Also I might as well take this opportunity to remind you guys that voting for the second merlin_las challenge closes tonight and we really need as many votes as possible, so please go and vote! Voting is love! And I likely will not shut up until you do ;p

So, fic. I feel that I've been neglecting my OTP of late so here, have some Arthur/Merlin to assuage my guilt because I love them!

Title: Who's Counting Anyway?
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Their seduction, like everything else between them, is a contest of wills

 

Who’s Counting Anyway?

 

Merlin’s not quite sure how this game started, but he can see exactly where it’s going.

It was only small things at first, easily pretended away – accidental touches that began to linger, gazes that caught and held too long. Admittedly Merlin may have been the one to set things off from there; he’s arming Arthur for training one morning when it happens. He’s struck by the sight of Arthur, armed as though for war, silhouetted against the early morning sun, blue eyes sparking against the golden light. He looks suddenly powerful, kingly and unknowable; he seems for an instant more a symbol than a man of flesh and blood, and it wrenches at Merlin low in his stomach, makes him want to reach out and make this abstract Arthur solid, pull him close and know him. He pauses in the middle of straightening the chainmail over Arthur’s shoulders, hands resting over his collarbones, and breathes in the moment. It takes him a while to realise that he’s staring transfixed into Arthur’s eyes and that Arthur is staring right back, startled and intent.

Merlin jerks back, fumbling awkwardly for Arthur’s sword as he tries to cover his nervous embarrassment. Arthur clears his throat and looks determinedly away, slightly flushed. He snatches the blade from Merlin’s hand and strides off to join his knights without a backwards glance. He’s far more aggressive than usual as he drills and spars with them, driving them mercilessly to the ground one after another. He stands over each defeated knight, panting, jaw tight with an unnamed emotion, gives them a hand up and moves on to the next as though afraid to be at rest for too long. Merlin feels an odd thrill watching him fight, the clean, strong lines of his body extending and coiling with each swordstroke; by the time Arthur’s done, they’re both more than a little breathless.

Merlin is quick with his task this time as he undresses Arthur, fingers sliding deftly over buckles and straps, removing his armour piece by piece until Arthur is down to his breeches and sweat-stained undershirt. He keeps his head down and his mind carefully blank.

‘Have all that cleaned and polished by tomorrow,’ Arthur commands a little hoarsely; Merlin nods and makes a hasty exit, heart pounding.

Things only escalate from there.

Arthur’s always had presence, a certain princely charisma that even Merlin falls prey to sometimes, despite his best efforts, but since that morning its effects have been magnified tenfold; he barely has to look to find Arthur in a room these days – he knows where he is just as instinctively as he knows his own thoughts. The tension is like a fine thread unravelling between them, taut and thrumming just beneath the skin. Whenever Arthur’s arm brushes his in a corridor, whenever their shoulders bump, never quite by accident, the touch stays with him for hours even through their clothing. He feels Arthur’s gaze on him all the time, like a weight dragging at his movements and pressing the air from his lungs. It’s distracting, but Merlin supposes that he doesn’t have much room to complain, because as often as Arthur watches him, he’s watching Arthur.

They play out this careful dance from a distance; even during their fleeting touches there is a definite feeling of boundaries, until one day Arthur turns up at Gaius’ quarters. Merlin’s there alone, flicking through a book on herbs – innocent enough, but some of them have alternative magical properties that might come in useful; Gaius is out checking up on a recovering patient. Arthur leans carelessly in the open doorway, sprawling against the frame with casual arrogance and predatory grace. Merlin rakes his body with an appreciative glance, quietly enjoying the racing in his own blood.

‘What’s this,’ Arthur says in mock surprise, ‘don’t tell me you can read?’

‘What’s this,’ Merlin replies easily, ‘don’t tell me you’re an ass? ’ He slams the thick tome shut, not bothering to stand. ‘Something you want?’ he asks, brow cocked, provocative.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches and he seems to be deciding what to say. ‘A competent manservant would be a start,’ he settles on after a moment, but the insult is more by rote than anything else. ‘Actually,’ he continues, wandering into the room, ‘I’m here for Gaius. My father wants to talk to him.’

