thalia/j.r. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thalialunacy2) wrote2012-06-23 02:36 pm
thalialunacy2) wrote2012-06-23 02:36 pm
Entry tags:
Ficlet: 'Weak Spots' (Merlin/Arthur, NC-17)
(Merlin, Merlin/Arthur, 739 words, NC-17. written for this image (nsfw) prompt at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
summerpornathon for teamenvy.)
Maille does not a perfect warrior make.
Maille has weakspots, it’s heavy, it needs constant upkeep and repair, it’s heavy, it pinches in inconvenient places, and oh yes, it’s heavy.
These are things to which one grows accustomed, when one is prince.
But, by the by, it has its uses. Beyond avoiding death and dismemberment, even. It hides secrets, you see. Hides soft bellies and imperfect strides. Gives one confidence even when facing down an angry man with a sword intent on cutting you deeply for love and country.
It also hides scars.
Not that Arthur’s all that bothered by scars. He has them; he won them fairly but they’re nothing to brag about. Would that life didn’t involve so many scars, but it does, and his does especially, and that is that.
He hasn’t been bothered, at least, until Merlin.
---
Castles at night are dark, no matter how many torches you light, and Arthur is thankful for this as he herds Merlin towards his bed, hands under scratchy clothing and lips pressed wherever he can reach. This is the third time this has happened, and Arthur’s adjusting, he thinks, to the idea of bedding a manservant, emphasis on the ‘man.’ Merlin’s skin is smooth, and his mouth is supple, and, as a pleasant surprise, he keeps the level of idiocy at a minimum. So it’s been a worthwhile endeavour, all things considered.
Tonight, though, Merlin has been in his cups. Not so much so that he’s having trouble performing. Just so much so that he’s having trouble keeping his damned mouth shut. It’s a spectacular narration of what Arthur’s trying to remain convinced is a rather mundane occasion, and it’s very nearly making Arthur blush. If he did such things.
“Merlin, just shut up and enjoy it, will you?” He manages to extricate an especially uncoordinated Merlin from his clothes, sheds his own, then coaxes Merlin to lie back, licking kisses into what he can, because—because there’s moonlight coming in where usually there is not, and Merlin’s skin is on display. And it is flawless.
Arthur slows to a stop, and stares. Until Merlin squirms a little. “Arthur--”
“Shush.”
“Arthur.”
“Merlin, for the love of--”
But Merlin has that strange strength of the intoxicated, and the element of surprise, so Arthur suddenly finds himself on his back. He tenses, but Merlin doesn’t seem to have nefarious purposes. He merely seems to be… contemplating Arthur’s body.
“Your skin is very rough,” he says quietly. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Merlin continues, his hands smoothing up and down Arthur’s torso and beyond. “It’s seen so much, right? Battles and tournaments and wayward tailors and sorcerers and days on horseback and—and so many things.”
Arthur swallows. The lines Merlin’s hands are following– well, they’re not prescribed, nor are they very logical. It’s as if he’s—Arthur can only think it’s as if he’s being painted. Expensively, expansively painted, like he’s a castle Merlin wants to show off.
Fates save him from intoxicated manservants, Arthur thinks, and takes control back with a firm grip. He settles Merlin across his hips so their cocks are aligned, then puts his hand in front of Merlin’s face long enough for him to get the hint and gift it with the warmth of his mouth.
Then, with his palm around them both, his other hand tightly gripping Merlin’s backside, he guides them both to fairly outstanding releases, if he does say so himself. Afterwards, Merlin fwumps down onto him, boneless and muttering something about charcoal. Arthur shakes his head and reaches for an abandoned piece of clothing--hopefully Merlin’s--to wipe up the mess.
Merlin’s hand catches his just after he’s thrown the soiled cloth back to the floor. “C’mere,” Merlin mumbles, tugging Arthur into a truly undignified position. He thinks about resisting, but he’s tired and the bed is soft and Merlin is a surprisingly good bedmate, despite the sharp elbows and knees and a tendency to put off an alarming amount of heat.
But he doesn’t fall asleep right away. The moon is still bright and, well, Merlin is all stretched out in front of him, illuminated like a manuscript. He can’t help but reach out and draw lines, sweep expanses of affection into this perfect shell on this imperfect man.
