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Merlin has a secret, one he guards closely, because unveiling it would not only cause him to be the recipient of odd looks, but could possibly banish him from Camelot altogether.
The secret isn’t his magic.
The secret is his unhealthy obsession with Arthur’s gloves.
Arthur has several pairs, but all of them are soft and worn, with brown, buttery leather that is silky to the touch. He wears them during training to protect his hands from calluses and rough patches, when taking a ride to keep a good grip on the reins and in winter, when the cold weather threatens to numb his fingers.
Merlin has felt their touch often: reaching for his hand to alert him, landing on his forearm as Arthur steadies himself and one glorious time, cradling his cheek, after Merlin fell off his horse and knocked himself out on a tree trunk.
Sometimes, at night in his bed, he thinks of Arthur’s gloves, of their smooth, warm touch, of how they cover Arthur’s hands like a second skin. Of how they’d feel on his body.
*-*
Arthur has gone out on a hunt without Merlin. Earlier today, Merlin was needed in the infirmary, helping Gaius change bandages, drain festering blisters and even pull a rotten tooth and Arthur had impatiently given up on waiting for Merlin to finish his duties. Even Arthur had to grudgingly admit that treating the sick was more important than accompanying him on a frivolous outing.
Once Merlin is done in the infirmary, he walks up to Arthur’s room to clean up after him, picking up discarded clothing and paper and the odd book (because Arthur would never admit that he likes to read things other than official letters or reports). That’s when he sees them lying on the table, the gloves Arthur wore all of yesterday, and which are now abandoned, exchanged for his second pair.
Merlin walks over to pick them up and put them away with the rest of his clothes, but the moment he touches the soft leather, an idea comes to him. It’s wicked and bold, but he’s alone and Arthur isn’t expected back before dusk.
*-*
Arthur’s gloves are warm and soft on his hands as he pulls them on. They are even warmer and softer when he presses them to his face, inhaling their scent, a combination of sweat, leather and horse. It shouldn’t be appealing, but it is. Heat rushes through him, making him weak-kneed. The bed is close, Arthur’s large four-poster bed with the white sheets and red woolen blankets, still unmade, the sheets tousled from Arthur’s rest. Biting his lip, Merlin only hesitates a moment, before he sits down on its edge. He bounces up and down once, testing the firm mattress, so unlike his own lumpy straw one.
With a sigh, he allows himself to fall back, surrounded by Arthur’s scent, the gloves on his hands foreign and obscene.
*.*
“What. Are. You. Doing?”
Arthur sounds positively dangerous, but the look on his face can only be described as stunned as he stands at the end of his bed, glaring at Merlin with his eyebrows nearly up in his hairline.
It looks bad, Merlin is pretty sure of it and Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it again, at a loss for words. He’s also pretty sure Arthur knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s obvious and Arthur isn’t that thick.
“Are these my gloves?” Arthur asks, steel in his voice, every syllable carefully enunciated, like he’s talking to the village idiot. Which Merlin might just be.
Panicked, Merlin lifts his hands in a defensive gesture, which turns out to be a horrible idea. “Shit,” he says, frantically scrambling for a pillow to at least cover his lap.
“Give them to me.”
When Merlin doesn’t immediately react, because his body is currently begging him to pass out due to all the embarrassment, Arthur barks out a demanding, “Now!”
Biting his lip, his face flushed red, Merlin hastens to pull the gloves off, struggling until Arthur rips the leather from his fingers, impatiently.
“Turn around.”
“What?” Merlin squeaks, alarmed, but Arthur’s glare doesn’t invite resistance.
“Turn. Over.”
Hesitantly, Merlin rolls onto his stomach, feeling vulnerable and confused and terribly naked. Goosebumps break out on his skin, racing up his arms and legs.
He jerks when Arthur places his hand on the small of his back just so, letting it rest there for just a moment, unmoving. From somewhere behind him, Arthur’s breath is laboured.
“You ought to be punished. For taking my things,” Arthur mutters, but the steel is gone from his voice. He sounds raw.
