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merlin_holidaysTitle: Two Hatches and a Match
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elirwen
Author:vissy
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur (background Gwen/Lancelot)
Word Count: 12,000
Warnings: mpreg
Summary: “Just as the dragonlord calls a dragon from its egg, so too may the egg call forth a dragonlord.”
Author's Notes: Happy holidays,elirwen! And thank you to A and A for your beta help <3
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Merlin watched with a mixture of amusement and awe as Aithusa crept bat-like up Kilgharrah’s great, arching neck. The hatchling chuffed as he buried needle-sharp claws into Kilgharrah’s armoured underside and though he might well have been a mouse climbing the highest peak of the White Mountains, the newborn was a game one and he made steady work of it.
The tears were still damp on Merlin’s cheeks but he couldn’t help teasing. “He thinks you’re his mother.”
Kilgharrah’s gaze narrowed dangerously but the effect was ruined by the unfortunate fact that observing Aithusa’s progress had rendered him quite cross-eyed. “He knows I’m his mentor.”
Merlin shrugged. “Mentor, mother. Same difference.”
“I’ll be certain to inform Gaius of your opinion should I have reason to meet with him.” Kilgharrah twisted about and nosed at Aithusa’s rump, boosting him up over the more slippery scales. Aithusa flapped his wings, protesting his independence crossly, but upon achieving a firm grasp of one of the spines behind Kilgharrah’s crest he soon forgot his indignation. The view from atop a dragon’s back was wonderful, as Merlin well knew, and Aithusa had been given the world.
Kilgharrah looked just as exultant, all dragonly dignity forgotten as he sat high upon his hind legs and stretched towards the sky. He breathed forth a burst of fire to put even the stars to shame and Aithusa crowed with excitement, sucking in the cool night air as his small chest worked harder than a blacksmith’s bellows to emulate his elder. Merlin greeted the resulting puff of smoke with a rousing cheer and Kilgharrah preened like the proudest of mums. Aithusa gave a high-pitched hiccough, then flopped over Kilgharrah’s head with an exhausted grin, kneading his front paws into Kilgharrah’s normally stern brow. Merlin wasn’t certain how he was ever to regard Kilgharrah with gravity again.
“So you’ll be off then?” Merlin asked at last, feeling strangely bereft.
“I must begin this young one’s education. I can only hope he pays closer attention than you to my counsel, Merlin.” Kilgharrah was sniffing at the air, scenting out the ways of the wind, and Aithusa was doing much the same even if his wings weren’t yet strong enough to carry him. Merlin almost wished he could scramble up behind Aithusa and join them in the coming adventure.
But then Arthur would be alone, and Merlin would miss him terribly, and it was just as simple as that. “Well, make sure you put some fresh bedding down for him. I’ve seen the state of your cave, you’ve been living by yourself too long. And for goodness’ sake, don’t forget to feed him.”
“Youngsters are not inclined to let one forget such vital matters,” said Kilgharrah, and Aithusa peeped his agreement.
“Nor kings,” said Merlin. He stooped to gather the forgotten eggshell fragments that Aithusa had kicked about in his eagerness to be free. The shell -- brittle now that its work was done -- was a beautiful sky blue like Aithusa’s eyes. Merlin wondered if they would turn gold as Aithusa grew older, as magic grew stronger within him. Merlin was reluctant to leave the shell behind but it seemed a chancy item to keep within the confines of Camelot.
“You should take the pieces with you,” said Kilgharrah, as if he’d read Merlin’s mind. “You may have use of them some day.”
“Oh?”
“A dragon’s shell can have beneficial qualities particular to a dragonlord. I advise you to grind those pieces down to fine dust and keep it safe.” He was obviously trying to appear as inscrutable as usual, but it was impossible with a baby dragon bobbing about on his head.
Merlin laughed at the little one’s antics. “I’ll do as you instruct this time, I promise.”
“Why do I doubt that?” said Kilgharrah. He heaved a sigh, then heaved an even heavier one as the tip of Aithusa’s slashing tail caught him in one eye, but Merlin had never seen such an expression of joy as Kilgharrah’s as he bore off his precious charge into the night sky.
&&&
Merlin was eager to tell Gaius about the hatchling, but when he returned to their chamber he found Gaius snoring beneath his blankets.
"It's like he doesn't appreciate that something amazing has happened," Merlin told the empty eggshell in a confiding manner. "Still, I suppose it is the middle of the night, and he did expend a good deal of energy chasing Percival over half the castle. You wouldn't think a man with an arrow in his thigh could run so fast."
For a moment Merlin considered seeking his own bed, but he was humming with exhilaration and sleep was the last thing he wanted. If only he could share this experience with Arthur. But Uther's death had changed little; if anything, the muzzle on Merlin's mouth felt tighter by the day.
Merlin's shoulders slumped as his elation faded.
He set a small bubble of light above his head and cleared off Gaius' cluttered work table as quietly as possible. The stone mortar and pestle were still tacky with the makings of a salve for Percival's wound, and Merlin scrubbed them thoroughly. When the implements were clean and their sweet scent of yarrow and calendula dissipated, he snapped several pieces of Aithusa's shell into the bowl and started grinding.
The work was calming. The roll of his shoulder, the twist of his wrist, even the clench of his fist -- it was his mother who had had first set him the task of crushing herbs when he was just a young boy, and the familiarity soothed him now. The dragonshell crumbled under his patient turns and taps of the pestle, and he added more and more shards to the bowl until a small mound of chalky blue powder formed within. The fine substance captured the light like glass, but when he touched it with one curious fingertip it felt soft as down.
He couldn't resist taking a cautious sniff -- it seemed to Merlin that a dragon's egg ought to reek of sulphur -- but his nose caught something else entirely, something --
He crouched over the bowl for a stronger whiff and promptly sneezed.
The dust blew everywhere: it covered his face and hands, caked in the corners of his eyes and coated his tongue. He rubbed his eyes in reflex and smacked his lips against the spicy, almost stinging flavour, but already it seemed to settle into his belly and his lungs like the stuff of life itself. He'd never tasted anything so extraordinary, and he wanted --
"Don't do it, you idiot," he groaned to himself, even as he licked his fingers clean. "It could be poisonous. What would Gaius say?"
But Gaius slept on and Merlin had never felt so insatiable for anything in his entire existence. He dipped his hand into the bowl and scraped up more, hardly knowing whether to swallow the stuff or inhale. He settled for doing both, again and again, until his head lolled about his shoulders and his skin tingled and his mouth watered for more.
"Beneficial. Kilgharrah definitely said 'beneficial'," Merlin assured himself, stuttering for breath between urgent mouthfuls. It was nearly gone. How could he have polished off the lot? It was so good, so deliciously beneficial. He needed it, all of it.
"Gaius'll kill me," he moaned, as he swept up the last handful and poured it down his gullet. Then he stuck his head in Gaius’ best mortar and licked it spotless.
Surely his belly was a safe place?
&&&
Arthur had grown largely accustomed to his manservant’s peculiar habits, so waking to find Merlin perched tailor-style at the end of his bed was not as disconcerting as it may have once been. Indeed, if Arthur were honest with himself he rather liked the way Merlin made himself so at home in Arthur’s quarters. Sometimes he even thought it a shame Merlin had such a comfortable room at Gaius’, because if not for that Arthur might set up a pallet for him here. In the winter season -- or any time at all, really, Arthur wasn’t choosy -- Merlin could join him in this bed to ward off the chill and they could be cosy together, and --
Well, he could embarrass himself in the privacy of his own daydreams but it wasn’t likely Merlin could ever be entirely domesticated; right now Merlin’s eerie stillness, clenched fists and vigilant, fixed stare presented a wilder picture.
Arthur propped himself on his elbows and stared right back. “Merlin, I thought I gave you the morning off.”
Merlin blinked, slow and heavy-lidded as if shaking off a dream, then licked his lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I forgot.”
“Don’t be sorry, just take your grubby boots off my bed and go away,” Arthur groaned. “I wanted a lie-in myself.”
“You can stay there.” Merlin raised his fists to his brow and pressed them in hard; when his hands lowered his grimace softened into a smile of strange, sudden sweetness. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I mind you looming at the end of my bed like a damned buzzard.” Arthur shivered as Merlin’s fingers flexed and relaxed like talons in his bedding, pulling at the blanket inch by inch. “Have you even slept, or did you spend the night at the Rising Sun? You certainly look stewed.”
“M’not stewed!” The affront seemed to nudge Merlin into action, but instead of leaping off the bed in dudgeon he crept on hands and knees up the length of Arthur’s body and sank down across his hips.
“Merlin!” he shouted -- or at least he tried to shout, only the name slipped out in a shaky gasp -- and he began to wonder if he was still asleep. Except the heat mounting in his cheeks, the pressure on his lap and the queer blaze in Merlin’s eyes seemed all too real. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Taste me,” said Merlin. He scooped a warm hand beneath Arthur’s nape and drew him close, bringing their mouths together; and it turned out that what Merlin wanted and what Arthur wanted were the same: the press of Merlin’s lips, the flash of his insolent pink tongue, Arthur’s head cradled in Merlin’s hands as if it belonged there for good and always, as if they had kissed countless times before and would keep on until the very end.
