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Arthur loves Merlin’s body, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. But some parts he likes even more. Take his eyes, for example. Merlin’s eyes are a glorious, wild blue. Paler when he's calm, bright when he's laughing, dark with anger when Arthur has managed to be a clod pole again, or with want in the candlelight, when they are alone in Arthurs chambers, late at night. The darker they are, (preferably with want) the more Arthur loves them.
Merlin’s hands are slender, sinewy and strong, with impossibly, maddeningly long fingers. Those hands must have been made to find every erogenous zone on Arthur’s body. Those fingers write something new onto his skin, from the spot between his shoulder blades to the inside of his thighs, marking him into something new. The scorching heat they leave behind is unbearable, making the ache between his thighs build until it feels as if he is going mad, only finding relief by leaning back and opening himself up for those questioning hands, thighs parting in invitation.
Those glorious hands are soon followed by a slick mouth and an agile tongue, and Arthur groans with pleasure. He loves that sinful mouth, especially when it paints a trail of saliva from his mouth and straight down to his cock. Short, light, kitten-like licks to his throbbing hardness and Arthurs hands fist the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to. Merlin is in a teasing mood tonight, clearly plotting to drive his master completely out of his mind, but Arthur can’t find it in him to complain when Merlin takes him into his mouth, head bobbing once, twice, before abandoning the task and then that amazing tongue works its way further down, pausing to lave his balls with saliva. Arthur braces himself, feet pressing into the mattress and hips rising involuntarily. Merlin is clearly not done with him yet.
A delirious cry breaks from Arthurs lips when Merlin’s tongue presses inside his body; it is far too much and not near enough. His hips buck, his fingers clutch, his eyes fall shut. Nooo, stop, don’t- but Merlin does. His slender fingers grip Arthur’s hips, hard enough to leave bruises, as he buries his tongue as far as it can go between clenching cheeks, teasing the secret opening into letting him inside. Arthur keens, back bowing. Merlin’s grip on his hips hardens in response, and that maddening tongue withdraws. But before he can voice a complaint it is back, working tirelessly to turn Arthur into a quivering, whimpering wreck, aching to be filled. And he is aching, now, for the feel of something else that he loves. But first Merlin really gives this task all his focus, as he always does when he is invested in something. His tongue circles and jabs, thrusts, goes from rigid to molten, slithering heat. Arthur bites his own tongue to keep from squealing at a particularly vicious thrust, but fails. His hips jerk, his head falls back, and a shattered cry that could be interpreted as his manservant’s name rips itself from his throat. And the tongue is suddenly gone.
Arthur collapses back onto the bed, chest heaving, breathless and over stimulated but at the same time desperate for more. But he has no time to gather his wits about him as Merlin invades him again, this time with one of those magnificent fingers. It pushes slowly into his saliva-slick opening, and the prince rewards his servant with a breathy, hungry groan. He tries to resist, but his body is already moving, pushing down onto that finger, wanting more, deeper. A second finger joins the first and Arthur groans again, the ache between his thighs intensifying. His cock is rock hard and drooling onto his stomach, but he ignores it. All his focus is further down at this point in time. All that matters are those fingers that are at this moment scissoring him open, pushing in to find-
Arthur howls, his entire body convulsing, as Merlin’s fingers come across the bundle of nerves inside that must have been designed to drive men mad: he has never known anything half as enjoyable as this. Is this what women feel, when they scream his name and claw at his back? If it is anything as glorious as what he feels now, caught in the intense blue gaze, skewered on those clever fingers, arching and writhing like a mad thing – surely his mother’s God must be a Goddess. OH, he loves those fingers. And never mind status and propriety when he is like this, on the verge of insanity, body humming with pleasure and desire. Those fingers are ruthlessly stimulating that spot now, pressing and pushing, parting and closing again, as they work him loose enough to be able to take what Merlin is clearly going to make him receive tonight. And stars, is he ever willing.
He loves Merlin’s cock. Worships it, you might even say. He has seen bigger on some of his knights, wider too, but this particular piece of anatomy fits inside his body like a hand in a silk glove. Merlin has even told him so, once, when they clung to each other, silencing the others cries with their kiss-starved lips. He feels like silk inside, snug and hot and tight and just wet enough, causing the most delicious friction known to man. Merlin’s cock stands hard and proud, drooling slightly. He wants – no, he needs – it inside. That is the way he prefers it; when Merlin rides between his thighs, fast or slow doesn’t matter, whether the man picks a brutal pace that has the bed rocking beneath them or spends hours loving him into ecstasy. Arthur frankly does not care, as long as that cock buries itself inside. He needs it. He’s desperate for it. He is quite willing, at this point, to beg for it. He knows that when that amazing cock finds the same spot inside as the fingers have just tormented, he will scream out to his mother’s God. That is slightly embarrassing, but he will worry about that in the morning. Tonight he wants to feel it. Wants to be possessed, owned, pounded into like a piece of steak being hit over and over again with a meat mallet. And he’ll scream till his throat is hoarse, for God, for more, for Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.
