Hankering

Notes:

This is a fill for  eloquent_toast*'s Merlin!WANKFEST. Big thanks to toast for making this presentable

Prompt: "Merlin's alone in Arthur's chambers and finds Arthur's ring."

 

 

Hankering



oOo

On reflection, Merlin thinks, he's rather glad he never bothered to check the time.



Merlin had originally decided not to worry about it, because Arthur had gone out on patrol at midday and had left Merlin behind to see to cleaning his chambers. Which is just fine with Merlin, really, because it means he can use magic to do his rather tedious chores.



It's just barely past sundown, and he's already finished—well, except for laying out Arthur's clothes for the Solstice feast tonight. Which is why Merlin is digging around in Arthur's wardrobe in the first place, and why Merlin finds his ring lodged away in the pocket of one of his hunting jackets, probably taken off to skin a carcass from the hunt and absent-mindedly forgotten.



It's weird, he thinks, because he never sees Arthur without his ring, not even when he bathes. It's large and obnoxious, much like its owner: almost an inch wide, silver, with a golden band in the middle covered in minute inscriptions that are so worn Merlin can't make sense of them. And, also like His Royal Highness, it's a rather pretty thing, though it carries its fair share of nicks from the time it's served in battle on Arthur's hand.



Content in having the rest of the afternoon to do as he pleases, Merlin flops backwards onto Arthur's enormous bed, sinking blissfully into the thick duvet and nest of pillows. It's a rare occasion that he can safely take a nap in the prince's bed, and he shuffles a bit to get comfortable, kicking off his boots and reclining against the pillow-covered headboard.



He rolls Arthur's ring between his thumb and middle finger, watching the candlelight dance along the rim. The band is heavy and polished smooth by being worn almost constantly for as long as Merlin can remember. He attempts to buff the ring against the sleeve of his tunic, thinking that the jewellery should, at least, be clean and polished when Arthur returns to claim it, and no doubt blame Merlin for his having forgotten it in the first place.



But his sleeve is loose and slips as he rubs the ring against it, and the metal stings the thin skin along the underside of his wrist. It's cool to the touch, despite the warmth the raging fire in the mantle has brought to the room. He runs the ring along the path of his wrist again, lightly this time—his arm springs out in gooseflesh and he shivers pleasantly. 



He tries it again, pulling back the sleeve of his tunic and running it along the underside of his entire forearm. This time the shiver continues up his arm, over his chest and all the way down to his groin. He shifts, biting his lip, and looks at the window; the sky is overcast and it's snowing, so it's pretty impossible to tell exactly what time it is. Surely he has at least an hour or two before Arthur returns?



It's not as if this isn't the first time something like this has happened. Usually it tends to happen while gathering Arthur's clothes for laundry, surrounded by the prince's scent, and by the time Merlin drops off the clothes to be laundered he has to practically run back to his room for an urgent wank. Sometimes he doesn't even make it out of Arthur's chambers, where the smell is strongest. Merlin has more than once succumbed to the urge then and there; collapsing on the bed in the empty room, surrounded by pillows and sheets and worn clothes thick with Arthur’s scent.



Merlin holds the ring up to his nose and takes an experimental sniff. The ring doesn't smell like Arthur; it doesn't smell like anything, really. The bedsheets have already been changed, so there is no Arthur smell to drug him, but something about the ring—this piece of Arthur, something he never leaves behind—it's almost as good as having Arthur here himself. 



He must also admit that the cool, smooth curve of the metal feels sinfully good against his skin. He hikes up his tunic under his arms, exposing his chest and stomach, and slips the ring on his finger. His fingers are thinner than Arthur's, but longer, and the ring sits loosely on his index finger as he draws it along his sides, tickling his ribs. He bites his lip again as he draws the ring over a nipple, his other hand tugging blindly at his trousers.