‘Gaius isn’t here right now,’ Merlin supplies helpfully. He eases back in his chair, hyper-aware of how broad Arthur’s shoulders are in his coat and how small the room feels around them as he gets closer, hands running idly over the wooden table as he circles round. ‘I’ll be sure to let him know when he gets back.’

Arthur stops, standing over Merlin, one hand braced on the back of his chair. ‘See that you do,’ he says. He stares Merlin down, eyes glinting in a way that makes Merlin nervous and excited at the same time. The silence is verging on uncomfortable when Arthur finally sees fit to break the moment.

‘What are you doing anyway? Don’t you have any work to do?’ he asks. A smirk curls across his mouth. ‘Like, I don’t know, cleaning my chambers – they’re a complete disgrace!’

Merlin rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault you’re such a pig. Sire.’

Arthur raises his eyebrows and is just opening his mouth to make some sort of derogatory comment when Gaius bustles in. He stops short at the sight of the prince.

‘Your Highness, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Ah, Gaius, excellent timing; I’ve been looking for you,’ Arthur says amiably. His hand moves from the back of Merlin’s chair to the back of his neck and Merlin freezes. ‘My father requests your presence as soon as possible.’

‘Of course, Sire. Might I ask why?’

Arthur shrugs. ‘I don’t really know. Matters of grave importance to the kingdom I’m sure.’

Gaius says something then, but Merlin has no idea what it might be because Arthur’s fingers have just slipped down inside the neck of his shirt, stroking lightly at the top of his spine. The touch is deliberate and intentioned; it feels intimate and erotic and it definitely crosses all of their unspoken boundaries. Arthur’s body is mostly shielding him from view, but even so Gaius is right there, and Merlin wonders distantly just what the hell Arthur’s thinking. He looks studiously down at the table and focuses on controlling his breathing, trying to ignore the way his skin prickles under Arthur’s hand.

‘Merlin?’ Merlin realises belatedly that Gaius has asked him some kind of question.

‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ he says without the faintest clue what he’s agreeing to.

Gaius frowns. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Fine’ is what Merlin attempts to say, but Arthur chooses that moment to slide his hand a little lower, gliding his thumb teasingly over Merlin’s vertebrae, and what comes out is more of an unmanly squeak and a poorly-suppressed shiver. Gaius frowns yet harder, looking at Merlin as though he’s lost his mind; Merlin would be tempted to agree with him on that point, at least. He settles for a smile and a reassuring nod, catching Arthur’s smug grin from the corner of his eye.

‘Well then, I had best go and see to His Majesty,’ Gaius says, turning to leave with a last searching look.

‘I should be on my way as well,’ Arthur declares, ’I have duties to attend to, I can’t afford to laze about here all day.’ He leans down, mouth close to Merlin’s ear, fixing him with an unnerving stare. ‘Neither can you,’ he murmurs, and just like that the touch on the back of Merlin’s neck is gone and Arthur is sweeping through the door; Merlin’s left sitting alone, embarrassed and annoyed and frustratingly turned on. He will make Arthur pay for this.

He gets his chance a few days later; they’re at a feast this time, in front of the whole court. Merlin, as usual, is waiting on Arthur, ensuring that his cup never runs dry. Apparently he’s not doing a good enough job because Arthur beckons him over with an imperious hand.

‘Merlin,’ he begins in his most lordly tone, ‘pour me some wine, I’m absolutely parched.’ He turns to the simpering young noblewoman seated beside him. ‘It’s so hard to find good servants these days.’

Merlin obeys with a stab of exasperated irritation; it’s obvious Arthur’s trying to wind him up. Arthur seems to be completely absorbed in conversation with his companion, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when he grabs Merlin’s wrist firmly. ‘That’s enough,’ Arthur says without looking at him; the disdainful snap of command in his voice belies the way his fingers are sliding down the inside of Merlin’s wrist, nails dragging lightly against the skin.

Merlin’s whole body tingles at the flirtatious contact, but he notes the self-satisfied twist to Arthur’s lips and this time he’s determined to keep his wits about him. He reaches over to replace the newly-filled goblet on the table, making sure to lean right in across Arthur’s body, far closer than necessary, forcing the prince to sit back a little in his chair. Taking advantage of this as cover, he drops his free hand down to rest on Arthur’s knee and squeezes, tracing teasing patterns over his thigh.