It felt too right; Arthur was wary. This was strange even by Merlin's ridiculously barefaced and wayward standards, and Arthur didn't like being taken off his guard. It was one thing to entertain the odd wistful fancy about Merlin -- with whom he had nothing in common -- but the probability of Merlin not only sharing such fancies but acting upon them in this brazen (if remarkably agreeable) way was remote. Either Arthur was dreaming or Merlin had snapped.
“You are drunk!” Arthur accused. He pulled away like the noble fool he was, because King he might be but a good man didn’t take advantage of his manservant, especially when he was intoxicated, and he wanted very much to be a good man, almost as much as he wanted Merlin’s wonderful mouth back.
“I’m really, honestly not,” Merlin said. He choked out a little laugh, breaking the strain on his face -- it’s a joke, Arthur realised with hurtful certainty, he’s pranking me, the knights put him up to this -- and then Merlin followed Arthur’s retreat until Arthur was pressed into the pillows and licked into Arthur’s shocked, open mouth. “See? Are you satisfied now, you idiot? I’m all too sober, I promise.”
“But you -- you kissed me!”
“Mm-yes?”
“And you expect me to believe you’re not drunk?”
“With this reaction, I almost wish I were,” said Merlin, sounding grumpy.
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, taking a pinch of comfort in the familiarity of the put-down, if not the likelihood of its efficacy. Perhaps it wasn’t wine on Merlin’s tongue but he did taste unusual, like scorched honey on Arthur’s lips. “If you’re not inebriated, then you must be ill. We should fetch Gaius.”
“Not drunk. Not ill.” His brow touched Arthur’s, rocked over it gently. “No fever, see? And Gaius is the last person I want to see right now.”
Arthur couldn’t focus, not with Merlin all over him. “You kissed me,” he repeated slowly.
“I’ll do it again if you’ll let me,” said Merlin. The tip of his nose nudged encouragement at Arthur’s.
“And if I don’t?” he countered, because he just had to put up some sort of fight even in his confusion and naked vulnerability, because he couldn’t believe there wasn’t a catch.
“I might just have to kiss you anyhow,” said Merlin. His teeth bit into his provocative, plum-like bottom lip, crushing it the way Arthur wanted to. “Is it really so hard to believe? I didn’t think conceit was something you were exactly short of.”
“Well, I --” Arthur could barely speak. It was hard to believe because no one, perhaps not even Guinevere, ever had wanted him for himself. For ambition perhaps, or magic, or for the good of the kingdom, but Arthur was always a means to some damned end, noble or otherwise, and that knowledge had diminished him to this sad, sorry point.
“Oh god.” Merlin’s face seemed to reflect Arthur’s own piercing doubt; he looked thwarted, almost injured. “Do you, um -- do you dislike it? I mean me? Kissing me, I mean?”
“Are you mad?”
“You’ve occasionally implied as much.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Clearly Merlin required even more reassurance than his king. “Quite aside from the fact that I haven’t yet murdered you for your presumption, you are currently seated upon my exceedingly eager cock. Surely that speaks for itself.”
“I’ve seen your cock before, Arthur,” said Merlin. He moved his hips into Arthur’s, making the clothes between them twist and crumple. “It’s often like this first thing of a morning.”
“That’s because of you, you idiot!” Arthur couldn’t think what to do with his shaking hands, so he cupped them over Merlin’s unreasonably appealing ears and drew him down.
“Forget your cock for just a moment,” Merlin whispered against Arthur’s lips, “and tell me I haven’t ruined everything.”
“You tell me this is everything,” said Arthur, his voice as urgent, as anxious as Merlin’s. “Not one morning. Not some friendly lay we forget tomorrow. If you know anything at all about me, Merlin, you know I can’t do that.”
“Of course I know you, stupid,” said Merlin. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“You swear --”
“I swear by your mother’s name -- and my mother’s too -- that I’ll be at your side today and tomorrow and every day after. I’ll never stop wanting to be here. You have to know by now there’s no other place, no other life for me, and I don’t want one.” Merlin laughed, a rough, ragged sound. “I probably sound pitiable but I honestly can’t help it. This is what you do to me.”
“Well, you bloody well do it to me too, you know,” said Arthur. The burn in his cheeks, the knots in his belly, the horrific ache in his chest -- surely none of these things were good for a man, but there was no way out. “So we’re agreed, then. We’re smitten.”
“Yes, Arthur,” said Merlin, as his laughter gentled to Arthur’s relief, “we’re smitten.”
&&&
Pressure pounded beneath Merlin’s skull and there was an ache in his spine, prodding him to some urgent purpose.
He couldn’t let Arthur up. He pulled Arthur’s trousers off, mouthing at the sharp edges of his hips and raking teeth against the soft white skin of his inner thighs where the hair was worn away. His eyes and his hands knew this skin well; he had dressed this body, and then undressed it again, and he had stroked the cramp from these muscles and rubbed the soreness from the bones. He had fooled himself that it was enough -- it would have to be enough -- but his mouth was always wanting, starved for Arthur’s taste.
“Am I to be breakfast?” Arthur murmured. His expression was drowsy as he watched Merlin work him over.
Merlin bit into the arch of Arthur’s foot in reply, and Arthur’s toes curled against Merlin’s hair.
He shoved a plump cushion beneath Arthur’s arse, raising Arthur's knees higher and canting his hips to Merlin’s liking. He crouched between Arthur’s legs, splaying the strong thighs wide and flat with his stroking, devoted hands, and when he told Arthur to keep them like that, Arthur obeyed.
But still he fussed and begged, “Don’t -- you shouldn’t -- Merlin, Merlin, please,” not so drowsy anymore when Merlin buried his nose beneath his balls and circled his quivering arsehole with the tip of his tongue. Each protest only wrought a freshly sucked bruise on Arthur’s upturned rump and an ever-narrowing spiral of licks. Merlin hardened his tongue, tapping a hungry, persuasive beat at Arthur’s arsehole until Arthur quit his bleating and relaxed for him. There was no sense from Arthur after that, just a helpless, animal lowing while Merlin softened him up, ate him inside out and adored him.
A firm grip around the base of Arthur’s cock kept him coming before Merlin was ready. Once Arthur’s arsehole felt ripe and wet Merlin replaced his restless tongue with two fingers. Arthur took them without complaint and Merlin grinned, rewarding his king’s compliance with a reckless whisper of magic to coat his fingers with oil. He teased at the trembling rim with the barest scrape of nail, then rubbed his fingers inside Arthur, stroking careful fingertips against his hot inner walls, quicker and deeper, and longing to go further still.
Arthur mewled as Merlin crooked his fingers, and his thighs spread even wider as he arched off the bed. “Merlin,” he breathed.
“Hm?”
“Merlin,” Arthur repeated, sounding more like his peremptory self.
The familiar tone broke Merlin’s trance and he laughed wildly. When he dragged his gaze from the place where his fingers were buried inside Arthur’s body he found Arthur watching him, pleading. No one in all of Camelot could pull faces quite like Arthur but the cast of arousal was Merlin’s favourite yet: furrowed brow, twisted mouth, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes -- and somehow imperious for all that.
Merlin leant down and Arthur glared. “Don’t you kiss me with that tongue.”
“I will too.”
“You will not.” Arthur turned his head into his pillow with a pout so Merlin went for his ear instead, mouthing at the intricate shell and working the plump pink lobe between his lips to make Arthur wriggle and squirm. He whispered such fond filth in Arthur’s ear that Arthur’s cock jumped in his grasp; he gave Arthur’s earlobe a last friendly nip and then crouched lower.
There were streaks of pre-come across Arthur’s belly and Merlin rubbed his nose and cheek into the wetness, marking himself with it, memorising Arthur’s scent. He swirled his tongue beneath Arthur’s foreskin where it rucked around the head of his cock, teasing at the sensitive bridle of skin beneath to catch more.
The salt was soon gone and Merlin still felt ravenous. He loosened his grip on the base of Arthur’s cock and it smacked back against Arthur’s belly, leaving a fresh, wet stamp. Taking it in a gentler hand, Merlin drew the head inside his mouth, running the flat of his tongue all over it. He twisted his grip and bobbed his head, searching for the rhythm that made Arthur’s arsehole clench at his fingers, and when he found it -- when Arthur batted clumsily at his head in warning -- he tightened his lips and sucked harder until Arthur’s seed skidded across his tongue and coated the back of his throat, a luscious hot mess. Still it wasn’t enough; he pushed the heel of his hand low into Arthur’s belly and tucked his sheathed fingers even higher, milking out more and swallowing it all down until Arthur’s cock jolted from the aftershocks. Merlin petted it in tender gratitude as he licked driblets of come from the corners of his mouth, whispering a wondering, “So good.”
