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winterknightsTitle: Something More Palatable
Author/Artist: ???
Pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin, implied side Gwen/Morgana
Prompt: Established Merthur or first time, I just want some fluffy holiday baking scenes for these two. Bonus points if someone gets cream/icing on their hands/face and the other feels compelled to lick it off them
Word Count/Art Medium: 2,458
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): *Description of vomiting (temporary and over and done with quickly)*
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Huge thanks to my wonderful, kind betas C and W. Yes, Arthur’s cooking is at least partly inspired by this year’s bake-off winner. You twigged!
Summary Arthur is the first ever vegan Great British Bake-off Champion. His long-suffering husband, Merlin, has the onerous job of testing all Arthur’s bakes in the lead up to publishing a vegan Christmas recipe book.
Read it on AO3: Something More Palatable
***THEN***
The first time Merlin met his future husband, Arthur bested him in a lengthy bout of burp tennis that culminated in Merlin getting to know Arthur’s toilet more intimately than he had anticipated.
It was all his PA, Gwen’s fault, really. It started when she cornered him on a too-hot, sunny Monday morning in mid-June before Merlin’s first coffee of the day (Gwen knew his weak points far too well).
“Can you come to that brunch on Sunday, Merlin? It’s just, I don’t want to turn up on my own. Morgana will think I’m Johnny-no-mates. All her brother’s friends are going, it’d be awful to go on my own.”
“You’re not selling it to me.” Merlin yawned, peering at his screen. Shit. Supplier problems. He could not deal with that without caffeine inside. “Is there any chance of a coffee?”
“Machine’s broken.”
“Oh, God!” Merlin banged his head on his desk. “I will die if I have to deal with Helios before I’ve had a coffee.”
“I’ll call the engineer. But about Sunday… please, Merlin? It’s only our second date and I said I’d bring a plus one!”
“Which is my problem because…”
“You love me.”
“I do, but I’m busy on Sunday,” he lied and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled ten pound note. “Maybe you could pop out to Costa for me? I’m parched! Get yourself something at the same time.”
“Busy? What are you doing?” Ignoring Merlin’s legitimate and increasingly severe undercaffeination problem, she peered instead at the calendar app on her phone.
After another full ten minutes of being bombarded with “Oh, go on, please, Merlin!” and “No, you’re not at your mother’s that weekend, don’t forget I can see your diary!” and “Morgana’s brother is gay, and he’s a vegan! You never know, he might be cute,” and “Oh no, it’s absolutely not a blind date!” and, most annoyingly since it was Gwen that was depriving him of caffeine in the first place, “Stop being melodramatic, no-one ever died of caffeine deprivation,” he eventually gave up fabricating any more objections and agreed to come, if only because he knew it would mean she would be so pleased that she would finally bring him a soy-milk latte with extra caramel.
“I’ll get you a cinnamon bun as well,” she adds, whisking away his tenner with a bright smile.
Ah, well. It was worth it. How bad could brunch be, after all?
But when Sunday finally came, and Merlin lost the closely fought burp-tennis match (Arthur cheated. He must have done, the hypercompetitive fiend. No-one had ever beaten Merlin at burp tennis before!), as a forfeit, Arthur made him eat a whole jar of chilli pickles. And then Arthur and his equally prattish friends insisted on egging Merlin on. And Gwen, who really should have been in Merlin’s side, just sat there smirking behind her hand as he crammed in the last pickle, while Morgana slapped Merlin on the back and crowed at the fact that he was actually starting to cry.
But at least when Merlin was sick all over Arthur’s bathroom shortly afterwards, Arthur had the grace to be on hand with a mop, bucket and disinfectant. With a few efficient swipes of his hand, Arthur removed all the mess and in the next breath invited Merlin to sample something a little more palatable with him the following weekend.
God. Not only hypercompetitive, but a decisive prat as well. This was a serious problem. Because, if Merlin had a weakness, it was that he had a bit of a thing for hypercompetitive, decisive prats. Especially the ones who had earnest blue eyes, and a jawline that you could cut steel with.