‘Whatever pleases you, Sire,’ he says, voice pitched low and intimate, injecting a suggestive huskiness into the last word, and feels a warm flush of immense gratification at the way Arthur’s eyes widen. The prince licks his lips and Merlin swears that for a moment Arthur actually squirms. Merlin lets his fingers trail across Arthur’s hip as he withdraws and returns to his post with a swagger in his step, confident that he’s carried this round.

This sets the tone for all that follows, a constant game of one-upmanship that they come to relish. Their conversations are marked by flirtatious undercurrents and teasing innuendo that is never pursued; in this at least they keep to the rules of engagement. This campaign of mutual seduction, and by now he can call it nothing else, is one of empty promises and touches unfulfilled. When Merlin pulls on Arthur’s boots he lets his fingers dance up the inside of Arthur’s thighs until the muscles tense beneath his hands and Arthur’s breath catches, but no higher. When Arthur crowds into his personal space, nose to nose, pins him with his sheer presence, there’s always a careful layer of empty space between them, if only a hair’s-breadth; however much Arthur stares at his lips, he does not touch.

Arthur becomes the centre around which all his thoughts circle: how to tempt him, taunt him, drive him insane. It is a circle of lust and frustrated desires and something deeper that draws them together, feeding on itself, racing in his veins like the tantalising thrill of magic. Arthur develops a permanent fiendish gleam in his eyes and a provocative tilt to his mouth that stirs Merlin’s blood; whatever dirty tricks he plays, Merlin matches him stride for stride.

Merlin’s not quite sure how this game started, but he’s determined not to be the first to give in.

Arthur makes it hard for him, though Merlin is loathe to admit it. He’s changing Arthur’s sheets, and for once the prince isn’t out on patrol or sitting at meetings with his father, being constantly schooled in the art of kingship; no, he’s lounging in a chair across the room, watching. Recently Merlin’s found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind away from wandering fantasies and dirty thoughts when performing this particular duty. With Arthur there it is inevitably infinitely worse.

The whole time Merlin’s heart is pounding with constant anticipation, his mind providing rather unhelpfully distracting images. He’s tense, waiting for Arthur to make some suggestive comment, venture an inappropriate touch and settle into the familiar pattern of the game. Arthur, however, just watches him consideringly over steepled fingers, a wicked smile curving his lips. He sits back and lets the silence hang pregnant in the air. Bastard, Merlin thinks, but won’t be the first to buckle under the pressure.

At other times Merlin’s sure he’s on the verge of winning. They’re walking together and Arthur, on his way to a meeting with his father, has one arm slung companionably round Merlin’s shoulders, toying with the collar of his shirt. They’re on the point of rounding the corner to the throne room when Merlin stops them abruptly.

‘Wait,’ he says, ‘your boot!’ Arthur frowns but before he can protest Merlin drops to his knees in the middle of the corridor. The stone is rough and cold beneath him but he doesn’t much care as he pretends to fuss and pat at Arthur’s boot. He gives Arthur a sly look through his lashes and grins suggestively, his hands beginning to stray higher up his leg. Arthur starts to look a little panicked; they can both hear the chink of metal as Uther’s guards shift restlessly, just around the corner, and one of the servants could come walking down the corridor at any time. Merlin’s face is mere inches from Arthur’s groin. Devilish, he cuts Arthur another look and licks his lips; Arthur almost groans aloud.  

Merlin lets him suffer a moment longer before he stands. ‘There,’ he says, fighting to keep the laughter from his voice,’ that’s much better.’ Arthur just stares at him, slightly dazed. ‘Go on,’ Merlin urges, ‘it’s a bad idea to keep the king waiting.’

Arthur shoots him a venomous look. ‘I’m going to kill you for this,’ he hisses as he turns the corner with a distinctly uncomfortable gait, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. Merlin doesn’t bother holding back his laughter this time as he walks away and he positively glows for the rest of the day; he awards himself three points for this one and decides that he’s in the lead.

Things don’t stay so easy for very long, of course; they never do. The rules change one brisk autumnal morning. Arthur’s been out on patrol for the last few hours when a runner turns up at the castle. Apparently there’s been a vicious skirmish with a particular persistent group of bandits. Arthur’s uninjured but Merlin jogs to his chambers anyway to get everything ready for him; he knows Arthur will want to get properly cleaned up after a fight.

