs helplessly and sucks hard enough that he feels it in his jaw when Merlin slides his fingers out and back in, tips curling just enough to catch on the backs of Arthur's lower teeth for a second. Then Merlin pulls free altogether and dots the wet leather against Arthur's wetter lips. His eyes are wide, faintly disbelieving, and he looks Arthur up and down with another shaky breath.
Arthur's hands are still on Merlin's hips, the sharp angles grounding him somehow, fitting as perfectly as they do in his palms. He tightens his grip, spreads his fingers wider to work them under Merlin's shirt, unable to swallow down a groan at the feel of his skin.
"Lovely," Merlin says, and Arthur can't help but agree. He cranes his head forward and presses his mouth to Merlin's palm, his shaking inhalation laden with leather and heat. He kisses Merlin's palm, sucks Merlin's leather-sheathed thumb into his mouth and pins Merlin with a look, one that never fails to make Merlin's breath catch in his throat. Sure enough, Merlin gives a shuddery little chuckle and curls his fingers around Arthur's jaw, his eyes dark.
Arthur releases Merlin's thumb with a soft murmur of approval and says, "Merlin." Then, the word still unfamiliar enough to make something strange and powerful shoot through him, "Please."
Merlin bites his lip, looking briefly troubled. "Are you sure?" he asks, and there's apprehension in his voice, like there had been earlier when Arthur had forced out the words.
("I want you to..." Arthur cleared his throat and blurted, "I want you to strike me. My face." Merlin frowned, squinted up at Arthur and asked, "Is this a trick? Like, I go through with it and you chuck me in the stocks for a month, that sort of - " And Arthur interrupted him, said, "Merlin," and something in his voice must have persuaded Merlin of the truth of it because his face turned serious and thoughtful)
Arthur knows Merlin doesn't understand, but that's okay. Arthur barely understands himself. He nods.
Merlin swallows visibly and says, "Alright. Okay. Just...no stocks, okay?"
"No stocks," Arthur promises solemnly.
Merlin smiles and that gloved hand comes to rest on Arthur's cheek again, soft, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Arthur leans into the touch, and Merlin's smile softens, becoming something gentle and wonderful, something that fills up the whole world.
"Close your eyes," Merlin tells him gently. Arthur straightens his head, lifting his chin slightly to meet Merlin's eyes before he shuts his own.
The first slap makes Arthur gasp even though it's not that hard, not hard enough to do more than tingle. It's the sound, more than anything else that gets to him, shockingly loud in the quiet room.
"Arthur?"
Arthur just nods, breathless, then lifts his head again, eyes still closed. Merlin breathes out slowly and his hand connects with the right side of Arthur's face again, stinging a little this time.
"Yes?"
"God. Yes. Yes."
Merlin's fingers brush over Arthur's cheekbone, down to skim along the line of his jaw. The leather gloves have warmed to almost skin-temperature, but they're so smooth, a decadent slide, dragging against the fine grain of Arthur's stubble.
"Do it again," Arthur grits out. "Harder this time."
"Arthur – "
"Do it, Merlin."
It seems like it all happens out of order, disjointed and shocking. The crack of the strike is much louder this time, and it's ringing in his ears when he realises the force of it knocked his head around to one side, and he's only just getting used to that realisation when the pain blossoms over the left side of his face. The inside of his cheek stings too, and Arthur wonders whether he bit himself or if it was just from the impact against his teeth.
As Arthur suspected, the sting of pain and the building glow of heat in his cheeks is only part of it. Being struck like that, open-handed, shows an utter lack of respect for Arthur as a prince and as a warrior. If anyone else did this, or even attempted it, no one would question Arthur for defending his honour in whatever way he saw fit. To do nothing, though, or more than that, to relish it and ask for more, is foreign to him. It is as though it strips away the solid ground beneath his feet, leaves him gasping and shocked, like the feeling in a dream where you miss a step and wake up still thinking you're falling. Something he's always depended on is gone and all he's left with is a shivery awareness of Merlin, and a razor-sharp focus on his gloved hands.
Arthur turns back to face Merlin, chin tilted up, very deliberately meeting his eyes. Merlin's cheeks look almost as red as Arthur's feel, high spots of colour on his face and something dark and wanting rising in his eyes to counter the anxious twist of his mouth.
"Arthur – "
Those soft, leather fingertips dot over his cheek again and Arthur can't help a hiss at the sensitivity.
Merlin bites his lip, shifts his feet. "Is it – is it what you thought? Do you like it?"
"No. And yes. In that order," Arthur tells him. "Again."
Merlin swallows, already shaking his head. "No – "
"Merlin. Yes."
"You're – you're the prince, Arthur. You can't walk around looking like you've been slapped silly."
