KinkMe: #29
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: (paraphrased) "Ealdor often has feasts where people sing, dance and play instruments so Merlin has to learn how to play and instrument/sing/dance at a very young age. During training he discovers it's a great way to keep his magic under control. Years later in Camelot, a feasts' entertainment goes wrong and Merlin saves the day. Would love to see: baffled!Awed!Arthur (bonus for Uther being speechless too), Gifted!Merlin, and Arthur/Merlin romance, With Bottom!Merlin is possible."
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin *Sobs* the BBC does.
Notes: If this gets deleted at all, you will be able to find it on my Livejournal account under the same pen name as this.
He has been playing the violin since he was a child. Ealdor, although small and unnoticed, was often alive with activity and a flurry of humanity, especially on holidays and festivals. They celebrated as a whole: weddings, births, Yule. Like one huge family, they would share the joy around – they would build fires and gather foods and share jokes, breaking bread with the neighbours was second nature. On such occasions, they would round up those who could sing and play instruments and music would carry their excitement and joy long into the night and sometimes even past dawn the next day.
Merlin can't really remember how he had come across the violin. He thinks it may have been from a wayward bard, spinning tales and lullabies to the crowding children. Merlin remembers them, the bards that would sometimes stumble upon their humble village, and would regale the children with their ballads and stories for the small price of food and shelter. There is one Merlin vaguely remembers who had taken a particular shine to him. Merlin had hung on his every word and watched, fascinated, as the bow slid across the strings. He was transfixed by the haunting tunes that could easily meld into something exhilarating. He liked the elegance of the music, the fingers that glided and the bow that stroked.
The instrument itself had been a handsome piece, dark wood and carved impeccably. Merlin had been allowed to hold it once, he remembers fondly, and he had been in awe. His magic had thrummed approvingly in his veins as Merlin handled the instrument, as his own fingers reverently caressed the strings and it had almost purred at the cluster of tuneless notes emitted.
He thought, now, that perhaps that bard had gifted his violin to him – it certainly wasn't as handsome as the one the bard treasured, but it held its own charm.
"My second, that is," a ghost of a forgotten memory whispers in his ear. "But you'll treat her good, I can tell."
A few basic lessons later the bard left, but Merlin's fascination with the violin never faded. Every day he practiced, constantly going over the tunes in his mind, badgering others talented in string instruments to teach him best they could and hounding after the bards and few travellers that came across Ealdor for more. He hungered for the music, his magic lusted after it.
The more he played, the more his magic would settle, humming in the background like a contented kitten, docile and more likely to listen to his commands. The music moved through him, much like his blood, pulsing through his veins as he played – it controlled him, it soothed him, it surrounded him in a calm that he had only ever experienced in his mothers' embrace.
Even now, when he feels lonely and homesick, he turns to his violin (tucked safely beneath his bed, wrapped as best he can manage in fabric) and to the wistful melodies that his mother likes best.
He has never told Arthur of his talent, just another little secret he keeps – not through intention, this time, but rather through forgetfulness and idle thoughts that Arthur wouldn't really care. Gaius knows, of course. Having lived with the boy for the past few years how could he not? Sometimes the man will sneak into his doorway and watch as Merlin loses himself in the music, lost within it and smile fondly. Other times, he makes requests.
Most of the time, however, Gaius will just leave him be, because watching Merlin play at those times often feels as though he is intruding on something private.
The feast is fast sliding into quite the scene of disaster. The kitchen maids have been slaving over the past two days to prepare the assortment of food, the maids had rushed this way and that, arms full of decorations and table clothes and bed sheets for the guest rooms. The castle has been a hive of activity, full of people ducking and diving, scolding and flittering and hastening.
Merlin has watched it all with the usual quiet enjoyment. Arthur has had him ferrying things here and there in preparation, cleaning this tunic, shining that sword, polishing those boots; the usual things Merlin must do in the upcoming days to the arrival of visiting nobility. He lent a hand here and there, when Arthur wasn't demanding his presence or needing to cool off his anxiety.
Merlin hadn't been sure why the prince had been anxious in the first place and had only gotten a curt dismissal for his question.
"Just leave, Merlin, I have enough to think about as it is without you screwing everything up."
He had found out later, when a contrite Arthur had wrestled him into bed to receive his heartfelt apology, that the King and his son were tentative allies who were quick to take offence and quicker to wage war. The King's son, according to Arthur was "a worse idiot then you, Merlin, with smaller ears."
Merlin had hit him for that.
And now, after days of preparation and countless hours of work, the welcoming feast is all going to pot. The musicians Uther had called in to entertain the guests had been out of Camelot, and had had to cancel due to a lame horse and four players down due to sickness. The quickly rounded up players from the citadel are only just up to par, and the king and his entourage are shifting and murmuring in their seats.
Arthur holds out his goblet and Merlin steps forward in time to catch his princes sigh.