Merlin’s just setting out some food, bath drawn and ready, when Arthur bursts into the room. He’s still in full armour, chest rising and falling heavily beneath the chainmail; there’s someone else’s blood on his face and his pupils are blown wide and dark, still riding high on bloodlust and adrenaline. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut, rousing something primal in Merlin. Arthur’s darkened eyes are hooded and predatory and he stalks across the room towards him, backs him right up against the wall. The stone is cool between his shoulder blades but he can feel Arthur’s warmth scorching into him without even touching. There’s an air of violence and danger around Arthur, fresh from the fight, and it makes Merlin’s blood burn.

‘Well well, playing the good servant for once? Here to attend to my needs?’ Arthur asks throatily.

‘You mean your need to be an insufferable twat?’ Merlin replies, but it comes out a little breathless and he curses inwardly – this round goes to Arthur and he can tell from his grin that Arthur knows it too. Merlin licks his lips and swallows, caught by the razored want ringing from every taught line of Arthur’s body.

Arthur tracks the movement, fixated. He leans in, so close, so very nearly touching, and for a moment Merlin can taste his breath and thinks he really will break all the rules. But Arthur stops, tormenting and tormented, lips parted, tense and frozen; Merlin forgets how to breathe. Arthur braces one hand against the wall beside Merlin’s head and leans in even closer, breathing into Merlin’s neck; Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyelashes tickling against his cheek. They stand there, feeling, breathing. Merlin’s eyes drift shut. He’s intensely aware of the weight of Arthur’s body pressing him back, even though they aren’t touching. It pulls him like gravity, like raw magnetism towards the centre of the earth. It is agony and ecstasy and it is everything Merlin needs; he needs Arthur.

Realisation takes him in the chest like a sword-blow, almost cuts the legs from under him. He opens his mouth to say something, he has no idea what, but Arthur makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and Merlin feels what he swears is the brush of Arthur’s lips against his neck, phantom-soft and barely there, before Arthur pulls away. He throws his sword belt down on the bed and leaves; he does not once look at Merlin. The warlock sags bonelessly against the wall, heart thundering in his chest, dizzy and light-headed and suddenly cold without Arthur’s warmth, and he’s not sure who won this point at all, not sure there is still a score to keep.

 This begins a period of sleepless nights and frustrated days. Thoughts of Arthur haunt him both dreaming and waking; Merlin loses count of the times he touches himself and urges himself to frantic release with images of blue eyes and broad shoulders and sword-calloused hands. Still they mention nothing, though now the game is stalled and their conversations marked by things unsaid and undercurrents of strained silence. They’re both waiting for someone to make a move and the edgy expectation is crawling under Merlin’s skin and driving him mad. Finally exasperation at Arthur’s apparent determination to do nothing at all pushes Merlin over the line and he decides to force a confrontation.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

Arthur summons him to his chamber late at night. Merlin goes with trepidation; it’s the perfect opportunity to sort things out but he’s worried about what Arthur will say. He spends the seemingly endless walk considering and discarding possible things to say, mumbling to himself the whole time. All of this becomes farthest from his mind when he enters without knocking and finds himself once more in the familiar position of being pinned against a wall, only this time Arthur’s hands are fisted in his shirt and Arthur’s thigh is pressed between his legs and Arthur’s lips are crushed against his, tongue forcing its way into his mouth.

Arthur’s kisses are just as Merlin had envisioned, arrogant and demanding, seeking to invade and claim and mark; naturally he refuses to surrender.

He bites hard at Arthur’s lip and the prince makes a startled noise, pain or pleasure or both, and pulls back. He lifts two fingers to his swollen lip and they come away bloody. Merlin reaches up to take his hand and slowly, deliberately brings it to his mouth. He licks away the salty blood, looks Arthur dead in the eyes, and sucks his fingers into his mouth. The smouldering lust in Arthur’s gaze ignites and he lets out a shuddering breath.

 Merlin cannot find it in himself to care about all the things that they should say; actions speak louder than words, and this is the way things should be between them. It feels right to have Arthur’s gaze scorching into him, Arthur’s body hard against him. Arthur takes his hand from Merlin’s mouth and cups his ass, pulls him close against him. Merlin grinds their hips together obligingly and swallows Arthur’s groans; this is what he wants.