&&&
The guard knocked at the king’s door, his sense of duty aroused. “Is everything all right, sire?”
“Quite all right,” called out the king.
The guard frowned. “Are you sure, sire? I thought I heard something funny.”
“Go away!” the king shouted, sounding sufficiently alive (if not entirely lucid) and the guard subsided. He wasn’t going be booted back down to prison duty, no fear.
&&&
Merlin wrenched three climaxes from Arthur by morning’s end and swallowed every one. Arthur was worn down, overwhelmed and wanting; his balls felt sore and empty, and Merlin had not come once.
“Enough,” Arthur pleaded. Merlin’s gluttonous mouth was sackcloth on his fever-hot skin.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Merlin. He sat up and looked about himself, as if uncertain where he was. His clothing had gradually scattered over the morning hours; he was uninhibited and frank in his pale nudity, mottled as it was with Arthur’s fingerprints, and Arthur’s cock was a timid, yielding thing cupped in his palm with almost casual possessiveness.
“I’m always right,” Arthur said. He watched Merlin’s gaze drift from window to window, then to the ceiling, his head thrown straight back and his breathing hard, and despite Arthur’s exhaustion he found energy enough for indignation that Merlin’s eyes should be anywhere but on him. “D’you hear me, Merlin?”
“Yes.” Merlin’s chin dropped and his eyelids lifted, and there was something curious about the midday light, the way it filled Merlin’s eyes with amber fire. “Just right.”
Merlin leant into Arthur, radiant with heat as he pinned Arthur down. He held the tip of his cock to Arthur’s slick arsehole, waiting for Arthur’s permission, and when Arthur relaxed Merlin fed it inside, splitting Arthur open. The air sucked from Arthur’s chest as Merlin sank into him; he clutched at Merlin’s hair until Merlin held him close and returned his breath.
Merlin crooned into Arthur’s mouth as he rocked himself balls deep, gently insistent, but Arthur wanted more than that. He scrabbled at Merlin’s sides, toeing at Merlin’s hips to make them snap faster, harder, until Merlin’s pace grew frantic, his cock punching inside Arthur. Merlin took Arthur behind the knees and hoisted him higher. Arthur slipped over again, coming dry as Merlin drenched him in pleasure.
&&&
Merlin fell into a deep slumber afterwards, his cheek upon Arthur’s chest.
“Take the afternoon off, Merlin,” said Arthur. He brushed a hand through Merlin’s bedraggled hair; Merlin only snuffled and clung closer. “No, really, Merlin, I insist.”
Arthur extricated himself with reluctance. As much as he wanted to remain in bed with Merlin, there was a meeting of the council that afternoon. Arthur was bruised, parched, filthy and quite desperate for a piss (if his poor cock even recalled its other purpose), and a king’s duties knew no end.
He did find his feet somehow, but walking was not so simple. “You do bring new meaning to the word smitten,” he said as he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s blameless brow.
&&&
Merlin woke eventually, his headache gone and his heart full.
He pushed aside the drawn bed curtains -- very decorous of Arthur, Merlin thought, and likely useless given the racket they’d made -- to find that Arthur had left behind a mess of discarded clothing, dirty plates and bath water sloshed everywhere.
Merlin didn’t mind a bit.
&&&
Weeks passed in a bewildering haze of pleasure punctuated by tedious royal engagements. Arthur hosted banquets, listened to dull speeches, gave even duller ones of his own, knighted poor brave fools, adjudicated trials and tourneys, visited the poor and inspected the summer crops with every semblance of deep interest. Merlin spent his nights in Arthur’s bed and his days by Arthur’s side, and for all that Camelot was beset by monsters, assassins and a dodgy batch of ale that had Arthur vomiting for five days straight -- Gaius insisted it was fine but Arthur ordered its immediate disposal and pretended not to know the servants were guzzling it down in the kitchen -- Arthur had never been happier.
The sickness didn’t pass entirely, and some mornings found him head down in a bucket while Merlin stroked his bent back. As unlovely as it was, Arthur was somehow fondest of these moments most of all -- Merlin stared at him as if he’d gone stark raving when he said as much, the unfeeling clod -- because it was then that his responsibilities felt lightest, when he was safe (if sick) within Merlin’s arms.
He didn’t recover his appetite for ale, but he did develop a taste for Merlin’s chamomile and lemon tea and went so far as to swill Gaius’ entire stock. Gaius shooed them both out into summer air to gather fresh chamomile. They walked past fields filled with swaying golden wheat -- the harvest would be plentiful this year, another cause for gladness -- and then wandered into the cooler green of the woodland beyond. They shoved each other about like a pair of duffers and stopped every now and again to fill their baskets. Arthur couldn’t tell chamomile from daisies or feverfew, so Merlin just told him to pick anything that looked useful. Naturally Arthur made a grab for Merlin, then Merlin emptied a basketful of flowers over his head, and they both ended up kissing under a weeping willow for hours. Merlin made Arthur a crown of sweet-scented honeysuckle and Arthur poked fun in return; but once they returned to the castle he lay the crown across the bed they now shared.
&&&
Merlin felt shy around Gwen at first, but then she chased him across the courtyard with a set of thumbscrews and they were friends again.
“Did your dad make these?” asked Merlin. Turned out she’d scored some early hazelnuts in a shrewd bargain with a tinker, and the thumbscrews were in fact a nutcracker. He tightened the toothed jaws and another shell cracked. “They’re fantastic!”
“I made them, I’ll have you know! Scared you, didn’t I?” said Gwen. They sat down on the courtyard stairs by Merlin’s favourite sculpture -- a winged bull protecting a snail -- and shared a smile of perfect understanding until Gwen pointed out a bit of hazelnut stuck between his teeth. “I’ve been doing a lot of work in the forge now that I’ve got more time. I’ve got so many ideas, all sorts of useful gadgets to make. The orders are starting to come in too. It’s exciting!”
“I'm an awful friend,” said Merlin, shaking his head. He felt he'd hardly seen her since Lancelot's sacrifice, since Arthur's about-turn -- he'd been so caught up in his own tumultuous feelings he'd been almost oblivious to everything around him -- but Gwen seemed much the person she'd always been, except perhaps stronger for her grief. "I had no idea."
“You wouldn’t, would you?” she said, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “You’ve been preoccupied. You’re in love.”
“Gwen, I’m so sorr--”
“Merlin, be quiet,” she said, stuffing another nut in his mouth. “If you think I’m desolate and weepy, you’re wrong. Well, actually, you’re right. But still wrong. Urgh, I don’t know, to be honest. I do miss Arthur, but it’s funny. Weird funny, I should say, not the giggly sort. Although Arthur is very funny. Anyway! Nothing’s really changed, except we don’t kiss anymore. And the kisses were fine -- don’t get me wrong -- but now it’s done I remember I had more fun playing football or, I don’t know, pelting him with cowpats when we were little. There’s been too much waiting, too much mooning. I’m no good at it. I’d rather keep myself busy, make something of myself now. Romance gets a bit boring after a few years when the person’s not the right one.”
“And Arthur’s not the right one,” said Merlin.
“He’s really not,” said Gwen. Her eyes glistened as she stared across the noisy, bustling courtyard, but she didn’t let the tears fall.
“I cannot believe how off-hand you are about Arthur’s kisses.” He wrapped his arm across her shoulders and wept for her, and for Lancelot.
&&&
Arthur’s stomach still wasn’t quite right, although he tried to hide it from Merlin. Merlin just rolled his eyes. “I’m the one who slops out your bucket, Arthur, remember?”
Arthur frowned at the reminder. It didn’t seem right that Merlin should continue to perform such lowly tasks when the entire castle was aware that he was Arthur’s lover, but Merlin was jealous of anyone’s attempts to take over his customary duties, disgusting though they might sometimes be.
As for Arthur, he hated for anyone but Merlin to see him so vulnerable. He slumped on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “Why the hell am I so tired when I’ve been sitting on my arse all day?”
Merlin knelt behind him and placed a cool wet towel across his neck. ”Um, let’s see. You’ve got your Uncle Aggravation plotting himself into a deeper hole every day, Geoffrey on your case about the succession and Cook serving up cockentrice when she knows very well how much you loathe it.”
“She might as well spit roast a wilddeoren and put me out of misery for good,” said Arthur with a shudder. “The frumenty was all right, I suppose.”
“Only because I sneaked in plenty of currants when she wasn’t looking. The woman’s got it in for you, I swear.”
“She hates me because I killed my mother.” Arthur didn’t know why he’d never realised it before, but suddenly it was clear to him. Cook used to make her special ginger bread for Ygraine -- she’d told him so herself, when he was just a small boy -- and she’d never made ginger bread for him, and Ygraine was gone, and Cook was trying to poison him, and it was all Arthur’s fault.