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Arthur shakes his head. "What's wrong is that King Geoffrey is an uptight, sanctimonious old fool who believes anything less than the best is an insult." Arthur rubs his eyes. "This is not going well." Merlin glances up at the two Kings, both looking highly disgruntled. King Geoffrey is leaning across to Uther; hissing words that make Uther narrow his and nod tightly.
The prince raises his glass to Arthur with a smug, anticipatory grin.
Merlin studies the crackling atmosphere between the two kings and the tenseness of Arthur's shoulders. His hand is gripping the goblet and his jaw muscles are jumping with the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his jaw.
Merlin worries his lip. He gazes around the hall. He scratches his nose. Finally, he sighs.
"If, you'll excuse me sire. I'll be right back." He slides the jug on the table and slips past the other servants, ignoring Arthur murderously hissed: "Merlin!"
Merlin can't let himself think on this on, lest his nerves give out.
Arthur is fuming. He sucks on his teeth before taking a mouthful of wine. How dare Merlin just leave like that! The idiot is often disregarding the rules, but surely he knows where the line is – and leaving Arthur here, is certainly past the line.
Lancelot leans over at that point, brows furrowed in question. "Are you alright, sire?" His dark eyes flick over to the visiting nobility and Arthur jerks his head in a nod Lancelot is more than perceptive, and understands the underlying games to feasts such as this. He understands the mounting tension.
"It will be fine," he assures, although Lancelot looks as doubtful as he feels. Damn the travelling troupe – the night would've been perfect otherwise, giving Geoffrey no room to argue or insult. Never give that king an inch and they have given him far more than that.
The annoyance is bubbling in his beast like a beast. That smug expression on the Prince Elyson's face over the rim of his goblet and the snide smirks are enough to boil Arthur's blood. The prince knows he is arrogant to a fault, Merlin is constantly ribbing him about it, but even Arthur can see that Prince Elyson takes it to an extreme.
He fists his hand on the table for a moment before relaxing it.
Calming breaths, he thinks, calming, slow, breaths...
Then he jerks back to himself. Coming from down the corridor is music, a violin he believes. It is so haunting, a slow, sad melody that sweetly cradles the heart and soaks it with tears. A winding, mournful tune that carries around the hall.
Everyone starts to quiet, wondering where such beautiful, terrible music is coming from.
From the doorway, Merlin stands, still, apart from the movement of his hands. His eyes are closed, his expression peaceful. The music is like a bird, fluttering and sweet, moving from the melancholic tunes of before into something lighter.
And Arthur is transfixed. He watches as his lover steps into the room a little more, eyes still closed and hands still moving.
How had he never known that Merlin could play an instrument? How could he have overlooked something that now, looking at the servant as he plays, is obviously so integral to his life?
The room is silent beneath the power of Merlin's music; it is like they have been bewitched. Arthur eyes are fixed on his lovers' face, on the dark lashes fluttering against the high cheekbones and the small, sweet smile to those lips. Heat unfurls in his stomach in attraction. His eyes slip to the long, graceful fingers as they graze and stroke the strings high on the neck of the instrument. Their movement, so sure, is so different to the touches Merlin bestows upon him. Then his touches are fleeting, teasing in their apprehension. But looking at Merlin now, watching the certainty of his hands, the control he excludes over the music...
The sight feeds straight to his groin.
Merlin is not one to be shy, but sexually, he is quiet, insecure in a way you would never have guessed looking at him now.
The music rises in octaves, filling the room with its beauty, caressing the ears as Merlin caresses the instrument.
Arthur is amazed. The more Merlin plays the more Arthur feels, heats flares like a dragon's flame in his stomach and groin, licking through his veins in a blaze of desire. He aches as he never has before, aches to touch and be touched, to drown in Merlin's music, to wrap himself around and never let go.
"Did you know about this?" Lancelot whispers, as if scared to disturb the enchantment of Merlin's music. Arthur just shakes his head dumbly, swallowing dryly.
Merlin is swaying now as his music once again changes tempo. Still it is light and but more joy, more happiness bleeds through. The music arcs above the audience, twisting and dancing like one may believe a faery dances.
Lord, Arthur can feel it. He can taste it. He can imagine Merlin's hands on him, just as firm and gentle as they are on that violin. He can imagine the heated kisses against his skin, the grazing fingertips that leave a blaze in their wake, the nip of teeth that shoots through him and would make him arch.
Then Merlin opens his eyes and Arthur can see it.
The prince glances to his father. Uther still has the remnants of shock on his face, but his smile is quirked in satisfaction. King Geoffrey has a hungry look in his eyes that makes Arthur want to tear his face off.
He doesn't. He drags his eyes back to Merlin instead, seeing those stunning eyes still locked on him. The music shifts again, less of a sparrow and more of a dragon. The music smoulders and flares and curls, lust and desire are interwoven with love and jealousy and affection. Merlin's mouth is a little parted and Arthur gut twists and he barely suppresses a moan.