They stumble awkwardly towards the bed, kissing as though it is their air. Merlin buries his hands in Arthur’s hair and tries to devour him, nipping and sucking at his mouth; Arthur’s hands are all over him, pushing up under his clothes to stroke and caress, fumbling with the ties of his breeches. They fall to the sheets together in a tangle of half-shed clothes.

They break apart for just long enough to struggle out of the rest of their clothes and press together again immediately, craving contact; even the slightest hint of space between them is intolerable. Arthur strokes Merlin’s cheek with one hand, looking at him with something resembling reverence bound up in the naked need and want. Merlin shivers and kisses him, slow and deep. He spreads his legs as Arthur eases on top of him, relishing the delicious weight pushing him down. Arthur trails kisses down the line of his jaw, moving to mouth at Merlin’s throat as he takes his cock in hand and pumps him. Merlin moans and arches, head falling back.

‘God,’ Arthur murmurs hoarsely into his neck, ‘you drive me crazy.’

Merlin looks up at him, eyes unfocused. ‘Arthur, fuck me,’ he pleads, giving voice to desires conceived alone in the dead of night, hard and aching with dreams of Arthur.

He is rewarded by the flash of hunger that passes over Arthur’s face and the expletives dropped with feeling against his skin.

Arthur pushes himself up and reaches behind Merlin’s head, retrieving a small bottle of oil from beneath his pillow. Merlin wonders when he started keeping it there, when he realised that the game had become serious. He wonders if Arthur thought about him at night, knowing it was there; he wonders if Arthur touched himself too.

He watches as Arthur tips the oil out to coat his fingers, dripping thick and honey-slow from the lip of the bottle. Arthur leans down and kisses him as he slips one finger inside him; Merlin groans into his mouth and pulls him closer, one hand wrapping round the back of his neck. Arthur adds another finger and his head drops back on a shudder; he can feel Arthur’s fingers inside him, stretching him open, probing and stroking.

Arthur pulls his fingers out and pauses, looking down at Merlin lying naked and flushed beneath him, cock rigid with arousal. They both take a moment just to stare and then Merlin catches his lip between his teeth and nods, ready. Arthur spreads Merlin’s thighs apart and positions himself between them, pushes inside.  

Merlin clenches his jaw and hisses against the pain but tilts his hips to urge Arthur deeper, fingers digging into his back. Arthur presses steadily forward until he’s buried to the hilt in Merlin’s tight warmth, eyes closed, panting as he fights to hold himself back. Merlin drags in a ragged breath, hooks a leg round Arthur’s hip and flexes upwards experimentally against the hard, flat planes of his body. Arthur curses and drops his forehead to Merlin’s shoulder; he begins to move.

Weeks of teasing and tense frustration lend an edge to their movements, an intensity to their every gasp and whispered plea. They create an intimate world bounded by their sweat-slick bodies, arching and bucking together, captured in the brief space of desperate moans and mapped by the arc of wandering hands and inquisitive lips. They fall naturally into the rhythm of desire, Arthur thrusting hard and deep, Merlin rolling his hips back to meet him, the dull burn eclipsed by the pleasure drawing him down in constricting circles, tighter and faster, plunging towards completion.  

Merlin’s blood is racing with his heart, Arthur invading his every perception – touch and sight and taste. With each thrust he can feel the edge approaching, ecstasy sweeping him away until he bursts into brilliant freefall, his whole body clenching, Arthur’s name spilling from his lips. Arthur bites back a groan and comes undone, driving into Merlin fast and hard and erratic. He captures Merlin’s lips in a bruising kiss as he comes with a hoarse gasp. Merlin holds him close as he collapses to the bed, runs his fingers through Arthur’s sweat-damp hair. Silence stretches easy and contented between them, broken only by their quiet panting.   

They lie in each other’s arms, worn out in body and mind. Arthur’s bed is wide and soft and his hand traces idle patterns over Merlin’s ribs. Merlin stretches in lazy contentment and buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck; lulled by the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest against his as their breathing evens out, he drifts into sleep.   

Merlin’s not quite sure how this game started, but at this point he’s willing to declare it a tie.