Merlin’s arms crept around Arthur’s middle. “Cook’s cross with you because you won’t finish her meals. She loved your mother, she adores you, and if she can’t keep your stomach happy she feels like a failure. Oh, and you didn’t kill your mother and if Cook heard you talking like that she’d smack you over the head with a saucepan lid.”
Arthur pulled the towel from his neck and pressed it to his stinging eyes. “I’m not fit to be king.”
“You’re the only king I want,” Merlin whispered in his ear, “you silly sausage.”
Arthur’s stomach somersaulted, and he groaned. “Don’t mention sausage.”
&&&
Merlin was more concerned about Arthur’s health than he liked to admit.
Gwen forged Merlin a small set of wafer irons with the Pendragon emblem, and Merlin learnt how to make Arthur a thin, tasteless snack to nibble on when everything else turned his belly. If he fed Arthur a wafer as soon as he woke, Arthur had far less need of the bucket and far more desire for kissing.
But Arthur grew tired too easily, and his stomach was bloated. Gaius recommended bogbean extract but Arthur turned up his nose at the bitter taste, so Merlin pinched Arthur’s nose and forced it down his throat anyhow.
Arthur’s appetite slowly increased, and then it took a labyrinthine turn. One day he ate nothing but figgy, the next he wanted candied horseradish. He continued to consume Merlin’s wafers, but now he preferred to lick the batter instead, until there was hardly enough to pour on the iron.
Merlin found Arthur in the kitchen late one night working his way through an enormous pot of pickled lampreys. Merlin explained carefully that he could not possibly make love to a man whose lips touched lampreys. Arthur put the eel down and followed Merlin back upstairs, but Merlin could tell from Arthur’s wistful expression that he was regretting the lamprey’s loss.
By the time Merlin discovered Arthur kneeling before their fireplace licking soot from his fingers, he was getting scared.
&&&
“It’s just intestinal worms, sire,” said Gaius, once Merlin dragged him to Arthur’s quarters. Arthur lay on the bed, stiff with impatience while Gaius palpated his abdomen and counted his pulse. “Nothing to be too concerned about. Have you been taking the bogbean?”
“Yes, Gaius,” he replied slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton, “I’ve been taking the bogbean.”
“Take that tone with me, sire, and I’ll be prescribing castor oil next,” said Gaius, his brow raised.
Arthur backed down with a weary sigh. “My apologies, Gaius.”
Gaius patted his shoulder. “There, there, sire, we’ll soon have you set to rights. How is the nausea lately? If you can stomach it, I would strongly recommend you eat two tomatoes first thing in the morning to throw out the worms.”
“I’d rather throw tomatoes at Merlin’s head.”
“Hey!”
“I’ve often felt a similar impulse, sire,” said Gaius, smiling thinly at Merlin. “I’ll leave you with this packet of ground fenugreek seeds. Take one drachm with a cup of water, once every day, and do try not to eat anything that‘s likely to produce a costive state of the bowels. Merlin? Make certain Arthur eats plenty of vegetables -- a simple salad of watercress and fennel with a splash of olive oil and vinegar each day will keep the bowels moving, and some garlic and pumpkin seeds should help treat the worms.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Merlin brightly as Arthur’s cheeks turned a dull red.
“And Merlin?” Gaius shook his head in reproach as he stood to leave. “These bed sheets really ought to be cleaner. It’s no wonder Arthur’s suffering.”
“But -- but --” Merlin spluttered, finally shaking an accusatory finger in Arthur’s direction. “It’s Arthur’s fault. He was eating cherry pudding in bed!”
But Gaius was gone. Arthur laced his hands behind his head and gave Merlin a smug smile.
Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Two words, Arthur: castor oil.”
&&&
Fenugreek succeeded where bogbean failed: Arthur soon felt something like his usual self. He scrounged time amongst his many engagements to rejoin his knights on the training fields and felt blessed to sweat like an honest man beneath the sun.
“You’ve grown soft, princess,” said Gwaine in his sly way.
Leon smacked Gwaine upside the head and assured Arthur that he looked as fit as ever, but Arthur wasn’t so certain. Bed exercise was one thing -- he licked his lips as he recalled Merlin’s send-off that morning, the way he’d held Arthur’s shoulders down and ground him into the mattress until he’d wailed for release -- but Merlin had had the care and filling of Arthur’s sensitive stomach for too long and now handfed him like a motherless pup at any hour of the night or day. Or, Arthur admitted, at the first hint of a royal tantrum. The bowel distention had finally subsided and Arthur’s stomach was flat again, but his flesh was increasing elsewhere; Gwaine’s heated gaze said he’d noticed.
Arthur crossed his arms. Gwaine’s smile widened. Leon called the next drill and Arthur could only pray he didn’t bounce.
&&&
Merlin hustled Arthur into an empty stall in the stables and shoved him down into the hay, straddling his thighs. Arthur’s face glistened with perspiration and his shirt stuck to his skin; Merlin grabbed the shirt by the collar and ripped it wide open.
He splayed his fingers across Arthur’s hitching chest. The hair was ruffled, the nipples dark and ripe; he made Merlin’s mouth water.
“I see him watching you,” Merlin said. He dipped his head and suckled Arthur’s at left breast until the nipple was pebbled and wet. Arthur bucked his hips; Merlin tightened his thighs, forcing him still. “I see them all watching you.”
Merlin switched nipples and Arthur mewled, a helpless, hurting sound. Anyone could walk in and find them writhing like animals in rut, but Merlin didn’t care. Arthur belonged to him. Let them watch.
&&&
There was talk, of course.
Most of the gossip was harmless, although Agravaine managed to infect the lines of communication with his own brand of bile. Arthur let him spin. His end would come.
There had long been whispers of Arthur’s supposed impotence -- Arthur, like his father before him, had ever talked a lusty game, but there was little activity to back it up, much to the courtiers’ mingled amusement and disappointment. Nor had the servants ever spied any evidence of Arthur dipping his wick. Take that prime one, Gwen, for an instance; she was by all accounts untapped after a studied courtship of years; to be sure Arthur was of a strange kidney. And here he was now, fooling around with his manservant and getting buggered in every corner of the castle. The dead king had been but a bobtail that needed (rumour said) dark magic to prime his prick; the new king, on the other hand, needed a man. The prospects for the Pendragon line looked dimmer by the minute.
Outside the citadel (and the taverns) the people heard little such talk and cared less; they adored their fair king and would support him in all.
&&&
Arthur might not care what the court thought of his manly vigour but when they started in on his paunch, he scowled.
“It’s just a bit of winter condition,” he assured Merlin, who was seated before the fire and performing arcane rites involving needle and thread and a teetering pile of Arthur’s trousers.
“It’s autumn,” said Merlin.
“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur stalked bare-legged to the window and stared down at the scuffle and bustle of the courtyard. Laden carts lumbered by, stacked to overflowing with ripe apples, and giggling children chased after them, trying to catch any fruit that might fall. One frail old fellow staggered about beneath the weight of a pumpkin only to slip on a fresh heap of horse droppings, but another man leapt his turnip-filled trestle to come to the gentleman’s aid. There were at least six chestnut vendors that Arthur could see, poking at their crackling, coal-roasted wares, and one woman served cups of steaming mulled wine from an enormous cauldron to an appreciative line of customers.
Everywhere Arthur looked, there were all the signs of a healthy harvest, a healthy people. Some youngsters were even trying to get up a game of football, Arthur noticed wistfully, but one harassed mother went after them with a broom and they scattered. Then a red-cloaked patrol clattered into the courtyard and the children stopped to stare, no doubt dreaming of the day when they too might be knights of Camelot.
“Elyan’s back from the north,” he announced.
“Gwen will be pleased,” said Merlin. “Is he well?”
“Very well,” said Arthur, regarding his men with satisfaction. “He looks fat. They all do.”
“It’s just the way their chainmail pouches on horseback.”
Arthur bridled with irritation. “You’re not even looking, Merlin. How would you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
Arthur turned away from the window and gave Merlin a filthy glare. “Made a close study of my knights, have you?”
“They are very attractive men, Arthur,” Merlin pointed out. “But I like you best. Especially when you have no pants on.”
“Then why are you letting them all out?” Arthur asked in misery.
“You’re right. This is pointless.” Merlin put down his needle and pushed his work to one side, then rose to take Arthur in his arms. He was warm from the fire and his fingers felt both covetous and comforting as they slipped beneath the tail of Arthur’s shirt and splayed across his bare bum. “You should remain without pants for my delectation from this day forth.”
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t,” Arthur said. He buried his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, trying to catch Merlin’s well-loved scent, but his nose had been stuffed up for an entire week. “I think I’m getting a cold for winter.”
“Still autumn,” Merlin reminded him once more, a teasing whisper in his ear.
Instead of telling Merlin to shut up again, Arthur claimed his mouth. It was a far more effective stratagem.