He continues to rub his nipples, alternating between them with a gentle pinch against the ring while his other hand works his cock slowly, lazily, the flesh growing hot and hard in his grip. Merlin shifts, spreading his legs, and lets his hand wander lower to cup his balls. The heel of his hand rubs the soft skin there as he slides the ring down along the cleft of his chest. He brushes the ring around the sensitive skin of his navel before tracing the line of his hip, arching into his own touch.



He pauses briefly to concentrate on the cupboard on the other side of the room; his eyes flash, glinting gold, as the door to the cupboard springs open and a small bottle of bathing oil sails across the room and rolls to a stop beside him on the mattress. It's the same perfumed oil he uses when preparing Arthur's bath, thick and musky with a hint of lavender. He slicks his hands with it before returning to his ministrations, stroking himself languidly, alternating hands to allow the hard, cool surface of the ring to slide along his oiled erection.



He squeezes just under the head, feels the metal bite into the skin there, and lets out a soft hiss. He draws the ring around the head of his cock, lightly tracing it, swirling it around the slit.



The door to the chambers suddenly bursts open and Arthur emerges in a flurry of motion, dropping his long coat onto the floor and stops short as he looks up at the bed, eyes growing wide. 



Merlin sits up so quickly he nearly throws up, swinging his feet off the far side of the bed. He's facing away from Arthur, trying to remember how to breathe; he can feel his face burning with the embarrassment at being caught like this, his cheeks and ears suddenly so hot he feels feverish. His shirt flops back down to cover his torso, gravity taking its time to cover his indecency, and Merlin wonders briefly on what the official punishment is for being caught wanking in the crown prince's chambers. It's got to be worse than the stocks, he thinks. Maybe a few nights in the dungeons? But Gwen and Gaius usually sneak him food, so a few nights in the dungeons is hardly punishment—it's actually quite nice, to have a few days off—so no, it can't be that. 



Surely they don't behead you for having it off in one of the royal bedchambers, do they?



He expects Arthur to be angry and shout at him or, worse, to laugh and make a mockery of this, of his pathetic little fantasies. But Arthur does neither of these things. He finally hears Arthur move. The door thunks as he swings it closed and again as he bars it; his sword clangs as he tosses it on the table; his chainmail shings as it hits the floor. Merlin remembers himself long enough to realise that um, right, time to tuck yourself back in and pretend this never happened, Merlin, as Arthur—apparently feeling uncharacteristically kind—seems to be giving him the opportunity to do.



Merlin begins fumbling with the laces of his trouser-front when there is suddenly a weight on the bed behind him, and he freezes as Arthur's chest presses into his shoulders, his knees coming to rest on either side of Merlin's hips. Merlin is suddenly engulfed in Arthur's smell—Merlin inhales quickly and it leaves him feeling light-headed.



“Where d'you think you're going?” Arthur murmurs over his shoulder, lips brushing the shell of his ear. 



His arms reach around Merlin, gently but firmly catching his wrists. Merlin shivers and sinks back into the embrace, eyes refusing to open just in case he's fallen asleep and is experiencing the best dream he's ever had.

“I—I was. I was just—”

“Keeping all the fun to yourself?” Arthur suggests. Merlin can feel Arthur's hand creeping along the back of his, his index finger prodding the loose band there. Arthur sounds amused, or incredulous, or perhaps a bit of both. “That's very selfish of you, Merlin. Is this my ring?”

Merlin opens his eyes and makes a funny noise deep in his throat. Arthur's left hand, resting atop his, is a hair's breadth away from his cock — slick and swollen, a dark pink — and he can't seem to make sense of anything else. His mind is entirely focused on that hand, trying with the force of sheer will  to move it over that final, crucial distance. 

“Um,” he manages.

Arthur's chuckle is soft against the back of his neck and he lifts the hem of Merlin's tunic up with his right hand, splaying his hand along his navel, his thumb lightly caressing the skin there. With his left, he pries his ring off Merlin's finger—it's easy, the ring barely catches on the knuckle—and slips his own index finger through it, leaving it balanced on the fingertip.