This music is for him. It's so incredibly intimate. It moves over him, embracing him. It slides over his skin with heat and craving and longing. It spikes his heart and burns in his groin. Merlin's eyes are glittering, promising, as he seduces his prince with music.
God, and Arthur aches. The music feeds him and his need. All he thinks of is Merlin; of Merlin's hands as they soar and Merlin's hips as they sway, Merlin eyes as they watch Arthur come undone under the spell of his song.
And as the music devours Arthur, Arthur promises to devour Merlin.
Hands fumble and press and stroke. Teeth bite and graze as lips press and suck. Barely inside the safety of the prince chambers and already Arthur on him, all consuming desire and heated lust. Merlin grins into the harsh kisses that are more tongue and teeth then lips and are vicious in their taking.
Arthur is hungry, demanding. His hands roam the chest hidden beneath the tunic, stroking fingers, scratching nails, grazing knuckles. He presses and kneads and rubs. He pinches erect nipples mercilessly and Merlin gasps into the kisses that engulf him.
Merlin has been shoved against the door, the iron handle digging into his back, but with his prince plastered across his front he cares little. He drags his lips away, groaning in the back of his throat at Arthur's growl and hastily tugs his tunic off. Arthur nips his chin in approval, using one hand to curl in Merlin hair and expose his throat whilst the other ventures down his body, gripping his arse and pulling it to him.
Hardness against hardness. The feel of Arthur's cock against his own is almost too much. He knew what he was inviting when he changed the song that last time, he can read Arthur body like a book.
"Arthur!"
The blond prince is chewing on his throat, dark, possessive bites that show him exactly who he belongs to. Desire jolts down Merlin's body and he whimpers as Arthur thrusts against him. The rough wool of his breeches is murder against his enflamed prick but that is the edge he needs, the bite he craves.
His fingers dig indents into Arthur shoulders through the fabric before he pulls the shirt to one side to mark his prince as his prince has him. Arthur grunts against his throat, the hand once in Merlin's hair now braced against the door.
They frot against each other, rapid, harsh thrusts that are everything and nothing they need. It's animalistic, and ruthless and wonderful and Merlin can't stop, won't stop.
But, god, does he need more.
"Arthur..." it's more of a plea this time and Arthur answers, shoving Merlin's breeches down so that the servant can kick them away before untying his own. He doesn't bother with stepping out of his own trousers, simply hefts Merlin's legs up around his waist, the smaller mans' hands scrambling for purchase against his shoulders and back.
When their pricks touch skin to skin, slick with sweat and more, they groan. Merlin eagerly sucks on the fingers offered to as Arthur watches, still shallowly thrusting his hips against Merlin's.
Not quickly enough are those fingers pulled away from him and the first finger pressed inside. Arthurs eyes are hot as they stare at him, noting with satisfaction how Merlin arches against him, head titled back and eyes closed. He chews on his lip, trying to hold in the mewls of pleasure, but Arthur snarls in warning.
The minx teased him in the hall with his music; he will not tease him now.
A second finger has Merlin gasping and trying to rock back into it. Arthur is not forgiving in his attack, the two fingers are brutal in their stretching but Merlin doesn't seem to mind. This whole thing has been heated and rushed and near violent. There will be scratched marks and bites and maybe even drawn blood before the night is over.
A third finger, and Merlin is writhing best he can, pushing his erection against Arthur's and making him his breath falter.
Perhaps too soon, Arthur draws his fingers away and lines himself up instead. A quick glance is all Merlin offered in question before he is breached, hard and fat. His head spins and pain spikes within him.
There is no sweetness to this, the position is a little awkward and the movements graceless, but it is so good.
Pleasure ricochets up his spine, nearly paralysing in its brilliance. The thrusts are hard but shallow and Merlin grinds back, whimpering and moaning into the onslaught. Arthur is biting him again, roughly nipping at skin as his snaps his hip up into Merlin's body.
It is all heat and pleasure and pain and sogood.
Moremoremore! Pleasepleaseplease!
They smoulder and burn and seize and writhe. Together they are a storm of emotion, violent and hungry and needy. They grab at each other, lips begging and bodies singing and tiring and pushing and loving. Their breath is one: a panting, harsh lullaby of passion and desire and wants. Their bodies are slick with the effort, hair flat and skin flushed and Merlin can feel his orgasm gathering in his groin. The eye of the storm thundering and crashing within him, closer, closer, forever closer and yet never quite there...
Blinding white and screaming winds tear around him, pleasure erupts within his limbs, firing his nerves and exploding through his veins.
And when Merlin comes down from his high, Arthur is finishing riding out his. Limbs shaking and hearts racing they make it, somewhat to the bed.
Once settled beneath the quilt, Arthur now fully undressed and Merlin pulled over him, Arthur kisses the top of Merlin's damp hair, saying: "You know, I wouldn't object to playing that violin again for me sometime."