Part 2
Recipient:
elirwenAuthor:
vissyRating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur (background Gwen/Lancelot)
Word Count: 12,000
Warnings: mpreg
Summary: “Just as the dragonlord calls a dragon from its egg, so too may the egg call forth a dragonlord.”
Author's Notes: Happy holidays,
elirwen! And thank you to A and A for your beta help <3Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Merlin watched with a mixture of amusement and awe as Aithusa crept bat-like up Kilgharrah’s great, arching neck. The hatchling chuffed as he buried needle-sharp claws into Kilgharrah’s armoured underside and though he might well have been a mouse climbing the highest peak of the White Mountains, the newborn was a game one and he made steady work of it.
The tears were still damp on Merlin’s cheeks but he couldn’t help teasing. “He thinks you’re his mother.”
Kilgharrah’s gaze narrowed dangerously but the effect was ruined by the unfortunate fact that observing Aithusa’s progress had rendered him quite cross-eyed. “He knows I’m his mentor.”
Merlin shrugged. “Mentor, mother. Same difference.”
“I’ll be certain to inform Gaius of your opinion should I have reason to meet with him.” Kilgharrah twisted about and nosed at Aithusa’s rump, boosting him up over the more slippery scales. Aithusa flapped his wings, protesting his independence crossly, but upon achieving a firm grasp of one of the spines behind Kilgharrah’s crest he soon forgot his indignation. The view from atop a dragon’s back was wonderful, as Merlin well knew, and Aithusa had been given the world.
Kilgharrah looked just as exultant, all dragonly dignity forgotten as he sat high upon his hind legs and stretched towards the sky. He breathed forth a burst of fire to put even the stars to shame and Aithusa crowed with excitement, sucking in the cool night air as his small chest worked harder than a blacksmith’s bellows to emulate his elder. Merlin greeted the resulting puff of smoke with a rousing cheer and Kilgharrah preened like the proudest of mums. Aithusa gave a high-pitched hiccough, then flopped over Kilgharrah’s head with an exhausted grin, kneading his front paws into Kilgharrah’s normally stern brow. Merlin wasn’t certain how he was ever to regard Kilgharrah with gravity again.
“So you’ll be off then?” Merlin asked at last, feeling strangely bereft.
“I must begin this young one’s education. I can only hope he pays closer attention than you to my counsel, Merlin.” Kilgharrah was sniffing at the air, scenting out the ways of the wind, and Aithusa was doing much the same even if his wings weren’t yet strong enough to carry him. Merlin almost wished he could scramble up behind Aithusa and join them in the coming adventure.
But then Arthur would be alone, and Merlin would miss him terribly, and it was just as simple as that. “Well, make sure you put some fresh bedding down for him. I’ve seen the state of your cave, you’ve been living by yourself too long. And for goodness’ sake, don’t forget to feed him.”
“Youngsters are not inclined to let one forget such vital matters,” said Kilgharrah, and Aithusa peeped his agreement.
“Nor kings,” said Merlin. He stooped to gather the forgotten eggshell fragments that Aithusa had kicked about in his eagerness to be free. The shell -- brittle now that its work was done -- was a beautiful sky blue like Aithusa’s eyes. Merlin wondered if they would turn gold as Aithusa grew older, as magic grew stronger within him. Merlin was reluctant to leave the shell behind but it seemed a chancy item to keep within the confines of Camelot.
“You should take the pieces with you,” said Kilgharrah, as if he’d read Merlin’s mind. “You may have use of them some day.”
“Oh?”
“A dragon’s shell can have beneficial qualities particular to a dragonlord. I advise you to grind those pieces down to fine dust and keep it safe.” He was obviously trying to appear as inscrutable as usual, but it was impossible with a baby dragon bobbing about on his head.
Merlin laughed at the little one’s antics. “I’ll do as you instruct this time, I promise.”
“Why do I doubt that?” said Kilgharrah. He heaved a sigh, then heaved an even heavier one as the tip of Aithusa’s slashing tail caught him in one eye, but Merlin had never seen such an expression of joy as Kilgharrah’s as he bore off his precious charge into the night sky.
&&&
Merlin was eager to tell Gaius about the hatchling, but when he returned to their chamber he found Gaius snoring beneath his blankets.
"It's like he doesn't appreciate that something amazing has happened," Merlin told the empty eggshell in a confiding manner. "Still, I suppose it is the middle of the night, and he did expend a good deal of energy chasing Percival over half the castle. You wouldn't think a man with an arrow in his thigh could run so fast."
For a moment Merlin considered seeking his own bed, but he was humming with exhilaration and sleep was the last thing he wanted. If only he could share this experience with Arthur. But Uther's death had changed little; if anything, the muzzle on Merlin's mouth felt tighter by the day.
Merlin's shoulders slumped as his elation faded.
He set a small bubble of light above his head and cleared off Gaius' cluttered work table as quietly as possible. The stone mortar and pestle were still tacky with the makings of a salve for Percival's wound, and Merlin scrubbed them thoroughly. When the implements were clean and their sweet scent of yarrow and calendula dissipated, he snapped several pieces of Aithusa's shell into the bowl and started grinding.
The work was calming. The roll of his shoulder, the twist of his wrist, even the clench of his fist -- it was his mother who had had first set him the task of crushing herbs when he was just a young boy, and the familiarity soothed him now. The dragonshell crumbled under his patient turns and taps of the pestle, and he added more and more shards to the bowl until a small mound of chalky blue powder formed within. The fine substance captured the light like glass, but when he touched it with one curious fingertip it felt soft as down.
He couldn't resist taking a cautious sniff -- it seemed to Merlin that a dragon's egg ought to reek of sulphur -- but his nose caught something else entirely, something --
He crouched over the bowl for a stronger whiff and promptly sneezed.
The dust blew everywhere: it covered his face and hands, caked in the corners of his eyes and coated his tongue. He rubbed his eyes in reflex and smacked his lips against the spicy, almost stinging flavour, but already it seemed to settle into his belly and his lungs like the stuff of life itself. He'd never tasted anything so extraordinary, and he wanted --
"Don't do it, you idiot," he groaned to himself, even as he licked his fingers clean. "It could be poisonous. What would Gaius say?"
But Gaius slept on and Merlin had never felt so insatiable for anything in his entire existence. He dipped his hand into the bowl and scraped up more, hardly knowing whether to swallow the stuff or inhale. He settled for doing both, again and again, until his head lolled about his shoulders and his skin tingled and his mouth watered for more.
"Beneficial. Kilgharrah definitely said 'beneficial'," Merlin assured himself, stuttering for breath between urgent mouthfuls. It was nearly gone. How could he have polished off the lot? It was so good, so deliciously beneficial. He needed it, all of it.
"Gaius'll kill me," he moaned, as he swept up the last handful and poured it down his gullet. Then he stuck his head in Gaius’ best mortar and licked it spotless.
Surely his belly was a safe place?
&&&
Arthur had grown largely accustomed to his manservant’s peculiar habits, so waking to find Merlin perched tailor-style at the end of his bed was not as disconcerting as it may have once been. Indeed, if Arthur were honest with himself he rather liked the way Merlin made himself so at home in Arthur’s quarters. Sometimes he even thought it a shame Merlin had such a comfortable room at Gaius’, because if not for that Arthur might set up a pallet for him here. In the winter season -- or any time at all, really, Arthur wasn’t choosy -- Merlin could join him in this bed to ward off the chill and they could be cosy together, and --
Well, he could embarrass himself in the privacy of his own daydreams but it wasn’t likely Merlin could ever be entirely domesticated; right now Merlin’s eerie stillness, clenched fists and vigilant, fixed stare presented a wilder picture.
Arthur propped himself on his elbows and stared right back. “Merlin, I thought I gave you the morning off.”
Merlin blinked, slow and heavy-lidded as if shaking off a dream, then licked his lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I forgot.”
“Don’t be sorry, just take your grubby boots off my bed and go away,” Arthur groaned. “I wanted a lie-in myself.”
“You can stay there.” Merlin raised his fists to his brow and pressed them in hard; when his hands lowered his grimace softened into a smile of strange, sudden sweetness. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I mind you looming at the end of my bed like a damned buzzard.” Arthur shivered as Merlin’s fingers flexed and relaxed like talons in his bedding, pulling at the blanket inch by inch. “Have you even slept, or did you spend the night at the Rising Sun? You certainly look stewed.”
“M’not stewed!” The affront seemed to nudge Merlin into action, but instead of leaping off the bed in dudgeon he crept on hands and knees up the length of Arthur’s body and sank down across his hips.
“Merlin!” he shouted -- or at least he tried to shout, only the name slipped out in a shaky gasp -- and he began to wonder if he was still asleep. Except the heat mounting in his cheeks, the pressure on his lap and the queer blaze in Merlin’s eyes seemed all too real. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Taste me,” said Merlin. He scooped a warm hand beneath Arthur’s nape and drew him close, bringing their mouths together; and it turned out that what Merlin wanted and what Arthur wanted were the same: the press of Merlin’s lips, the flash of his insolent pink tongue, Arthur’s head cradled in Merlin’s hands as if it belonged there for good and always, as if they had kissed countless times before and would keep on until the very end.