Another part of Merlin that Arthur simply adores is his hips. Merlin’s hips are skinny, almost uncomfortably so, with prominent hip bones. The reason Arthur loves them is that they fit perfectly between his thighs, pushing them apart and forcing his knees to bend, but not in a way that is uncomfortable, simply in a way he knows will ache in the morning. But it is an ache he has grown to crave – it reminds him of the slow, rocking motion that Merlin’s hips do when his beautiful cock slowly, oh so slowly, pushes inside Arthurs body. And this part is always slow; no matter how frantic they are or how little time they have to come together. Merlin is always careful not to hurt him, even at the height of his passion. As if Arthur is something that could break in his hands, shatter beneath him. Perhaps he is right; Arthur only ever feels breakable in this man’s hands.
The gentle swell of Merlin’s buttocks is just perfect, in Arthurs mind. This is because they fill his hands just right when he desperately clutches at them as Merlin bottoms out inside him, hips pressed against his arse. Merlin makes a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, holding still for a moment to let Arthur adjust to him. Squeezing his buttocks is Arthur’s way of saying “I’m ready, take me” when his voice refuses to cooperate.
But perhaps he loves Merlin’s shoulders more, considering the way his nails leave bright red scratches on them while his world comes undone from the feel of Merlin thrusting inside him, slowly at first, gently, but with increasing speed and vigor as Arthurs hole yields to the invader, his body becoming soft and pliable. Or perhaps he prefers the small of Merlin’s back; it is, after all, perfect for digging his heels into as his legs lock around his lovers’ slim waist to encourage him to thrust harder, deeper, give him more than he can take of the glorious sensation of being filled and possessed.
Merlin’s mouth is pressed against his throat, hoarse groans and needy whimpers working their way past his swollen lips to accompany his own cries. He loves that mouth. Wants that mouth on his always: if he could go through life kissing Merlin, feeling Merlin like this, he would. His nails rake down Merlin’s back, his legs lock around the slender waist, every part of his being focused on where they are joined; his entire body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, is singing with pleasure every time Merlin presses against the bundle of nerves inside. Arthur’s cock presses between their heaving bodies, the stimulation almost too much to bear. But he doesn’t want this to stop: wants it to go on forever. An eternity writhing like this would not be enough.
He is screaming now, as he knew he would be. Frantic cries of “please” and “god” and “Merlin” fall from his lips in a never-ending stream as one of his hands find its way, how he knows not, to bury itself in Merlin’s hair. Merlin, who is pounding into him now with sharp, stabbing movements, his pleasured cries matching Arthurs.
Arthur loves Merlin’s body. He loves it the most in moments like this, when they cling to each other, joined together, like they belong like this. When the pleasure is mounting in a way that is almost painful, Merlin’s lips pressing hungry kisses to his throat, slender hands digging into his sides to hold Arthur’s trembling body in place, cries of bliss being torn from the dark haired mans throat as if reluctant to leave the haven of his mouth. His hips are stuttering, back heaving, hands clutching, cock erupting liquid fire deep inside Arthur, and it is too much. Arthur is screaming, body shaking, nails clawing, head snapping back so fast and so hard it will hurt in the morning. But he doesn’t care – he is coming undone, falling apart, shattering and imploding until the only fixed point in his world is the hardness still pressing inside, the warmth of him, the weight of him, on him and in him and wrapped in his arms, his legs, snugly buried in his body.
Arthur loves Merlin’s body. His eyes, mouth, hands, hips, arse, shoulders, back, cock… but like this, trembling, sweating, panting with the aftershocks… he loves the entirety most of all. The feel of Merlin’s body pressed against his own, still stuck together by slick, sweat, saliva and sperm, heaving with aftershocks, is … perfect. He loves it.
But he doesn't love that glorious body half as much as he loves the look in the stormy blue eyes now, eyes that are soft with pleasure and affection, looking at him as if he is something precious, as they lie together in the afterglow of their passion.
Arthur loves Merlin’s body. But he loves Merlin more.