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The leather is cold against his skin, raises goosebumps along the back of his thighs. The gloved tips of Arthur’s fingers are sliding smoothly over the swell of his cheek, tracing a circle around the highest point. There is a pause in movement and Merlin’s breath stills in his chest as he waits, and the cheeks of his arse jerk once as he tightens his muscles in high-strung tension, the pert flesh pressing briefly up against Arthur’s fingers; a ghost touch. Arthur resumes his movements, and Merlin’s breath escapes him suddenly, growing laboured at the dragging touch of the leather wandering diagonally across his cheek into the centre where it’s hottest, straight across the globe of his arse. Merlin’s hold on the bedsheet tightens, fingernails scratching over it, and he’s getting the fabric moist underneath his mouth where he’s breathing heavily against it with his face pushed into the pillow. He’s waiting for it, and then he’s holding his breath again and there’s a hitch in his heartbeat, just as the pads of Arthur’s fingers dip down into the curve of his cheek, sliding downwards so slowly, too slowly, only just touching the other cheek of his arse, and Merlin can feel his arse being parted, parted, parted incrementally by tiny amounts, and Arthur’s a fucking tease, he knows where Merlin really wants it, knows he wants it further down where it’s so hot and tight and—sweet Jesus, almost there, just a bit—
“Wanted to teach you,” Arthur murmurs, fore- and middlefinger stuck between Merlin’s arse cheeks and not moving, not fucking moving. It’s taking every ounce of willpower that Merlin possesses to not just crawl onto his knees and push his arse back, demanding for those royal fingers to get the fuck inside him, preferably now, cause oh dear God those are royal fingers indeed, thick and long and calloused, so wonderful when they spread him open, so delicious without lube and just with spit, the slow burning slide of dry skin against his sensitive inside, the inside of his tight little hole, and Arthur’s not moving.
“Teach you how to really”—and then he’s moving his fingers, he’s moving them, but it’s the wrong direction because he’s moving them away and Merlin whines, whines into the pillow, mouth contorted in a pouty, dissatisfied line because he wants those fingers back—“handle a man, Merlin.”
Merlin wants to tell him that Arthur himself doesn’t know shite about how to treat a man, because clearly, if he did, he’d have stuck his stupidly delicious fingers into Merlin’s arse a long while ago, would’ve pushed them inside to the hilt so Merlin’s greedy hole would’ve swallowed them all up, and then he’d have pulled them out, parted his hole with his fingers and would’ve maybe have licked at the pink inside with his tongue, sliding inside wet and warm—
“Here’s how,” Arthur says, and Merlin barely has the time to realise the words before Arthur’s hand comes down to slap the right cheek of his arse, to slap it so hard the ensuing sound goes straight to Merlin’s dick, makes it twitch and leak at the tip, so obscene—it’s almost like a clap but it’s fuller somehow, richer, filthier, it’s a shock in the silence and Merlin fucking loves it.
Arthur doesn’t go on immediately, and it feels so good as he slides his whole hand around the globe of Merlin’s arse cheek, cups the warm skin with his large hand, the leather cool and wonderfully relieving against the slight burn. The hand stays there and Merlin wants to whine again, wants to push his arse back up to get it moving, because for fuck’s sake Arthur doesn’t have the restraint of a monk even if that’s what he always goes on about, but really it takes Arthur all of fifteen minutes to throw everything into the wind and just bend Merlin over the way he likes to do and fuck him hard and raw and rough over the table. So Merlin just makes a garbling noise into the cushion, and there’s a tremble in his legs from staying still all the fucking time, because Arthur’d said if he really wanted to be shown he shouldn’t move, and Merlin, for the first time in his life, obeys Arthur.
Cause he knows Arthur makes good on his promises.