“Next weekend?” Merlin gaped up at him from where he still sat clutching the toilet bowl, mouth aflame. “But we only just met! And I’ve made such a mess everywhere!”
Arthur just rolled his eyes at him. “I know that, idiot. However, I fancy you rotten. And you’re not afraid of following through on a bet. I like that in a man. Plus, while I’d love nothing more than to dump you in the shower and shag you silly in it, you’re still recovering from your indisposition, which might spoil your enjoyment of an otherwise phenomenal experience.”
“What??”
“What do you mean, what? Oh come on, Merlin. Don’t try to claim you don’t want to have a go at this.” Arthur dragged a hand down his admittedly well stacked torso.
“I mean… What about this hypothetical experience do you think I could possibly find phenomenal?”
“Well. I’d have thought that was obvious. It’s me.” Arthur smirked and crossed his arms, leaning back on the door frame. “And I’m the best.”
“Best at what?” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Bragging?”
“The best at everything, Merlin. Burp tennis. Football. Baking... Fucking.”
“Are you always this conceited?” murmured Merlin, chin on hand. “Or just when you’ve won a bet?”
“Let’s put it this way. After this, you’ll be dying to find out, won’t you?”
“As far as I can tell, the only thing that’s phenomenal around here is the size of your ego.”
But despite his vulnerable state, Merlin couldn’t help conceding that the gorgeous, arrogant bastard had a point. Because try as he might, he could not find one single flaw in Arthur’s anatomy. From the thatch of dark-gold hair, rosy lips, cheekbones that Merlin longed to rub his face against like a cat, all the way to the broad chest that begged to have Merlin’s head rest on it, the contours of Arthur’s body made a harmonious picture. And then lower down things if anything improved. A firm belly hinted at strength and solidity while thickly muscled thighs and glutes would normally make Merlin salivate— normally, as in at times when he didn’t have his head resting on his host’s toilet seat and eyes still watering from a recent bout of unpleasantness.
Rather than complain that this whole package put Arthur at an unfair advantage, Merlin took another glance through blurry eyes at the enticing round handfuls of Arthur’s arse where they rested against the door and found himself nodding.
“All right then,” he said, peeping up at Arthur through his lashes and blinking in a way that he hoped came across as flirtatious rather than pained, although how he could possibly succeed at flirting with his head resting on a loo seat and the lingering scent of Dettol everywhere, he wasn’t entirely sure. “I’d love to come along next week and see if you can follow through on your promises to provide something more palatable.”
When the following week finally dawned, the something more palatable turned into an afternoon binge-eating Arthur’s home-made vegan stroopwafels on his corner sofa while binge-watching episodes of The IT Crowd. And this palatable afternoon segued into an evening of binge-kissing Arthur on said sofa, followed by a vigorous and protracted evening of binge-fucking in a variety of locations around Arthur’s flat, interspersed with binge-eating Arthur’s home-made barbecue chick-pea pizza and binge-drinking Merlot. Which led inevitably to binge-sleeping in the generous surroundings of Arthur’s king-sized bed.
Well, he couldn’t make any judgments about football, but when it came to both the baking and the fucking, Merlin had to admit that Arthur had not been exaggerating his prowess. Although he would never say so out loud, obviously.
Sunday morning was spent repeating the whole experience with one difference; the stroopwafels were replaced by Arthur’s home-made coconut and soy-milk pancakes, slathered with generous amounts of maple syrup. It was on that occasion that licking maple syrup off Arthur’s lips and indeed many other enticing parts of Arthur’s anatomy became one of Merlin’s favourite pastimes. Later, Arthur defeated Merlin at strip monopoly, which led inevitably to further binge-fucking.
After eating Arthur’s home-made peanut-butter almond-milk ice-cream for lunch, and mentally reviewing the activities of the past twenty-four hours, Merlin also added bingeing in its various forms to the lengthening list of things that Arthur was an overachiever at. And although he complained out loud that his bum was getting sore from all the fucking, and that he would probably become diabetic from all the sugar that Arthur kept feeding him, his heart wasn’t really in it.
“Palatable?” said Arthur as he was leaving on Sunday night.