It felt too right; Arthur was wary. This was strange even by Merlin's ridiculously barefaced and wayward standards, and Arthur didn't like being taken off his guard. It was one thing to entertain the odd wistful fancy about Merlin -- with whom he had nothing in common -- but the probability of Merlin not only sharing such fancies but acting upon them in this brazen (if remarkably agreeable) way was remote. Either Arthur was dreaming or Merlin had snapped.
“You are drunk!” Arthur accused. He pulled away like the noble fool he was, because King he might be but a good man didn’t take advantage of his manservant, especially when he was intoxicated, and he wanted very much to be a good man, almost as much as he wanted Merlin’s wonderful mouth back.
“I’m really, honestly not,” Merlin said. He choked out a little laugh, breaking the strain on his face -- it’s a joke, Arthur realised with hurtful certainty, he’s pranking me, the knights put him up to this -- and then Merlin followed Arthur’s retreat until Arthur was pressed into the pillows and licked into Arthur’s shocked, open mouth. “See? Are you satisfied now, you idiot? I’m all too sober, I promise.”
“But you -- you kissed me!”
“Mm-yes?”
“And you expect me to believe you’re not drunk?”
“With this reaction, I almost wish I were,” said Merlin, sounding grumpy.
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, taking a pinch of comfort in the familiarity of the put-down, if not the likelihood of its efficacy. Perhaps it wasn’t wine on Merlin’s tongue but he did taste unusual, like scorched honey on Arthur’s lips. “If you’re not inebriated, then you must be ill. We should fetch Gaius.”
“Not drunk. Not ill.” His brow touched Arthur’s, rocked over it gently. “No fever, see? And Gaius is the last person I want to see right now.”
Arthur couldn’t focus, not with Merlin all over him. “You kissed me,” he repeated slowly.
“I’ll do it again if you’ll let me,” said Merlin. The tip of his nose nudged encouragement at Arthur’s.
“And if I don’t?” he countered, because he just had to put up some sort of fight even in his confusion and naked vulnerability, because he couldn’t believe there wasn’t a catch.
“I might just have to kiss you anyhow,” said Merlin. His teeth bit into his provocative, plum-like bottom lip, crushing it the way Arthur wanted to. “Is it really so hard to believe? I didn’t think conceit was something you were exactly short of.”
“Well, I --” Arthur could barely speak. It was hard to believe because no one, perhaps not even Guinevere, ever had wanted him for himself. For ambition perhaps, or magic, or for the good of the kingdom, but Arthur was always a means to some damned end, noble or otherwise, and that knowledge had diminished him to this sad, sorry point.
“Oh god.” Merlin’s face seemed to reflect Arthur’s own piercing doubt; he looked thwarted, almost injured. “Do you, um -- do you dislike it? I mean me? Kissing me, I mean?”
“Are you mad?”
“You’ve occasionally implied as much.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Clearly Merlin required even more reassurance than his king. “Quite aside from the fact that I haven’t yet murdered you for your presumption, you are currently seated upon my exceedingly eager cock. Surely that speaks for itself.”
“I’ve seen your cock before, Arthur,” said Merlin. He moved his hips into Arthur’s, making the clothes between them twist and crumple. “It’s often like this first thing of a morning.”
“That’s because of you, you idiot!” Arthur couldn’t think what to do with his shaking hands, so he cupped them over Merlin’s unreasonably appealing ears and drew him down.
“Forget your cock for just a moment,” Merlin whispered against Arthur’s lips, “and tell me I haven’t ruined everything.”
“You tell me this is everything,” said Arthur, his voice as urgent, as anxious as Merlin’s. “Not one morning. Not some friendly lay we forget tomorrow. If you know anything at all about me, Merlin, you know I can’t do that.”
“Of course I know you, stupid,” said Merlin. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“You swear --”
“I swear by your mother’s name -- and my mother’s too -- that I’ll be at your side today and tomorrow and every day after. I’ll never stop wanting to be here. You have to know by now there’s no other place, no other life for me, and I don’t want one.” Merlin laughed, a rough, ragged sound. “I probably sound pitiable but I honestly can’t help it. This is what you do to me.”
“Well, you bloody well do it to me too, you know,” said Arthur. The burn in his cheeks, the knots in his belly, the horrific ache in his chest -- surely none of these things were good for a man, but there was no way out. “So we’re agreed, then. We’re smitten.”
“Yes, Arthur,” said Merlin, as his laughter gentled to Arthur’s relief, “we’re smitten.”
&&&
Pressure pounded beneath Merlin’s skull and there was an ache in his spine, prodding him to some urgent purpose.
He couldn’t let Arthur up. He pulled Arthur’s trousers off, mouthing at the sharp edges of his hips and raking teeth against the soft white skin of his inner thighs where the hair was worn away. His eyes and his hands knew this skin well; he had dressed this body, and then undressed it again, and he had stroked the cramp from these muscles and rubbed the soreness from the bones. He had fooled himself that it was enough -- it would have to be enough -- but his mouth was always wanting, starved for Arthur’s taste.
“Am I to be breakfast?” Arthur murmured. His expression was drowsy as he watched Merlin work him over.
Merlin bit into the arch of Arthur’s foot in reply, and Arthur’s toes curled against Merlin’s hair.
He shoved a plump cushion beneath Arthur’s arse, raising Arthur's knees higher and canting his hips to Merlin’s liking. He crouched between Arthur’s legs, splaying the strong thighs wide and flat with his stroking, devoted hands, and when he told Arthur to keep them like that, Arthur obeyed.
But still he fussed and begged, “Don’t -- you shouldn’t -- Merlin, Merlin, please,” not so drowsy anymore when Merlin buried his nose beneath his balls and circled his quivering arsehole with the tip of his tongue. Each protest only wrought a freshly sucked bruise on Arthur’s upturned rump and an ever-narrowing spiral of licks. Merlin hardened his tongue, tapping a hungry, persuasive beat at Arthur’s arsehole until Arthur quit his bleating and relaxed for him. There was no sense from Arthur after that, just a helpless, animal lowing while Merlin softened him up, ate him inside out and adored him.
A firm grip around the base of Arthur’s cock kept him coming before Merlin was ready. Once Arthur’s arsehole felt ripe and wet Merlin replaced his restless tongue with two fingers. Arthur took them without complaint and Merlin grinned, rewarding his king’s compliance with a reckless whisper of magic to coat his fingers with oil. He teased at the trembling rim with the barest scrape of nail, then rubbed his fingers inside Arthur, stroking careful fingertips against his hot inner walls, quicker and deeper, and longing to go further still.
Arthur mewled as Merlin crooked his fingers, and his thighs spread even wider as he arched off the bed. “Merlin,” he breathed.
“Hm?”
“Merlin,” Arthur repeated, sounding more like his peremptory self.
The familiar tone broke Merlin’s trance and he laughed wildly. When he dragged his gaze from the place where his fingers were buried inside Arthur’s body he found Arthur watching him, pleading. No one in all of Camelot could pull faces quite like Arthur but the cast of arousal was Merlin’s favourite yet: furrowed brow, twisted mouth, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes -- and somehow imperious for all that.
Merlin leant down and Arthur glared. “Don’t you kiss me with that tongue.”
“I will too.”
“You will not.” Arthur turned his head into his pillow with a pout so Merlin went for his ear instead, mouthing at the intricate shell and working the plump pink lobe between his lips to make Arthur wriggle and squirm. He whispered such fond filth in Arthur’s ear that Arthur’s cock jumped in his grasp; he gave Arthur’s earlobe a last friendly nip and then crouched lower.
There were streaks of pre-come across Arthur’s belly and Merlin rubbed his nose and cheek into the wetness, marking himself with it, memorising Arthur’s scent. He swirled his tongue beneath Arthur’s foreskin where it rucked around the head of his cock, teasing at the sensitive bridle of skin beneath to catch more.
The salt was soon gone and Merlin still felt ravenous. He loosened his grip on the base of Arthur’s cock and it smacked back against Arthur’s belly, leaving a fresh, wet stamp. Taking it in a gentler hand, Merlin drew the head inside his mouth, running the flat of his tongue all over it. He twisted his grip and bobbed his head, searching for the rhythm that made Arthur’s arsehole clench at his fingers, and when he found it -- when Arthur batted clumsily at his head in warning -- he tightened his lips and sucked harder until Arthur’s seed skidded across his tongue and coated the back of his throat, a luscious hot mess. Still it wasn’t enough; he pushed the heel of his hand low into Arthur’s belly and tucked his sheathed fingers even higher, milking out more and swallowing it all down until Arthur’s cock jolted from the aftershocks. Merlin petted it in tender gratitude as he licked driblets of come from the corners of his mouth, whispering a wondering, “So good.”