Merlin wets his lips, examining Arthur’s tone and dares to hope that the reason for the hoarseness in Arthur’s voice is the same as for Merlin’s shivery anticipation. There’s another long moment where they both hold their breath, but then Arthur raises his hand and slaps it down hard on Merlin’s arse cheek. Merlin cries out in surprise and pain, heat flaring on his backside. Just when he thinks he might be able to breathe again, Arthur’s hand comes down again, hard.
“More,” Merlin hears himself gasp out, because it’s the only thing he can think of. Touch me again. Harder.
Arthur complies.
*-*
Merlin’s skin is on fire when Arthur finally eases up, his body a shivery mess, his cock straining against the mattress. Merlin whimpers when Arthur smoothes his gloved hand over his sensitive skin, the soft leather feeling too hot now, too rough. He can only imagine how his arse must look: red, the skin probably swollen.
Arthur’s hand slips between his abused cheeks and Merlin makes an embarrassingly filthy sound of longing as the leather strokes down his taint, fingers brushing against his hole.
Arthur moans, a small, desperate sound, and grips Merlin’s hips, flipping him over. The soft cotton sheets feel coarse against his arse and Merlin groans and shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot.
In front of him, Arthur looks wrecked, his face flushed with two bright spots of pink on his cheeks, his mouth bitten, eyes glassy. He slides his left hand up Merlin’s chest, thumbing a nipple in passing, before trailing his gloved fingers over Merlin’s lips.
“Make them wet,” he whispers, pushes his fingers past Merlin’s lips. With a groan, Merlin sucks them into his mouth, gasping when Arthur pushes them deeper. The leather tastes strong and salty, but the filthiness of the action turns Merlin on despite the flavour and he laps between Arthur’s digits.
“Fuck, Merlin, that’s….” Arthur sobs, his eyes squeezed shut.
When Merlin lets Arthur’s fingers slip from his mouth, he pants out a desperate breath, gulping in air greedily.
“My gloves, huh?” Arthur breathes, trailing a hand up the inside of Merlin’s thigh until he reaches his cock, taking it firmly into one leather-clad hand, squeezing and pressing his thumb underneath the head.
“...Nn...not… just your gloves,” Merlin hisses, his eyes rolling back in his head at the firm touch, body bowing upward.
Arthur exhales noisily, then leans forward, pressing his mouth against Merlin’s hipbone, a small, fleeting caress, tender and unexpected.
Merlin gasps, so close already just from the fact that Arthur is touching him. Arthur’s thumb is circling underneath the crown of his cock, then smooths up and down his length. He groans in protest when Arthur suddenly gets up and rummages in his bedside drawer, returning with a small vial of oil.
“Oh,” he pants when he realises what’s going to happen, watching with round eyes as Arthur slathers oil over his gloved hands deliberately.
“Yes, please…”
Merlin whines, hissing when Arthur wraps his right hand around him and presses the fingers of his left against his entrance, the soaked leather wet and rough against his heated skin.
Arthur pushes one finger inside slowly and Merlin digs his heels into the bed, clenches around the intrusion and whimpers, his hands fisting the sheets. The digit feels big, encased as it is in leather.
“Fuck, look at you,” Arthur murmurs, awed, then presses a second finger inside, fucking into him gently, slowly taking him apart.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Merlin shoots all over himself with a shout, body rising off the bed, muscles trembling.
When he dares to open his eyes, Arthur is staring at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, and maybe he is.
Arthur is stroking him through the aftershock almost absentmindedly, come glistening on his dark leather gloves.
“I ruined your gloves,” Merlin says mournfully, wincing.
“I have others,” Arthur shrugs, carefully pulling his fingers from Merlin’s body.
“Thank the Gods.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches at Merlin’s words, and he slowly peels off his gloves, tossing them onto the bedspread.
“My gloves aren’t the only garment that got ruined,” Arthur reveals, conspiratorially.
“You should get that off, then, too.”
“Damn right,” Arthur murmurs and starts to strip, before leaning forward and claiming Merlin’s mouth in a hard kiss.