“So this is what I'm paying you to do while I'm away, is it?” Arthur continues, and Merlin tilts his head back, colliding with Arthur's shoulder and resting there. It's the only thing holding him up, because the rest of him is melting into a fiery puddle of pleasure that pools in his groin as Arthur takes the ring on his fingertip and places it at the base of his cock, running the cool metal along the spine, coming to a halt just below the head. He lets out a completely undignified noise as Arthur takes the tip of his cock between his thumb and forefinger and  squeezes .

Merlin manages to pull in a deep, shuddering breath as Arthur removes his hand long enough to slide the ring back into place, resting between the knuckles of his index finger. Merlin looses all of this air and then some as the hand returns to his oil-slicked cock, wrapping around the base, the ring pressing into his skin when Arthur tightens his grip. 

“Sire,” he chokes out, pleading.

Arthur presses his face into the side of his neck and groans. He strokes Merlin's cock once, twice, and whispers hoarsely in his ear, “Say that again.”

“Sire ,” Merlin begs, or tries to. It comes out a little high-pitched as Arthur's hand develops a slow, steady rhythm, fisting up and down his cock, twisting over the head, the hard surface of his ring biting into the crown with every stroke.

Something else is biting into the flesh of his neck, and he realises it's Arthur's teeth, dragging down the tense muscle there. Merlin is eternally grateful he'd taken off his neckerchief earlier. The hardness of teeth on the junction of his neck and shoulder combined with the pinch of metal along the shaft of his cock is possibly the most amazing thing he's ever felt. 

He whines in protest as Arthur pauses to switch hands; his right taking over stroking Merlin's cock, his left slipping up his abdomen, dragging his shirt out of the way as it goes. Merlin shudders against him, his own hands gripping desperately at Arthur's knees by his hips, mouth open and gasping for breath.

Arthur pinches a nipple between the ring and his thumb and the rough treatment coaxes a whimper out of Merlin's throat. Arthur seems encouraged by the noise and does it again, his right hand picking up its pace on Merlin's cock, his teeth sinking back into the already-tender skin of Merlin's neck. 

Sharp, intense jolts of pleasure are shooting between the three points of contact, and Merlin closes his eyes as he arches up into Arthur's grip, his shoulders pressing back into Arthur's chest, head thrown to one side to give the prince as much access as he can to his neck. Arthur's left hand abandons his nipples in favour of sliding flat down his chest and navel before digging in his nails and raking his fingers back up. 

Merlin's eyes fly open and he chokes out Arthur's name, hips jerking forward as Arthur twists his hand one final time. Merlin shudders and collapses back against him, breath coming in short, ragged gasps as Arthur coaxes out every drop of milky fluid Merlin has in him. Arthur's lips and tongue are nursing the tender areas of his neck as he draws his left hand up, covered in Merlin's mess. Merlin opens his mouth obediently when Arthur draws his finger across his lips. He sucks on the finger, tongue curling around the ring; it tastes metallic and bitter and it's not exactly pleasant, but Arthur grunts encouragingly as Merlin's teeth drag over his knuckle and shifts, pressing his own erection urgently into Merlin's backside.

“But,” Merlin attempts in a small voice, reading Arthur's intentions, “you'll be late for the feast.”

“The feast,” Arthur growls into his neck, “can go hang.”

 

oOo

When they finally make it downstairs to the feast, they're almost an hour late. The King welcomes his son enthusiastically before shooting a glare at Merlin, as if he knows it's somehow his fault for Arthur's late arrival.

Merlin tries to look innocent, but flushes furiously as Arthur takes his seat beside his father and looks up. He catches Merlin's gaze and smirks, his right hand coming up  to adjust the ring, twisting it slowly around his finger.

Oh, Uther,  Merlin thinks, trying and failing not to grin madly. He slips behind a pillar to suck in a shaky breath.  If you had  any  idea... 

 

o fin o