“Barely.” Merlin let one side of his mouth tug up into a grudging smile. “I suppose.” But judging by the smug expression on Arthur’s face, he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Same again next week?”
Merlin shrugged, smile widening. “Why not?”
***NOW***
Now, five years on, it Is a cold November evening and Arthur’s hypercompetitiveness has finally born fruit. Arthur has been crowned king of the Great British Bake-off Tent – the first vegan competitor to succeed in this achievement. Arthur has found the media attention a bit of a chore, but as his tester-in-chief, Merlin is not complaining. Especially now that his husband’s success has netted him a book deal assembling vegan Christmas recipes. Which means that on days like today, when Merlin returns from another humdrum stint in the office, the flat is warm with a lingering aroma of cinnamon, and alive with Arthur’s off-key singing.
Because one thing that Arthur didn’t mention in his roll-call of things that he was brilliant at was singing. And for a very good reason.
“Oh, my God. My ears are bleeding!” yells Merlin as he toes off his shoes and stumbles wearily into the kitchen. “Is someone being murdered? Should I call the police?”
“Shut up and taste this.” Arthur shovels something spiced and tangy with cinnamon and raisins into Merlin’s gaping mouth, and watches with serious eyes.
God, it is delicious. Sweet and melt-in-the-mouth soft. The icing on it delivers just the right amount of sugar and citrus, prompting Merlin to let out an appreciative hum as he munches, eyes fluttering closed to savour the delicious flavours.
“Okay?”
“Palatable,” says Merlin with his mouth full. Swallowing, he opens his mouth for more.
“Oh, no you don’t.” But Arthur’s eyes soften even as he snatches the rest of the bun away. “You’ve got more work to do, sampling the rest.”
Merlin turns his eyes to the work surface along which are arrayed several cinnamon buns, with labels indicating the ingredients and mixtures in each case. He smiles dreamily at the prospect of blind-testing them all. “Bring it on!”
Arthur fastens a blindfold across his eyes. “Ready?”
“Never readier.”
“Then sit.”
Settling on the kitchen chair that’s nudging his bum, Merlin cleanses his palate with a glass of water that Arthur raises to his lips as if he is a child, and then opens his mouth for the next sample.
“Mmm, that’s even better,” he says. “Softer. I like the icing. What have you done to it?”
“Madagascan vanilla pods.” Arthur proffers another sip of water and lets him swallow. “Okay?”
“Mmm.” Merlin hums his agreement. “It’s okay. But I’d rather have something even more palatable.” He enunciates this last phrase carefully, to ensure that Arthur gets his full meaning.
“Ah. I see. More palatable, is it?”
“Absolutely.” A happy grin tugs at Merlin’s mouth. He knew Arthur would understand.
“Now, I understand. That’s why you’ve been such a messy pup,” said Arthur, tsking. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“Mmm?” Still blindfolded, Merlin can’t see what Arthur’s going to do next, but he trusts him so completely that he knows he’ll like it.
“You’ve got icing all over your face. I’m going to have to clean it up. Here.” There’s a hot, wet sensation as Arthur sucks the icing off Merlin’s mouth and lavishes his lips with attention.
Merlin leans forward to capture Arthur’s lips in return, an instinctive movement that results in him tasting the icing on Arthur’s mouth with appreciative licks that make Arthur moan out loud.
“God, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs as his lips drift down Merlin’s neck. “Icing everywhere. Vanilla’s an expensive ingredient, you know.”
“Shame to waste it,” breathes Merlin. “You’d better mop it up.”
“On it.” The sensation of Arthur’s mouth ghosting across Merlin’s neck and jaw makes him shiver in anticipation. “God, Merlin. Your neck. It’s obscene. See how it turns pink when I suck it.” He sucks, creating a sharp tug that radiates from Merlin’s neck and shoots towards Merlin’s groin, making his trousers tighten until he whimpers in anticipation. “God, the vanilla’s okay but your neck is definitely more palatable.”
“It is?” Tilting his head slightly to allow Arthur better access, Merlin exhales softly.