&&&
The guard knocked at the king’s door, his sense of duty aroused. “Is everything all right, sire?”
“Quite all right,” called out the king.
The guard frowned. “Are you sure, sire? I thought I heard something funny.”
“Go away!” the king shouted, sounding sufficiently alive (if not entirely lucid) and the guard subsided. He wasn’t going be booted back down to prison duty, no fear.
&&&
Merlin wrenched three climaxes from Arthur by morning’s end and swallowed every one. Arthur was worn down, overwhelmed and wanting; his balls felt sore and empty, and Merlin had not come once.
“Enough,” Arthur pleaded. Merlin’s gluttonous mouth was sackcloth on his fever-hot skin.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Merlin. He sat up and looked about himself, as if uncertain where he was. His clothing had gradually scattered over the morning hours; he was uninhibited and frank in his pale nudity, mottled as it was with Arthur’s fingerprints, and Arthur’s cock was a timid, yielding thing cupped in his palm with almost casual possessiveness.
“I’m always right,” Arthur said. He watched Merlin’s gaze drift from window to window, then to the ceiling, his head thrown straight back and his breathing hard, and despite Arthur’s exhaustion he found energy enough for indignation that Merlin’s eyes should be anywhere but on him. “D’you hear me, Merlin?”
“Yes.” Merlin’s chin dropped and his eyelids lifted, and there was something curious about the midday light, the way it filled Merlin’s eyes with amber fire. “Just right.”
Merlin leant into Arthur, radiant with heat as he pinned Arthur down. He held the tip of his cock to Arthur’s slick arsehole, waiting for Arthur’s permission, and when Arthur relaxed Merlin fed it inside, splitting Arthur open. The air sucked from Arthur’s chest as Merlin sank into him; he clutched at Merlin’s hair until Merlin held him close and returned his breath.
Merlin crooned into Arthur’s mouth as he rocked himself balls deep, gently insistent, but Arthur wanted more than that. He scrabbled at Merlin’s sides, toeing at Merlin’s hips to make them snap faster, harder, until Merlin’s pace grew frantic, his cock punching inside Arthur. Merlin took Arthur behind the knees and hoisted him higher. Arthur slipped over again, coming dry as Merlin drenched him in pleasure.
&&&
Merlin fell into a deep slumber afterwards, his cheek upon Arthur’s chest.
“Take the afternoon off, Merlin,” said Arthur. He brushed a hand through Merlin’s bedraggled hair; Merlin only snuffled and clung closer. “No, really, Merlin, I insist.”
Arthur extricated himself with reluctance. As much as he wanted to remain in bed with Merlin, there was a meeting of the council that afternoon. Arthur was bruised, parched, filthy and quite desperate for a piss (if his poor cock even recalled its other purpose), and a king’s duties knew no end.
He did find his feet somehow, but walking was not so simple. “You do bring new meaning to the word smitten,” he said as he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s blameless brow.
&&&
Merlin woke eventually, his headache gone and his heart full.
He pushed aside the drawn bed curtains -- very decorous of Arthur, Merlin thought, and likely useless given the racket they’d made -- to find that Arthur had left behind a mess of discarded clothing, dirty plates and bath water sloshed everywhere.
Merlin didn’t mind a bit.
&&&
Weeks passed in a bewildering haze of pleasure punctuated by tedious royal engagements. Arthur hosted banquets, listened to dull speeches, gave even duller ones of his own, knighted poor brave fools, adjudicated trials and tourneys, visited the poor and inspected the summer crops with every semblance of deep interest. Merlin spent his nights in Arthur’s bed and his days by Arthur’s side, and for all that Camelot was beset by monsters, assassins and a dodgy batch of ale that had Arthur vomiting for five days straight -- Gaius insisted it was fine but Arthur ordered its immediate disposal and pretended not to know the servants were guzzling it down in the kitchen -- Arthur had never been happier.
The sickness didn’t pass entirely, and some mornings found him head down in a bucket while Merlin stroked his bent back. As unlovely as it was, Arthur was somehow fondest of these moments most of all -- Merlin stared at him as if he’d gone stark raving when he said as much, the unfeeling clod -- because it was then that his responsibilities felt lightest, when he was safe (if sick) within Merlin’s arms.
He didn’t recover his appetite for ale, but he did develop a taste for Merlin’s chamomile and lemon tea and went so far as to swill Gaius’ entire stock. Gaius shooed them both out into summer air to gather fresh chamomile. They walked past fields filled with swaying golden wheat -- the harvest would be plentiful this year, another cause for gladness -- and then wandered into the cooler green of the woodland beyond. They shoved each other about like a pair of duffers and stopped every now and again to fill their baskets. Arthur couldn’t tell chamomile from daisies or feverfew, so Merlin just told him to pick anything that looked useful. Naturally Arthur made a grab for Merlin, then Merlin emptied a basketful of flowers over his head, and they both ended up kissing under a weeping willow for hours. Merlin made Arthur a crown of sweet-scented honeysuckle and Arthur poked fun in return; but once they returned to the castle he lay the crown across the bed they now shared.
&&&
Merlin felt shy around Gwen at first, but then she chased him across the courtyard with a set of thumbscrews and they were friends again.
“Did your dad make these?” asked Merlin. Turned out she’d scored some early hazelnuts in a shrewd bargain with a tinker, and the thumbscrews were in fact a nutcracker. He tightened the toothed jaws and another shell cracked. “They’re fantastic!”
“I made them, I’ll have you know! Scared you, didn’t I?” said Gwen. They sat down on the courtyard stairs by Merlin’s favourite sculpture -- a winged bull protecting a snail -- and shared a smile of perfect understanding until Gwen pointed out a bit of hazelnut stuck between his teeth. “I’ve been doing a lot of work in the forge now that I’ve got more time. I’ve got so many ideas, all sorts of useful gadgets to make. The orders are starting to come in too. It’s exciting!”
“I'm an awful friend,” said Merlin, shaking his head. He felt he'd hardly seen her since Lancelot's sacrifice, since Arthur's about-turn -- he'd been so caught up in his own tumultuous feelings he'd been almost oblivious to everything around him -- but Gwen seemed much the person she'd always been, except perhaps stronger for her grief. "I had no idea."
“You wouldn’t, would you?” she said, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “You’ve been preoccupied. You’re in love.”
“Gwen, I’m so sorr--”
“Merlin, be quiet,” she said, stuffing another nut in his mouth. “If you think I’m desolate and weepy, you’re wrong. Well, actually, you’re right. But still wrong. Urgh, I don’t know, to be honest. I do miss Arthur, but it’s funny. Weird funny, I should say, not the giggly sort. Although Arthur is very funny. Anyway! Nothing’s really changed, except we don’t kiss anymore. And the kisses were fine -- don’t get me wrong -- but now it’s done I remember I had more fun playing football or, I don’t know, pelting him with cowpats when we were little. There’s been too much waiting, too much mooning. I’m no good at it. I’d rather keep myself busy, make something of myself now. Romance gets a bit boring after a few years when the person’s not the right one.”
“And Arthur’s not the right one,” said Merlin.
“He’s really not,” said Gwen. Her eyes glistened as she stared across the noisy, bustling courtyard, but she didn’t let the tears fall.
“I cannot believe how off-hand you are about Arthur’s kisses.” He wrapped his arm across her shoulders and wept for her, and for Lancelot.
&&&
Arthur’s stomach still wasn’t quite right, although he tried to hide it from Merlin. Merlin just rolled his eyes. “I’m the one who slops out your bucket, Arthur, remember?”
Arthur frowned at the reminder. It didn’t seem right that Merlin should continue to perform such lowly tasks when the entire castle was aware that he was Arthur’s lover, but Merlin was jealous of anyone’s attempts to take over his customary duties, disgusting though they might sometimes be.
As for Arthur, he hated for anyone but Merlin to see him so vulnerable. He slumped on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “Why the hell am I so tired when I’ve been sitting on my arse all day?”
Merlin knelt behind him and placed a cool wet towel across his neck. ”Um, let’s see. You’ve got your Uncle Aggravation plotting himself into a deeper hole every day, Geoffrey on your case about the succession and Cook serving up cockentrice when she knows very well how much you loathe it.”
“She might as well spit roast a wilddeoren and put me out of misery for good,” said Arthur with a shudder. “The frumenty was all right, I suppose.”
“Only because I sneaked in plenty of currants when she wasn’t looking. The woman’s got it in for you, I swear.”
“She hates me because I killed my mother.” Arthur didn’t know why he’d never realised it before, but suddenly it was clear to him. Cook used to make her special ginger bread for Ygraine -- she’d told him so herself, when he was just a small boy -- and she’d never made ginger bread for him, and Ygraine was gone, and Cook was trying to poison him, and it was all Arthur’s fault.