“Such a pert little butt,” Arthur compliments him, begins humming under his breath as his hand starts moving the plump cheek in his hand, making it a nice massage, cupping the skin and moving it about in circles. Merlin’s breath shudders in his chest, and he has to raise his head for a moment to gasp for air. Eyes closed, face flushed and breathing in deeply, he lets out a guttural groan of frustration with each time Arthur’s hand touches the other cheek of his arse but won’t come closer. He needs this, needs this so fucking much, needs Arthur’s hand on him, inside him, and oh God he can’t wait anymore.
“Arthur please,” he whines, voice high and miserable, half of it drowned in the cushion, and it comes out as a garbled mess and if he’s lucky Arthur’ll just ignore and pretend it was a moan very gone wrong.
And it’s not quite what he imagined it’d be, but he doesn’t complain as there’s a hand in his hair dragging his head back forcefully, the angle awkward with Arthur leaning forward. The hand on Merlin’s arse is gone now, but it’s kind of okay because Arthur’s breathing wetly, hotly against the shell of his ear from behind, and his grip in Merlin’s hair makes Merlin’s scalp sting. The bastard knows exactly what he likes, knows Merlin’s masochistic streak, has smelt it from a whole mile away and picked up on it with a crooked grin and glinting eyes, promising so much. And Arthur’s been honest, hasn’t he, ‘cause he’s making good on his promise after all, and before Merlin knows what’s happening there’s the faint smell of leather in his nostrils, making his breath hitch. Arthur’s gloved hand trails over his collarbones and up his throat, tracing an oval contour around his Adam’s apple just to feel it bob as Merlin swallows thickly. Finally the fingers come up to Merlin’s lips, to those lips that are forever readily parted for whatever Arthur wants to shove inside. Usually Merlin likes it best when it’s Arthur’s dick, the fleshy spit-slick slide of Arthur’s thick erection in his mouth, down his throat, cause he loves to choke on it, loves the heady, painful rush of being short of breath, the sharp scent of Arthur’s musk and sweat so intense in his nose. But this time it’s not his dick but three fingers that he shoves into Merlin’s mouth, three gloved fingers, and it takes thick, tastes like something he can’t quite describe—it’s smooth under Merlin’s tongue, different from the roughness of dry skin, but he loves it, loves it as he works his mouth around Arthur’s fingers as best as he can, making it nice and slick and wet, sucking almost langurously because he loves being able to suck on things.
“That’s the only bit you’ll get,” Arthur mutters, hand tightening in Merlin’s hair, dragging his head back to briefly lie against Arthur’s shoulder. Merlin tries to swallow with all the salive in his mouth, but he can’t, he can’t, and his jaw is getting sore from having his mouth forced open all the while, and it hurts, hurts, hurts. “So be good.”
Merlin’s got all but a few moments’ time before Arthur lets go of him. The fingers in his mouth are gone and Merlin’s shoved back on all fours, and then Arthur’s back down between his legs again, not wasting any time. Merlin’s hole convulses around nothing in anticipation, ‘cause he knows that soon he’ll be filled, he’ll be full and sated and satisfied with Arthur’s hand or dick inside him, and his legs wobble dangerously with the idea of it.
But again it’s not what he expected, and Merlin has no time to think about how the bit of wetness on Arthur’s fingers will be gone by the time Arthur’s finished because he’s already pushed face-first down, and the force of Arthur’s hand slapping against his arse insane and blood-boiling and intense. The sounds are dulled from the leather around Arthur’s hand, but it feels so good, feels so good, Merlin’s skin burning and stinging and hurting so bad in all the best ways, and Merlin makes a sound deep in his throat that is something between a growl and a moan.
“That’s the way it works,” Arthur says, and Merlin can barely understand him because his ears are ringing with the impact of the slaps, the slick sound of it going snap-snap-snap rapidly, forcefully raining down against his skin until his butt is a red mess of burning, sore skin that makes his dick only harder, if possible.