“It tastes so good.” The cool trail of Arthur’s tongue across Merlin’s throat raises goosebumps on his flesh, making him gasp. “Salty and sweet. Makes me want to fuck you.”
This statement of intent sends a sharp pang of lust deep into Merlin’s belly. “God, yes,” he whispers, blindly twisting eager fingers into the soft strands of Arthur’s hair while Arthur licks and sucks at his neck. Arthur’s breath gusts across the damp glaze of sweat cooling on Merlin’s skin, making it tingle until he groans in anticipation.
“Right, that’s it.” With an abrupt twist of his hand, Arthur grasps the blindfold and drags it up over Merlin’s head. “You’re far too enticing like this, Merlin. Minx.”
Merlin blinks at him, at the wild clumps of hair that frame his face and the soft pink of his parted lips, before darting forward to press their mouths together, tugging at clothes in a desperate quest to touch the hot soft flesh of Arthur’s belly.
“God. Look at you. You’re such a distraction. I’m going to have to ravish you before I can do any more baking.” Grasping Merlin with one hand under each arm, Arthur turns him and starts pushing him towards the kitchen door.
“Oh, God. Yes.” Merlin allows himself to be half-dragged across the flat into the bedroom where Arthur manhandles him onto the bed, pressing their groins together as they kiss with wet, open mouths. “You domineering prat,” he adds as Arthur works at the buttons of Merlin’s shirt and the clasp of his belt.
“You love it, really,” murmurs Arthur, flipping him over onto his front and tugging Merlin’s trousers and underpants down. “You love being dominated.”
And God help him, Merlin does.
Later, after Arthur has bent him over the bed and fucked him into oblivion with his trousers still around his ankles and the sensation of Arthur’s mouth still tingling on his skin, Merlin sinks against the pillows with his eyes fluttering closed. Arthur undresses him properly and dabs at him with a warm flannel before arranging Merlin’s limbs carefully into a comfortable sleeping position.
“Was that more palatable?” murmurs Arthur against Merlin’s nape.
“Definitely.” Merlin manages a chuckle before drifting off to sleep with the reassuring wuffle of Arthur’s breath on his skin.
***END***
Author/Artist: ???
Pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin, implied side Gwen/Morgana
Prompt: Established Merthur or first time, I just want some fluffy holiday baking scenes for these two. Bonus points if someone gets cream/icing on their hands/face and the other feels compelled to lick it off them
Word Count/Art Medium: 2,458
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): *Description of vomiting (temporary and over and done with quickly)*
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Huge thanks to my wonderful, kind betas C and W. Yes, Arthur’s cooking is at least partly inspired by this year’s bake-off winner. You twigged!
Summary Arthur is the first ever vegan Great British Bake-off Champion. His long-suffering husband, Merlin, has the onerous job of testing all Arthur’s bakes in the lead up to publishing a vegan Christmas recipe book.
Read it on AO3: Something More Palatable
The first time Merlin met his future husband, Arthur bested him in a lengthy bout of burp tennis that culminated in Merlin getting to know Arthur’s toilet more intimately than he had anticipated.
It was all his PA, Gwen’s fault, really. It started when she cornered him on a too-hot, sunny Monday morning in mid-June before Merlin’s first coffee of the day (Gwen knew his weak points far too well).
“Can you come to that brunch on Sunday, Merlin? It’s just, I don’t want to turn up on my own. Morgana will think I’m Johnny-no-mates. All her brother’s friends are going, it’d be awful to go on my own.”
“You’re not selling it to me.” Merlin yawned, peering at his screen. Shit. Supplier problems. He could not deal with that without caffeine inside. “Is there any chance of a coffee?”
“Machine’s broken.”
“Oh, God!” Merlin banged his head on his desk. “I will die if I have to deal with Helios before I’ve had a coffee.”
“I’ll call the engineer. But about Sunday… please, Merlin? It’s only our second date and I said I’d bring a plus one!”
“Which is my problem because…”
“You love me.”
“I do, but I’m busy on Sunday,” he lied and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled ten pound note. “Maybe you could pop out to Costa for me? I’m parched! Get yourself something at the same time.”
