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phantomjam) wrote2008-12-12 12:17 am
birthday fic!
*cough* Anyway, this was written for the amazingly kickass
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doomcanary since it, well was her birthday 20 minutes ago *facepalm*. She asked for Arthur giving Merlin a present (that was not sex, ahahaha, I love that you had to specify that) so I hope this works for you!Title: Ownership
Rating: R, I suppose
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: None, just sap I guess
Spoilers: None
Summary: It's Arthur's birthday, but he's not the only one getting presents.
Ownership
Merlin watches Arthur across the hall, surrounded by his friends and the younger knights, boisterous and boyish, their laughter cutting loud and brash over the murmur of conversation. They sling careless arms round his shoulders and clap him on the back, downing their wine like water. Arthur occupies the centre of attention, keeping the banter flowing effortlessly, but Merlin notices that he sips his wine carefully and he’s still on his first goblet. Involved as he seems, he keeps glancing over at Merlin, catching his eyes. He does it again now, in the middle of recounting some unlikely and highly exaggerated tale, gesticulating wildly. Merlin raises his eyebrows and quirks his lips, amused; Arthur tips him a subtle salute with his cup and waggles his eyebrows right back. No one else seems to notice, distracted by whatever Arthur’s busily describing with the aid of his left hand.
It’s Arthur’s birthday, and he seems to be enjoying himself now that the formalities are done with and he no longer has to sit still and pretend to be overjoyed at the hundredth ludicrously ornate chalice presented to him by some sycophantic old nobleman trying to wheedle his way into the heir’s good graces. He’s all animated motion and good cheer now, elbowing a knight in the ribs with a wink and a grin as lecherous laughter erupts around him. Merlin adjusts his position leaning against the wall and wonders what Arthur’s talking about – if he’s giving the juicy details of his latest conquest then he’s an outright liar, because Merlin knows he’s the only one who’s been sharing Arthur’s bed for a while now. He smirks to himself at the thought of what would happen if Arthur decided to tell that particular story; likely he would be witnessing a very different set of reactions.
He tilts his head, considering seriously whether Arthur is lying to his friends right now, at this very moment. In a way, he supposes, he must be; Arthur’s different when he’s alone – quieter and more sincere, though still a hopeless idiot more often than not. He’s surprisingly tactile as well. Merlin always used to think he looked so self-contained, striding through the halls on official business or sitting dutifully alongside Uther during audiences, but now he knows better. Arthur likes to touch him, to rest a hand on the nape of his neck or against his back under his shirt when they’re alone in his rooms, bump shoulders and brush hands when they’re out in public. It’s endearing really, and Merlin realises that he’s smiling stupidly just thinking about it.
Arthur’s gaze flickers his way again, briefly, and a strange look passes over his face. He beckons Merlin over with an imperious wave.
‘I think I’ve had a little too much wine and it doesn’t agree with me,’ he says to his friends, words slurring slightly. ‘Merlin, help me up to my chambers.’ Merlin narrows his eyes because there’s no way Arthur could be that drunk from just one goblet, and his eyes are clear and sharp and definitely sober. Still, as excuses go it seems to work, though likely only because all of the young men around them are looking rather unsteady on their feet themselves. The send up a round of protests and drunken shouts, and Arthur waves them off with a grin and a few friendly punches as he leaves, pretending to lean on Merlin.
‘What was all that about?’ Merlin asks as soon as they’re alone in the corridor and the doors have swung shut behind them, muting the sound of merriment to a distant thrum. Arthur sighs and straightens, shrugging out of his pretence at inebriation like a well-worn coat. He rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the floor.
‘I was just tired of their company,’ he mutters.
‘Right,’ Merlin says sceptically.
‘It’s true!’ Arthur protests. ‘Anyway, I meant what I said, I want to go back to my chambers.’
Merlin raises his eyebrows, grinning playfully. ‘And that involves me how?’
Arthur gives him a look, half exasperation and half amusement. ‘Just get a move on.’
‘Whatever you say, Sire.’
Arthur smacks him on the shoulder as he sets off and Merlin falls comfortably into step beside him.
‘Happy birthday, by the way.’
Arthur gives him a sideways look. ‘Thanks.’
They continue in companionable silence broken only by the sound of their boots on stone and the gentle scuff of their clothes as their arms brush together; Arthur’s fingers twitch each time it happens and Merlin has to look away to hide his smile.