Instead of sleep, he does the best he can, and paints the moonlight onto Merlin’s skin.
fin
summerpornathon for teamenvy.)Maille does not a perfect warrior make.
Maille has weakspots, it’s heavy, it needs constant upkeep and repair, it’s heavy, it pinches in inconvenient places, and oh yes, it’s heavy.
These are things to which one grows accustomed, when one is prince.
But, by the by, it has its uses. Beyond avoiding death and dismemberment, even. It hides secrets, you see. Hides soft bellies and imperfect strides. Gives one confidence even when facing down an angry man with a sword intent on cutting you deeply for love and country.
It also hides scars.
Not that Arthur’s all that bothered by scars. He has them; he won them fairly but they’re nothing to brag about. Would that life didn’t involve so many scars, but it does, and his does especially, and that is that.
He hasn’t been bothered, at least, until Merlin.
---
Castles at night are dark, no matter how many torches you light, and Arthur is thankful for this as he herds Merlin towards his bed, hands under scratchy clothing and lips pressed wherever he can reach. This is the third time this has happened, and Arthur’s adjusting, he thinks, to the idea of bedding a manservant, emphasis on the ‘man.’ Merlin’s skin is smooth, and his mouth is supple, and, as a pleasant surprise, he keeps the level of idiocy at a minimum. So it’s been a worthwhile endeavour, all things considered.
Tonight, though, Merlin has been in his cups. Not so much so that he’s having trouble performing. Just so much so that he’s having trouble keeping his damned mouth shut. It’s a spectacular narration of what Arthur’s trying to remain convinced is a rather mundane occasion, and it’s very nearly making Arthur blush. If he did such things.
“Merlin, just shut up and enjoy it, will you?” He manages to extricate an especially uncoordinated Merlin from his clothes, sheds his own, then coaxes Merlin to lie back, licking kisses into what he can, because—because there’s moonlight coming in where usually there is not, and Merlin’s skin is on display. And it is flawless.
Arthur slows to a stop, and stares. Until Merlin squirms a little. “Arthur--”
“Shush.”
“Arthur.”
“Merlin, for the love of--”
But Merlin has that strange strength of the intoxicated, and the element of surprise, so Arthur suddenly finds himself on his back. He tenses, but Merlin doesn’t seem to have nefarious purposes. He merely seems to be… contemplating Arthur’s body.
“Your skin is very rough,” he says quietly. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Merlin continues, his hands smoothing up and down Arthur’s torso and beyond. “It’s seen so much, right? Battles and tournaments and wayward tailors and sorcerers and days on horseback and—and so many things.”
Arthur swallows. The lines Merlin’s hands are following– well, they’re not prescribed, nor are they very logical. It’s as if he’s—Arthur can only think it’s as if he’s being painted. Expensively, expansively painted, like he’s a castle Merlin wants to show off.
Fates save him from intoxicated manservants, Arthur thinks, and takes control back with a firm grip. He settles Merlin across his hips so their cocks are aligned, then puts his hand in front of Merlin’s face long enough for him to get the hint and gift it with the warmth of his mouth.
Then, with his palm around them both, his other hand tightly gripping Merlin’s backside, he guides them both to fairly outstanding releases, if he does say so himself. Afterwards, Merlin fwumps down onto him, boneless and muttering something about charcoal. Arthur shakes his head and reaches for an abandoned piece of clothing--hopefully Merlin’s--to wipe up the mess.
Merlin’s hand catches his just after he’s thrown the soiled cloth back to the floor. “C’mere,” Merlin mumbles, tugging Arthur into a truly undignified position. He thinks about resisting, but he’s tired and the bed is soft and Merlin is a surprisingly good bedmate, despite the sharp elbows and knees and a tendency to put off an alarming amount of heat.
But he doesn’t fall asleep right away. The moon is still bright and, well, Merlin is all stretched out in front of him, illuminated like a manuscript. He can’t help but reach out and draw lines, sweep expanses of affection into this perfect shell on this imperfect man.
Instead of sleep, he does the best he can, and paints the moonlight onto Merlin’s skin.
fin