“Busy? What are you doing?” Ignoring Merlin’s legitimate and increasingly severe undercaffeination problem, she peered instead at the calendar app on her phone.
After another full ten minutes of being bombarded with “Oh, go on, please, Merlin!” and “No, you’re not at your mother’s that weekend, don’t forget I can see your diary!” and “Morgana’s brother is gay, and he’s a vegan! You never know, he might be cute,” and “Oh no, it’s absolutely not a blind date!” and, most annoyingly since it was Gwen that was depriving him of caffeine in the first place, “Stop being melodramatic, no-one ever died of caffeine deprivation,” he eventually gave up fabricating any more objections and agreed to come, if only because he knew it would mean she would be so pleased that she would finally bring him a soy-milk latte with extra caramel.
“I’ll get you a cinnamon bun as well,” she adds, whisking away his tenner with a bright smile.
Ah, well. It was worth it. How bad could brunch be, after all?
But when Sunday finally came, and Merlin lost the closely fought burp-tennis match (Arthur cheated. He must have done, the hypercompetitive fiend. No-one had ever beaten Merlin at burp tennis before!), as a forfeit, Arthur made him eat a whole jar of chilli pickles. And then Arthur and his equally prattish friends insisted on egging Merlin on. And Gwen, who really should have been in Merlin’s side, just sat there smirking behind her hand as he crammed in the last pickle, while Morgana slapped Merlin on the back and crowed at the fact that he was actually starting to cry.
But at least when Merlin was sick all over Arthur’s bathroom shortly afterwards, Arthur had the grace to be on hand with a mop, bucket and disinfectant. With a few efficient swipes of his hand, Arthur removed all the mess and in the next breath invited Merlin to sample something a little more palatable with him the following weekend.
God. Not only hypercompetitive, but a decisive prat as well. This was a serious problem. Because, if Merlin had a weakness, it was that he had a bit of a thing for hypercompetitive, decisive prats. Especially the ones who had earnest blue eyes, and a jawline that you could cut steel with.
“Next weekend?” Merlin gaped up at him from where he still sat clutching the toilet bowl, mouth aflame. “But we only just met! And I’ve made such a mess everywhere!”
Arthur just rolled his eyes at him. “I know that, idiot. However, I fancy you rotten. And you’re not afraid of following through on a bet. I like that in a man. Plus, while I’d love nothing more than to dump you in the shower and shag you silly in it, you’re still recovering from your indisposition, which might spoil your enjoyment of an otherwise phenomenal experience.”
“What??”
“What do you mean, what? Oh come on, Merlin. Don’t try to claim you don’t want to have a go at this.” Arthur dragged a hand down his admittedly well stacked torso.
“I mean… What about this hypothetical experience do you think I could possibly find phenomenal?”
“Well. I’d have thought that was obvious. It’s me.” Arthur smirked and crossed his arms, leaning back on the door frame. “And I’m the best.”
“Best at what?” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Bragging?”
“The best at everything, Merlin. Burp tennis. Football. Baking... Fucking.”
“Are you always this conceited?” murmured Merlin, chin on hand. “Or just when you’ve won a bet?”
“Let’s put it this way. After this, you’ll be dying to find out, won’t you?”
“As far as I can tell, the only thing that’s phenomenal around here is the size of your ego.”
But despite his vulnerable state, Merlin couldn’t help conceding that the gorgeous, arrogant bastard had a point. Because try as he might, he could not find one single flaw in Arthur’s anatomy. From the thatch of dark-gold hair, rosy lips, cheekbones that Merlin longed to rub his face against like a cat, all the way to the broad chest that begged to have Merlin’s head rest on it, the contours of Arthur’s body made a harmonious picture. And then lower down things if anything improved. A firm belly hinted at strength and solidity while thickly muscled thighs and glutes would normally make Merlin salivate— normally, as in at times when he didn’t have his head resting on his host’s toilet seat and eyes still watering from a recent bout of unpleasantness.
Rather than complain that this whole package put Arthur at an unfair advantage, Merlin took another glance through blurry eyes at the enticing round handfuls of Arthur’s arse where they rested against the door and found himself nodding.