“You need to be chastened because you did it wrong,” Arthur continues, seemingly nonchalant as all fuck as he gives all his strength into slapping the shit out of Merlin’s arse, forearm flexing with the movement and the force it takes. Merlin imagines the muscles of Arthur’s arm bunching under the skin with each movement, and it makes saliva pool underneath his tongue that he has to swallow down to keep from drooling. The blows suddenly stop and Merlin’s left disoriented, the silence deafening after all the noise, leaving a ringing in his ears. The bed creaks and there’s the sound of someone shifting, and Arthur’s kneeling beside him on the bed, face close to Merlin’s so he’s speaking lowly into his ear. “But there’s more.”
Then he leaves Merlin alone on the bed, who is waiting with bated breath and his arse in the air, unmoving, to listen to Arthur moving about. There’s the sound of a drawer being opened and shut, and the bed’s creaking again, followed by the familiar sound of a jar being opened. Merlin’s mind goes the next ten steps in a few seconds and he’s pushing himself up on his elbows and staring at Arthur over his shoulder, chest heaving.
And he watches as Arthur dips those gloved fingers into the jar, one after the other, and soon they’re glistening like an extra layer of oil or something shiny has been overturned on it, and it makes Merlin’s mouth water again. He watches wordlessly, unconsciously shifting his legs wider apart like a bitch in heat, getting his arse higher up in the air so Arthur can reach easily enough.
“There’s another kind of horseplay, Merlin,” Arthur says, and there’s a rugged note to his words that hasn’t been there before. Merlin stares, transfixed, at the way the gloved, glistening fingers curl into a fist, and he knows if it weren’t for the lube the leather would creak with the movement. Arthur slides his bare hand over the small of Merlin’s back and up his spine, comes to rest between his shoulder blades and exerts pressure, effectively pushing Merlin’s upper body back down again. When he retracts his hand he drags his fingernails over Merlin’s back, a promise of what is to come.
“And I will show you how it’s done,” Arthur growls, and Merlin’s entire body jolts as he shoves two of his fingers inside Merlin’s hole without warning. Arthur’s movements betray impatience as he begins moving ruthlessly inside Merlin, twisting and turning his fingers to spread Merlin as much as possible. Merlin feels his chest quake with the impossible sting of the pain down there, right at the centre, right where he’s wanted it, because it’s so hot down there, and he’s so tight around it, his flesh clinging to Arthur’s gloved fingers as they push in, pull out, push in, pull out, push in in in up to the hilt until it can’t possibly go any farther than this. His skin is straining to accommodate, flesh parting forcefully around Arthur, thick fingers prodding and agonizing the tight muscled ring at the entrance until it begins yielding. Then there’s a third finger, and Merlin feels so exposed, so exposed and open and raw and his skin is tingling all over with fire and it’s impossible, this sinful pleasurable pain and the painful pleasure he derives from it, from having three fingers shoved up his arse, but he loves it, loves it so much he’s whining with every halting breath, clawing at the bedsheet, grip tight and cramped, and he’s moving his hips abortively back and forth because he wants this, wants this so much it consumes him, a black swirling fire growing in his belly like the spread of slow heat in his loins, and he moves back with Arthur’s movements, fucking himself while Arthur’s fucking him too, and it hurts, it hurts so good, so good it cannot possibly be from this world.
“We’re not doing half-hearted jobs, Merlin,” Arthur says roughly, and Merlin knows what he must look like, legs spread just for Arthur, hole spread just for Arthur, spread so wide and painful and open, gaping, sucking and swallowing his fingers like that’s where they’re supposed to be always. “We’re not doing friendly slaps. We’re doing hard slaps,” Arthur says, one hand coming around to hold onto Merlin’s hip, pushing his lower body back while his other hand simultaneously shoves forward, and there’s a wonderful epxlosion inside Merlin’s body that makes him shudder with liquid fire running wild in his veins, and his legs definitely buckle now. They give way beneath him, and Merlin can’t do anything but keep holding onto the sheet as his entire lower body sags down. He clutches at the sheet with his fingers while he gasps and moans and whines into the pillow, drool now flowing freely from the corners of his mouth.