Much as Arthur hates it, Merlin has a point. He can already feel the prickling of heat settling into a throb, the promise of an ache. Still, though. Arthur can't remember the last time he was this turned on, and the bump in the front of Merlin's breeches says that maybe he's not as perturbed as this lip-chewing hesitance would imply.
"Once more," he bargains. "Hard. And then no more today."
Merlin wets his lips and then presses them together, nods tightly.
"And after," he says. "I want your prick."
Merlin's eyes close for a second and he blows out a heavy breath. This time when he draws his hand back there's no hesitance and the blow lands before Arthur was really expecting it, hard enough to make his eyes water and his ear ring. It startles him in the middle of a breath and he has to gasp for air afterwards, his hands finding Merlin's hips and yanking him in, pulling him a stumbling half-step forward so Arthur can press his forehead to Merlin's stomach and wait for his pulse to stop roaring in his ears.
"Oh god," Merlin says. "Shh."
Arthur doesn't know who he thinks he's telling to shh, because Merlin is the one whose breath is edged with a ragged moan, who's whispering all manner of nonsense in between shh, shh. He moves his head, the coarse material of Merlin's breeches rough against his face, and the hot length of him discernible through that. Arthur breathes a hot, open-mouthed breath against the front of Merlin's breeches and feels the leather gloves tangle and snag in his hair when Merlin grabs for him. Unless Arthur's much mistaken, Merlin actually sways on his feet, rendered silent for at least a moment.
Arthur's eyes are drawn back to Merlin's face again and again while he fumbles Merlin out of his breeches far enough to get his mouth on Merlin's cock. He takes it deep, so the taste is instant and heady, so it's overwhelming. Merlin hisses out a breath and pulls out far enough to annoy Arthur who follows, pressing Merlin's dick back between his lips.
"Arthur," Merlin says, warning. "You'll make me – "
"Don't care," Arthur tells him. "Do it."
For a moment he thinks Merlin will argue, but those leather-sheathed hands settle on his face instead, the firm pressure a reminder of those same hands dealing out hard slaps.
"Come on, then," he tells Arthur softly. "Take it."
He doesn't try to control Arthur's movements, only cradles his face like something precious and lets Arthur have it just as deep and messy and raw as he wants. It doesn't take much to send Merlin over the edge and when he comes his fingertips tighten on Arthur's face, eight matching dots of pressure over the burn. Arthur swallows most of Merlin's seed, wipes what he doesn't catch from his chin and sucks it from his fingers. Merlin honest-to-god whimpers, dropping to his knees opposite Arthur with a thud.
The kiss they share is heated and clumsy. Merlin is always wrung-out and languid after an orgasm, melting against Arthur, his gloved hands clumsy at first as one circles Arthur's cock again, the other curling around the back of his neck, running over his shoulders. Arthur pulls Merlin in closer, lets them slide to the ground, cold stone under Arthur's shoulderblades.
"For God's sake," Merlin says when he gets his hand back on Arthur's prick. The words sound like they're coming through gritted teeth. "These fucking gloves. I have to feel you."
That means he's going to take off the gloves, Arthur realises. His stomach lurches, and he begs, "No, don't." He reaches down to tangle his fingers with Merlin's, alternate stripes of skin-leather-skin along his shaft.
"You're just so – " Merlin says, his voice hot, flooding through Arthur's whole body. He guides Arthur into a slow rhythm and then pulls his hand back.
Arthur's on the verge of protest when Merlin spits into his left hand and – yes, yes – slicks two fingers of his left. Arthur does his best to keep up the slow movements Merlin started, rolling his hips up towards his hand until Merlin swats his thigh and tells him to hold still.
The slow inward slide of Merlin's finger makes Arthur gasp. The leather is thin enough that Merlin's finger isn't so much bigger than usual. But it's half dry and Arthur's face is still burning from being slapped, and he can still taste come every time he swallows. Arthur lets out a wordless shout and presses his face to his own arm.
"Tell me how this feels," Merlin orders suddenly, and Arthur groans.
"Good," he manages. "Really good. Feels like – Like..."
Merlin twists his finger inside Arthur and insists, "Tell me."
"Feels like – yours," Arthur babbles and there's a shaky silence before Merlin kisses him.
"Yeah," he agrees. "Feels like mine."
Arthur looks down at his cock in his hand, red and straining, at Merlin's free hand on his thigh, at Merlin's face, shocked and aroused and heart-stoppingly devoted.
"Arthur," Merlin says. "Arthur."
Arthur squeezes his prick as he comes, keeping the pleasure sharp-edged and constant. He can feel his body clenching wildly around Merlin's finger and wonders how the hell he is ever going to deal with his manservant wearing gloves again.