“All right then,” he said, peeping up at Arthur through his lashes and blinking in a way that he hoped came across as flirtatious rather than pained, although how he could possibly succeed at flirting with his head resting on a loo seat and the lingering scent of Dettol everywhere, he wasn’t entirely sure. “I’d love to come along next week and see if you can follow through on your promises to provide something more palatable.”
When the following week finally dawned, the something more palatable turned into an afternoon binge-eating Arthur’s home-made vegan stroopwafels on his corner sofa while binge-watching episodes of The IT Crowd. And this palatable afternoon segued into an evening of binge-kissing Arthur on said sofa, followed by a vigorous and protracted evening of binge-fucking in a variety of locations around Arthur’s flat, interspersed with binge-eating Arthur’s home-made barbecue chick-pea pizza and binge-drinking Merlot. Which led inevitably to binge-sleeping in the generous surroundings of Arthur’s king-sized bed.
Well, he couldn’t make any judgments about football, but when it came to both the baking and the fucking, Merlin had to admit that Arthur had not been exaggerating his prowess. Although he would never say so out loud, obviously.
Sunday morning was spent repeating the whole experience with one difference; the stroopwafels were replaced by Arthur’s home-made coconut and soy-milk pancakes, slathered with generous amounts of maple syrup. It was on that occasion that licking maple syrup off Arthur’s lips and indeed many other enticing parts of Arthur’s anatomy became one of Merlin’s favourite pastimes. Later, Arthur defeated Merlin at strip monopoly, which led inevitably to further binge-fucking.
After eating Arthur’s home-made peanut-butter almond-milk ice-cream for lunch, and mentally reviewing the activities of the past twenty-four hours, Merlin also added bingeing in its various forms to the lengthening list of things that Arthur was an overachiever at. And although he complained out loud that his bum was getting sore from all the fucking, and that he would probably become diabetic from all the sugar that Arthur kept feeding him, his heart wasn’t really in it.
“Palatable?” said Arthur as he was leaving on Sunday night.
“Barely.” Merlin let one side of his mouth tug up into a grudging smile. “I suppose.” But judging by the smug expression on Arthur’s face, he wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Same again next week?”
Merlin shrugged, smile widening. “Why not?”
Now, five years on, it Is a cold November evening and Arthur’s hypercompetitiveness has finally born fruit. Arthur has been crowned king of the Great British Bake-off Tent – the first vegan competitor to succeed in this achievement. Arthur has found the media attention a bit of a chore, but as his tester-in-chief, Merlin is not complaining. Especially now that his husband’s success has netted him a book deal assembling vegan Christmas recipes. Which means that on days like today, when Merlin returns from another humdrum stint in the office, the flat is warm with a lingering aroma of cinnamon, and alive with Arthur’s off-key singing.
Because one thing that Arthur didn’t mention in his roll-call of things that he was brilliant at was singing. And for a very good reason.
“Oh, my God. My ears are bleeding!” yells Merlin as he toes off his shoes and stumbles wearily into the kitchen. “Is someone being murdered? Should I call the police?”
“Shut up and taste this.” Arthur shovels something spiced and tangy with cinnamon and raisins into Merlin’s gaping mouth, and watches with serious eyes.
God, it is delicious. Sweet and melt-in-the-mouth soft. The icing on it delivers just the right amount of sugar and citrus, prompting Merlin to let out an appreciative hum as he munches, eyes fluttering closed to savour the delicious flavours.
“Okay?”
“Palatable,” says Merlin with his mouth full. Swallowing, he opens his mouth for more.
“Oh, no you don’t.” But Arthur’s eyes soften even as he snatches the rest of the bun away. “You’ve got more work to do, sampling the rest.”
Merlin turns his eyes to the work surface along which are arrayed several cinnamon buns, with labels indicating the ingredients and mixtures in each case. He smiles dreamily at the prospect of blind-testing them all. “Bring it on!”
Arthur fastens a blindfold across his eyes. “Ready?”
“Never readier.”
“Then sit.”