Arthur’s gone for a moment after that, and Merlin guesses he re-applies the lube because his touch is wetter than before. He shifts forward on his knees and bends down to slide his arm underneath Merlin’s hips, keeps him secured and tight in his grip as he uses his thumb to push at the cheeks of Merlin’s arse, pushing it to the side so he can work his fourth finger in there, and it’s a slow, terrifyingly painful process that makes Merlin cry at last, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and getting lost in the pillow beneath him. There’s no air left to breathe in, his lungs working empty now, and if Merlin hadn’t told Arthur so many times that he loves this he knows Arthur wouldn’t be here, doing this. But Merlin does, does love it, the almost unreal amount of pain winding through his body, like razors sitting underneath his skin, waiting to snap and drive into him with the twisting edge of pleasure that makes his whole vision go white. He yields to Arthur completely, trusts Arthur completely, which is why Arthur keeps going, keeps his weak, inert body close to his own as he presses the fourth finger into Merlin, hole stretching impossibly wide, and Merlin doesn’t really realise what is going on anymore, so high and drugged on the pleasure and the pain and Arthur being so close, and Arthur’s getting really into it, because he keeps whispering filthy things.
“Hard slaps, Merlin,” he says, moving half of his hand inside Merlin as he fucks him frantically, and Arthur’s voice is so guttural it manages to send a shiver of heat down Merlin’s spine. “Harder,” he says, and he means it, because the pace he’s going at should be illegal but he does it anyway, no ounce of control left in the way he’s continuously moving his fingers into and out of Merlin. “Harder, harder, harder,” he says, and Merlin can hear the breath in his voice, can hear the arousal, can hear the heat the lust the need the reverence and then—
Oh.
Oh.
Merlin’s mouth opens, wide, soundless, eyes snapping open, unseeing, fingers uncurling from their desperate grasp to lie limply on the bedsheet, and he’s so fucked, he’s so fucked and gone and out of his mind he’s sure it’s unreal, it must be.
Because, there, that—suddenly—there’s—more, there’s more, there’s more of Arthur, more more more, and he didn’t think there could be more, but oh God there’s all of Arthur inside him now, all of that glorious man inside him, and Merlin feels every inch, of course he does, all of Arthur inside him, and it’s all his, and he’s so full, he’s so full and satisfied, and it’s so good, so good, it hurts so much, so lovely, so bloody lovely—
“Merlin fuck I’m so hard,” Arthur says behind him, and his controlled demeanour is shattered in the blink of an eye as Merlin gives a boneless, full-body shudder beneath him. A sob tears through Arthur’s chest, and his voice becomes thick, words getting hazy, as if slurred. “I want to fuck you good, Merlin, want to make you feel so good,” he sobs, moving his arm gently now, because for all the world there’s no chance that Merlin’s taking a rough pounding with an entire hand in his arse. He’s moving his arm gently, getting his hand to slide in and out smoothly, slowly, a soothing rhythm for for the frenzied pain wracking Merlin’s chest, a soothing balm for the pleasure that’s spiking wildly underneath his skin, thrumming hard with every disjointed beat of his heart, and Arthur just keeps talking as he moves his hand, he just keeps talking, and Merlin can’t.
Oh God, he just can’t.
“I’m fucking you so good, oh God Merlin, so good,” Arthur says through a whine, voice trembling and shaking and God it’s the most beautiful thing Merlin’s ever heard. “You’re so tight and lovely and beautiful, so pretty pretty pretty, my Merlin, you’re mine, all the time, you’re mine, Merlin, mine mine mine—Merlin, oh—mine—and, and—fuck—I want to stay inside you all—all the time,” he moans deeply, and Merlin feels himself climbing up higher, higher, higher to where he’s never been before, “want to feel you all the time around me, all the time—”
There’s a blinding flash of white in Merlin’s vision, and he comes with a shudder, tears flowing freely with the abandon of the pain and the pleasure and the pain, the pain all over his backside, so much pain, and he’ll feel Arthur forever like this, forever, forever, forever, and nothing else matters.