Merlin’s arms crept around Arthur’s middle. “Cook’s cross with you because you won’t finish her meals. She loved your mother, she adores you, and if she can’t keep your stomach happy she feels like a failure. Oh, and you didn’t kill your mother and if Cook heard you talking like that she’d smack you over the head with a saucepan lid.”
Arthur pulled the towel from his neck and pressed it to his stinging eyes. “I’m not fit to be king.”
“You’re the only king I want,” Merlin whispered in his ear, “you silly sausage.”
Arthur’s stomach somersaulted, and he groaned. “Don’t mention sausage.”
&&&
Merlin was more concerned about Arthur’s health than he liked to admit.
Gwen forged Merlin a small set of wafer irons with the Pendragon emblem, and Merlin learnt how to make Arthur a thin, tasteless snack to nibble on when everything else turned his belly. If he fed Arthur a wafer as soon as he woke, Arthur had far less need of the bucket and far more desire for kissing.
But Arthur grew tired too easily, and his stomach was bloated. Gaius recommended bogbean extract but Arthur turned up his nose at the bitter taste, so Merlin pinched Arthur’s nose and forced it down his throat anyhow.
Arthur’s appetite slowly increased, and then it took a labyrinthine turn. One day he ate nothing but figgy, the next he wanted candied horseradish. He continued to consume Merlin’s wafers, but now he preferred to lick the batter instead, until there was hardly enough to pour on the iron.
Merlin found Arthur in the kitchen late one night working his way through an enormous pot of pickled lampreys. Merlin explained carefully that he could not possibly make love to a man whose lips touched lampreys. Arthur put the eel down and followed Merlin back upstairs, but Merlin could tell from Arthur’s wistful expression that he was regretting the lamprey’s loss.
By the time Merlin discovered Arthur kneeling before their fireplace licking soot from his fingers, he was getting scared.
&&&
“It’s just intestinal worms, sire,” said Gaius, once Merlin dragged him to Arthur’s quarters. Arthur lay on the bed, stiff with impatience while Gaius palpated his abdomen and counted his pulse. “Nothing to be too concerned about. Have you been taking the bogbean?”
“Yes, Gaius,” he replied slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton, “I’ve been taking the bogbean.”
“Take that tone with me, sire, and I’ll be prescribing castor oil next,” said Gaius, his brow raised.
Arthur backed down with a weary sigh. “My apologies, Gaius.”
Gaius patted his shoulder. “There, there, sire, we’ll soon have you set to rights. How is the nausea lately? If you can stomach it, I would strongly recommend you eat two tomatoes first thing in the morning to throw out the worms.”
“I’d rather throw tomatoes at Merlin’s head.”
“Hey!”
“I’ve often felt a similar impulse, sire,” said Gaius, smiling thinly at Merlin. “I’ll leave you with this packet of ground fenugreek seeds. Take one drachm with a cup of water, once every day, and do try not to eat anything that‘s likely to produce a costive state of the bowels. Merlin? Make certain Arthur eats plenty of vegetables -- a simple salad of watercress and fennel with a splash of olive oil and vinegar each day will keep the bowels moving, and some garlic and pumpkin seeds should help treat the worms.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Merlin brightly as Arthur’s cheeks turned a dull red.
“And Merlin?” Gaius shook his head in reproach as he stood to leave. “These bed sheets really ought to be cleaner. It’s no wonder Arthur’s suffering.”
“But -- but --” Merlin spluttered, finally shaking an accusatory finger in Arthur’s direction. “It’s Arthur’s fault. He was eating cherry pudding in bed!”
But Gaius was gone. Arthur laced his hands behind his head and gave Merlin a smug smile.
Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Two words, Arthur: castor oil.”
&&&
Fenugreek succeeded where bogbean failed: Arthur soon felt something like his usual self. He scrounged time amongst his many engagements to rejoin his knights on the training fields and felt blessed to sweat like an honest man beneath the sun.
“You’ve grown soft, princess,” said Gwaine in his sly way.
Leon smacked Gwaine upside the head and assured Arthur that he looked as fit as ever, but Arthur wasn’t so certain. Bed exercise was one thing -- he licked his lips as he recalled Merlin’s send-off that morning, the way he’d held Arthur’s shoulders down and ground him into the mattress until he’d wailed for release -- but Merlin had had the care and filling of Arthur’s sensitive stomach for too long and now handfed him like a motherless pup at any hour of the night or day. Or, Arthur admitted, at the first hint of a royal tantrum. The bowel distention had finally subsided and Arthur’s stomach was flat again, but his flesh was increasing elsewhere; Gwaine’s heated gaze said he’d noticed.
Arthur crossed his arms. Gwaine’s smile widened. Leon called the next drill and Arthur could only pray he didn’t bounce.
&&&
Merlin hustled Arthur into an empty stall in the stables and shoved him down into the hay, straddling his thighs. Arthur’s face glistened with perspiration and his shirt stuck to his skin; Merlin grabbed the shirt by the collar and ripped it wide open.
He splayed his fingers across Arthur’s hitching chest. The hair was ruffled, the nipples dark and ripe; he made Merlin’s mouth water.
“I see him watching you,” Merlin said. He dipped his head and suckled Arthur’s at left breast until the nipple was pebbled and wet. Arthur bucked his hips; Merlin tightened his thighs, forcing him still. “I see them all watching you.”
Merlin switched nipples and Arthur mewled, a helpless, hurting sound. Anyone could walk in and find them writhing like animals in rut, but Merlin didn’t care. Arthur belonged to him. Let them watch.
&&&
There was talk, of course.
Most of the gossip was harmless, although Agravaine managed to infect the lines of communication with his own brand of bile. Arthur let him spin. His end would come.
There had long been whispers of Arthur’s supposed impotence -- Arthur, like his father before him, had ever talked a lusty game, but there was little activity to back it up, much to the courtiers’ mingled amusement and disappointment. Nor had the servants ever spied any evidence of Arthur dipping his wick. Take that prime one, Gwen, for an instance; she was by all accounts untapped after a studied courtship of years; to be sure Arthur was of a strange kidney. And here he was now, fooling around with his manservant and getting buggered in every corner of the castle. The dead king had been but a bobtail that needed (rumour said) dark magic to prime his prick; the new king, on the other hand, needed a man. The prospects for the Pendragon line looked dimmer by the minute.
Outside the citadel (and the taverns) the people heard little such talk and cared less; they adored their fair king and would support him in all.
&&&
Arthur might not care what the court thought of his manly vigour but when they started in on his paunch, he scowled.
“It’s just a bit of winter condition,” he assured Merlin, who was seated before the fire and performing arcane rites involving needle and thread and a teetering pile of Arthur’s trousers.
“It’s autumn,” said Merlin.
“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur stalked bare-legged to the window and stared down at the scuffle and bustle of the courtyard. Laden carts lumbered by, stacked to overflowing with ripe apples, and giggling children chased after them, trying to catch any fruit that might fall. One frail old fellow staggered about beneath the weight of a pumpkin only to slip on a fresh heap of horse droppings, but another man leapt his turnip-filled trestle to come to the gentleman’s aid. There were at least six chestnut vendors that Arthur could see, poking at their crackling, coal-roasted wares, and one woman served cups of steaming mulled wine from an enormous cauldron to an appreciative line of customers.
Everywhere Arthur looked, there were all the signs of a healthy harvest, a healthy people. Some youngsters were even trying to get up a game of football, Arthur noticed wistfully, but one harassed mother went after them with a broom and they scattered. Then a red-cloaked patrol clattered into the courtyard and the children stopped to stare, no doubt dreaming of the day when they too might be knights of Camelot.
“Elyan’s back from the north,” he announced.
“Gwen will be pleased,” said Merlin. “Is he well?”
“Very well,” said Arthur, regarding his men with satisfaction. “He looks fat. They all do.”
“It’s just the way their chainmail pouches on horseback.”
Arthur bridled with irritation. “You’re not even looking, Merlin. How would you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
Arthur turned away from the window and gave Merlin a filthy glare. “Made a close study of my knights, have you?”
“They are very attractive men, Arthur,” Merlin pointed out. “But I like you best. Especially when you have no pants on.”
“Then why are you letting them all out?” Arthur asked in misery.
“You’re right. This is pointless.” Merlin put down his needle and pushed his work to one side, then rose to take Arthur in his arms. He was warm from the fire and his fingers felt both covetous and comforting as they slipped beneath the tail of Arthur’s shirt and splayed across his bare bum. “You should remain without pants for my delectation from this day forth.”
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t,” Arthur said. He buried his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, trying to catch Merlin’s well-loved scent, but his nose had been stuffed up for an entire week. “I think I’m getting a cold for winter.”
“Still autumn,” Merlin reminded him once more, a teasing whisper in his ear.
Instead of telling Merlin to shut up again, Arthur claimed his mouth. It was a far more effective stratagem.
Part 2
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Date: 2011-12-27 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-16 06:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 09:45 pm (UTC)I loved the image you painted of Kilgarrah coddling Aithusa and allowing the baby to clamber all over him.