When they reach Arthur’s chamber Merlin sets about lighting the fire in the hearth, coaxing it to a steady crackling flame. Arthur is pacing by the window behind him and Merlin could almost swear he looks nervous. It takes Arthur a full minute to realise that Merlin’s done and is watching curiously, hands on his hips.
‘What is it?’ Merlin asks.
‘Nothing,’ Arthur hedges quickly. ‘Nothing. Just a small matter, really. Nothing of consequence.’
Merlin lets his silence speak for him.
Arthur glances up at him and then away. He moves over to the chest of drawers against the wall and picks up a small plain wooden box.
‘I just... well, I wanted to give you this,’ he says, averting his eyes and shoving the box roughly at Merlin’s chest.
Merlin holds it for a moment, stroking his thumb over the smooth dark wood, cool in his hands. It catches him off balance and he can’t quite figure out what’s going on. ‘Arthur,’ he says, ‘what...?’
Arthur just waves at him to hurry up, back turned.
‘It’s your birthday; shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?’ he tries again carefully. Arthur faces him this time, jaw tight, looking intensely uncomfortable.
‘Just open it, alright?’ he snaps.
‘Alright, alright, don’t get your royal knickers in a twist,’ Merlin mutters, ducking his head to avoid Arthur’s glare. He runs his hands over the box one more time, feeling the faint grain of the wood against his palms, and flicks open the catch. He eases the lid back slowly.
There, nestled in a bed of crimson velvet is a heavy gold signet ring, twin to Arthur’s own, bearing the Pendragon crest picked out in perfect detail. It’s strung on a fine silver chain and Merlin lifts it out reverently, watching the firelight spark and dance along the delicate links. ‘Arthur,’ he breathes.
Arthur folds his arms tightly across his chest. ‘It’s, you know, think of it as a dog collar. Knowing you you’re likely to end up blundering off into all sorts of trouble; I can’t have you disappearing on me and getting lost every time I turn my back. That’s just to let people know who to return you to, that you’re... mine.’ The last word comes out awkwardly and Arthur looks away, colouring slightly.
It’s too much, and Merlin can’t stop the grin spreading on his face, knows he must look like some sort of lovestruck fool, but he can hear the sentiment beneath Arthur’s words.
‘Arthur,’ he says to get his attention, finally catching his apprehensive blue eyes. He holds Arthur’s gaze as he lifts the chain over his head, slowly and deliberately, feeling the weight of the ring in his palm, solid and reassuring, before tucking it under his shirt and letting it drop to sit, pleasantly cool, over his heart.
Arthur lets out a breath and his posture loosens a little. Merlin goes to him, presses up close, one hand sliding into his hair, the other settling at his hip, and kisses him. Arthur’s arms are a pleasant pressure around his back and waist as he tilts his head and presses back, lips parting, slow and sweet and hot. Merlin takes his time before he pulls back just enough to whisper ‘thank you’ breathlessly against Arthur’s mouth.
‘You’re welcome,’ Arthur murmurs huskily, eyes bright. His lips twitch. ‘You were right before, though: it is my birthday – shouldn’t you give me something?’
Merlin chuckles. ‘Is there anything you want?’ he asks, nipping along the line of Arthur’s jaw.
Arthur hums contentedly. ‘I can think of a few things.’ He pulls Merlin up for another kiss, thumb stroking gently along the side of his face. Merlin can feel the metal of the ring digging into his skin, still cool but heating slowly, trapped between the warmth of their bodies. By morning Merlin will have the Pendragon crest lined in red on his chest, a temporary brand to remind him of this moment. It will fade quickly but Merlin is in no doubt that Arthur will be eager to rectify that. For now, he lets Arthur push him down on the bed and looks up at him, grinning wickedly.
‘I expect something truly spectacular for my birthday,’ he says.
Arthur snorts. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’
‘So what do you think,’ Merlin murmurs, rubbing up against Arthur’s body. ‘Am I the best birthday present ever?’
Arthur laughs. ‘Close,’ he says, eyes dancing, ‘but I’m not sure yet.’
‘Well then, tell me what you want.’
Arthur leans down and whispers low and filthy in Merlin’s ear; Merlin moans. ‘I think I can manage that,’ he gasps out breathlessly. He looks up into Arthur’s eyes, darkened and playful, the smile tugging at his lips. This, he thinks, right here, is not the Arthur that jests and boasts arrogant with his knights, not the Arthur that anyone else would recognise. This Arthur is his alone, and as surely as Merlin is claimed by the ring around his neck so Arthur is claimed as his by every passing, panting breath, by the expression that only he can put there, and so he pulls him down and bites at his lip. Mine, he thinks, mine.
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