Settling on the kitchen chair that’s nudging his bum, Merlin cleanses his palate with a glass of water that Arthur raises to his lips as if he is a child, and then opens his mouth for the next sample.
“Mmm, that’s even better,” he says. “Softer. I like the icing. What have you done to it?”
“Madagascan vanilla pods.” Arthur proffers another sip of water and lets him swallow. “Okay?”
“Mmm.” Merlin hums his agreement. “It’s okay. But I’d rather have something even more palatable.” He enunciates this last phrase carefully, to ensure that Arthur gets his full meaning.
“Ah. I see. More palatable, is it?”
“Absolutely.” A happy grin tugs at Merlin’s mouth. He knew Arthur would understand.
“Now, I understand. That’s why you’ve been such a messy pup,” said Arthur, tsking. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“Mmm?” Still blindfolded, Merlin can’t see what Arthur’s going to do next, but he trusts him so completely that he knows he’ll like it.
“You’ve got icing all over your face. I’m going to have to clean it up. Here.” There’s a hot, wet sensation as Arthur sucks the icing off Merlin’s mouth and lavishes his lips with attention.
Merlin leans forward to capture Arthur’s lips in return, an instinctive movement that results in him tasting the icing on Arthur’s mouth with appreciative licks that make Arthur moan out loud.
“God, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs as his lips drift down Merlin’s neck. “Icing everywhere. Vanilla’s an expensive ingredient, you know.”
“Shame to waste it,” breathes Merlin. “You’d better mop it up.”
“On it.” The sensation of Arthur’s mouth ghosting across Merlin’s neck and jaw makes him shiver in anticipation. “God, Merlin. Your neck. It’s obscene. See how it turns pink when I suck it.” He sucks, creating a sharp tug that radiates from Merlin’s neck and shoots towards Merlin’s groin, making his trousers tighten until he whimpers in anticipation. “God, the vanilla’s okay but your neck is definitely more palatable.”
“It is?” Tilting his head slightly to allow Arthur better access, Merlin exhales softly.
“It tastes so good.” The cool trail of Arthur’s tongue across Merlin’s throat raises goosebumps on his flesh, making him gasp. “Salty and sweet. Makes me want to fuck you.”
This statement of intent sends a sharp pang of lust deep into Merlin’s belly. “God, yes,” he whispers, blindly twisting eager fingers into the soft strands of Arthur’s hair while Arthur licks and sucks at his neck. Arthur’s breath gusts across the damp glaze of sweat cooling on Merlin’s skin, making it tingle until he groans in anticipation.
“Right, that’s it.” With an abrupt twist of his hand, Arthur grasps the blindfold and drags it up over Merlin’s head. “You’re far too enticing like this, Merlin. Minx.”
Merlin blinks at him, at the wild clumps of hair that frame his face and the soft pink of his parted lips, before darting forward to press their mouths together, tugging at clothes in a desperate quest to touch the hot soft flesh of Arthur’s belly.
“God. Look at you. You’re such a distraction. I’m going to have to ravish you before I can do any more baking.” Grasping Merlin with one hand under each arm, Arthur turns him and starts pushing him towards the kitchen door.
“Oh, God. Yes.” Merlin allows himself to be half-dragged across the flat into the bedroom where Arthur manhandles him onto the bed, pressing their groins together as they kiss with wet, open mouths. “You domineering prat,” he adds as Arthur works at the buttons of Merlin’s shirt and the clasp of his belt.
“You love it, really,” murmurs Arthur, flipping him over onto his front and tugging Merlin’s trousers and underpants down. “You love being dominated.”
And God help him, Merlin does.
Later, after Arthur has bent him over the bed and fucked him into oblivion with his trousers still around his ankles and the sensation of Arthur’s mouth still tingling on his skin, Merlin sinks against the pillows with his eyes fluttering closed. Arthur undresses him properly and dabs at him with a warm flannel before arranging Merlin’s limbs carefully into a comfortable sleeping position.
“Was that more palatable?” murmurs Arthur against Merlin’s nape.
“Definitely.” Merlin manages a chuckle before drifting off to sleep with the reassuring wuffle of Arthur’s breath on his skin.
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