CHAPTER SEVEN

Touch: Silk (Arthur)

Rough homespun hides a skin that's silk to the touch. And exactly when did Merlin become so...insatiable?

Because Arthur was a prince, his garments were cut and sewn from the finest fabrics available to Camelot. Several times a year his father welcomed cloth merchants to the court, and from their wares the royal seamstresses and tailors selected the cottons, the velvets, the silks, silk satins, and brocades from which they made the prince's clothing. There were certain items of which he was particularly fond, so when they wore out, or were damaged, the tailors replicated them. His crimson jacket. His loose-fitting shirts. After all they suited him, and, to be perfectly honest, Arthur was rather vain about his good looks. And for all his swaggering masculinity, he had a strong tactile sense and enjoyed the caress of smooth, tightly woven fabric against his skin. Then there was the fine leather that was used to make his riding boots, his winter boots, his indoor boots, his dress boots.

"If I ever see another bloody rat gnawing away at my boots..." Arthur once said warningly to Merlin, "I'll...I'll..."

"You'll what, sire?" Merlin asked innocently, but with one eyebrow quirked upwards. Arthur hurled the damaged boots at him, but Merlin ducked and the boots went out the window.

"Hoy there!" came an indignant cry from below.

"Oh God," muttered Arthur in agonized tones, "That was Gaius!"

Merlin was already bent over with laughter.

"Shut up!" groaned the prince, trying to suppress his own. "Or I'll make you wear The Hat for a month."

(He knew very well that Merlin hated The Hat, but he himself liked to see Merlin wear it. It looked a bit absurd, of course, and made him laugh as hard as Merlin was laughing now, but the sight was also rather endearing. With the cascade of feathers curling down around his narrow face, and the resigned but disgruntled expression he assumed when he had to wear it, Merlin looked like a startled ferret-only prettier-or a snowy-white ermine standing upright and dressed in red.)

Merlin stifled his laughter. "I didn't throw those boots," he murmured. "You're just trying to give me a hard time."

"Of course I'm giving you a hard time, you idiot," the prince retorted. "And it's doing you a world of good."

The crimson jacket was one of Arthur's favorite articles of clothing; he wore it constantly so it was constantly wearing out. Every three to six months the court tailors had to stitch him up a new one. It was becoming to his fair coloring, it went handsomely with most of his shirts, and Arthur liked the texture. He could tell that Merlin liked it as well; he had caught him running his sensitive fingers over the fabric of the sleeve, a little smile on his lips and a dreamy look in his eyes.

"Want to try that on, do you?" he asked in a manner that was only faintly mocking.

"No," Merlin replied, patting the sleeve regretfully. "Don't panic, I wasn't about to muck up your precious jacket."

"Prat," he added thoughtfully, a moment later.

It never really occurred to Arthur to have a nice suit of clothing made for Merlin. When Uther criticized his servant's drab appearance he simply shrugged his shoulders because as far as he was concerned, Merlin, with that creamy skin, black hair, and eyes whose color changed from blue-grey slate to azure sky to midnight blue, depending on the weather and the time of day, was anything but drab.

What Arthur especially liked was to be able to slip his hands under the roughness of Merlin's coarse linen shirt and feel the fine-grained, silky skin underneath. At night, without the shirt, that skin beneath his fingers was like pale satin in the candlelight. It was a delight just to touch him, and he loved the way Merlin closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, like a cat.

(During the day, he occasionally ruffled Merlin's hair in passing, when he wasn't expecting it, something Merlin did not particularly appreciate. That was as much for the fun of making a disorderly mop of that bowl haircut as it was to feel the soft, supple strands between his fingers. At the same time, he could surreptitiously admire their raven darkness against the white nape of Merlin's neck.)

For a month or two after they began sleeping together (when the opportunity presented itself, which was not very often), Arthur had worried about Merlin's motivation. Was he doing it out of a sense of duty? Was he yielding his body, that wonderfully touchable skin, only because he knew that was what the prince wanted? He seemed ardent enough; he returned Arthur's kisses and embraces, he offered no protest if Arthur, in his enthusiasm, became a little too energetic. But did he really want this, or was he simply submitting out of his love for Arthur Pendragon?

The prince had never been with a man before Merlin. And Merlin had, well, never really been with anybody. The mechanics of the thing presented no difficulties to Arthur, who was fairly well versed in what to do in intimate situations. What he hadn't been prepared for was the extremity of pleasure he felt the very first time he had managed to maneuver them into his bed. It wasn't something he had planned in advance, and it had taken Merlin by surprise. But Merlin had been acquiescent..hadn't he? Hot and trembling, eyes closed, responsive, breath warm and sweet against Arthur's throat. He had been the picture of willingness...hadn't he?

Arthur was aware that he had made a habit of bullying Merlin from the day the boy first entered his service, but in this aspect of their life-their lovemaking-he had no intention or desire to bully him at all. Non-consensual intimacy had never appealed to him in the past, and it didn't appeal to him now. It took a little while for him to figure out that the gently tentative quality of Merlin's early response to him was due to his lack of experience. He continued to worry, although to a lesser degree-and after several months had passed, it became quite obvious that Merlin wanted IT just as much as Arthur did.

The prince couldn't quite put his finger on the moment when Merlin was transformed from a willing participant into an eager, passionate, highly active partner. But the transformation had occurred, and there was no going back-not that Arthur wanted to go back. Now when he seized Merlin in his arms, Merlin grasped him with the same fervor, kissed him just as deeply and ferociously, stroked him with a sensitive yet burning touch that astonished him. And for all that he looked so fragile, Merlin was wiry and surprisingly strong. Generally accustomed to being the more dominant and aggressive of the two of them in bed, Arthur found that he had no objection to the occasional role switch, another new aspect of their physical connection. From the beginning Arthur had felt that he could not get enough of Merlin, and now it seemed that Merlin could not get enough of him either. The intensity of their passion shook him to the innermost fibre of his being, but also touched his emotions and his heart-not that he would ever show it. At more or less the same height, they fit together perfectly, and at times it was hard for them to tell where Arthur's skin ended and Merlin's began.

(Arthur didn't want to call it ordinary lust, because there was no question that it was far more complicated than that. The emotions behind it were pure. The physical pleasure went far beyond the satisfaction of simple bodily urges.)

Then daylight would come, and Merlin would be once again the frequently awkward, companionable yet contradictory servant that he had always been.

"You're insatiable, Merlin," Arthur said almost chidingly one evening, expecting Merlin to laugh. But Merlin only stared back at him solemnly before the corners of his eyes crinkled and his lips curved in the most guileless and innocent of smiles. Arthur was nonplussed, but only briefly, for seconds later Merlin tackled him and they toppled over onto the bed.

"I've created a monster," Arthur gasped out, but he was secretly thrilled.

The next morning Merlin was humming as he helped Arthur into a new winter tunic, a heavy brocade lined with a silk satin of the same color. The prince closed his eyes as the smooth, slippery fabric slid against his chest like water, like a soft breeze, like the touch of Merlin's skin. His eyes flew open and he sought Merlin's gaze, but the young man's own eyes were lowered respectfully, his expression was calm and unreadable, his breathing steady, and his mouth set in a small, secret smile.


Next chapter-Sight: The Golden Circlet (Uther)