[personal profile] new_kate
I'm totally alive, I'm just mostly undercover. Deanoning on a fic:

Title: Indulgence
Fandom: BBC Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Uther. YES.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3K
Warnings: dub-con, as in sexual harassment at the medieval workplace.
Summary: Uther likes sexy roleplay. Originally written for this KMM prompt.
Many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] lolafeist for betaing!

Arthur’s manservant looks up when Uther enters the armoury. His eyes catch light, and for one moment they're bright, dazzling blue.

He doesn't get up to bow, only lowers his head and keeps on polishing a sword. He doesn't rush over to unbuckle Uther's armour. He is like that: inattentive, slow. At feasts Arthur has to nudge him every time he needs his cup refilled.

Uther could send him to stocks just for this, but he's in no mood for household business. The hard training session has left him languid and content. It's Arthur's job to school his boy.

Uther sets the sword down and rips off his vambraces and haulberk, tearing straps and bending buckles. It will be fixed by tomorrow.

He doesn't train often enough now to keep his own squire, and that's the reason for this delay. Three or four of them will rush in soon, sent by their masters, racing each other for an honour to peel off the king's sweaty gambeson. But he's still strong enough to haul off his own mail, and he does that, and shrugs free of the heavy damp padding.

He stretches his arms. His shift clings to his skin, cooling in the draft. Arthur's boy, Merlin, watches him from his corner, still running a cloth up and down the length of the blade. He bites his lip, making his mouth flush, and once again Uther remembers another face, red lips and night-dark hair. He wonders if the boy's white skin would taste like Nimueh's used to, like crushed grass and summer storms.

He doesn't have to wonder. He walks over and cups the boy's chin, thumbs at his lip.

Merlin freezes. His hands tremble. He might cut himself on that blade.

"You will attend me tonight," Uther tells him.

Sweat beads above Merlin's mouth, and the boy licks it off. His eyes darken; he stares right at his king instead of keeping his gaze respectfully lowered. He's a terrible servant, this little peasant. He should have been trained properly.

"All right," Merlin says, as if Uther was asking. Uther pats his cheek, firmly enough to sting.

Merlin arrives as told, slips through the doors and closes them tightly, and spends a moment looking for a bolt that's not there. These doors are kept unlocked, so the guards could always run in without delay.

Merlin seems to have washed his face. He looks paler in the candlelight, fragile.

Uther sits at the foot of his bed. Anticipation pools sweetly in his belly.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asks, to be certain. Merlin looks naive, but he grew up in a village. He must have some knowledge of this.

"You wish to use me," Merlin says, voice soft, and clasps his hands behind his back. Waits, like a good servant.

"And if I do? Come closer."

Most of the servants know they'd been honoured by his attention, and accept it gratefully. Some try to play coy. An occasional virgin would beg him to spare their virtue, and he usually relents, put off by the tears.

Personal servants get ideas sometimes. Uther once tried to bed Morgana's handmaid: intrigued by the warm glow of her dark skin, he wanted to see all of her spread on his white sheets. The girl, who seemed docile and meek, didn't turn up at his chambers and had the guts to tattle to Morgana. Uther still maintained that the girl was a lying harlot, but he'd left her be.

He's been curious about this one for a while.

Merlin takes two steps toward the bed. He stares at it, past his king, and swallows.

"Prince Arthur must never find out," he says and wipes his palms on his ill-fitting trousers.

"I don't mean to tell him," says Uther amicably. "Take off your shirt."

Merlin obeys, shaky and clumsy, drops his clothes on the floor and hunches over, hugging his thin arms to his chest. Despite his young, guileless face, his a body is that of a man, with coarse hair spreading on his chest, a bit more meat on his bones than Uther would have thought. It pleases him, and he makes a decision.

"I'm in a mood for whimsy," he says. "We shall play a game."

Merlin chews on his lip. He's got a lovely mouth.

"A game?" he asks dumbly. Perhaps he's too slow to entertain well, but Uther wants this now, his mind is set on it. He feels himself getting hard.

"You shall pretend to be a sorcerer," he explains. "You've been captured and brought before me. Kneel."

Merlin does so, clumsily lowers himself to the floor, fidgets there, sits back on his heels.

"I'm not - I don't know anything about s-sorcerers," he says, and his voice catches, near a sob. He must be distressed that he won't please his king properly.

"Use your imagination, boy," Uther bites out. "Keep your hands behind you, as if they're shackled. Like that, yes."

He gets up and paces around the kneeling servant. Sorcerer. His prey.

"Did you think you'd escape justice?" he asks sternly. Merlin winces. That's good. That's just right.

"You thought you could hide right under my nose," Uther fists his hand in the boy's soft hair, wrenches his head back. Melrin's mouth quivers. His eyes are screwed shut.

"Weaving your little spells," Uther hisses. "Laughing behind my back."

He lets go of Merlin, watches him rock on his knees, struggling for balance. Merlin keeps one hand clasped on the wrist of the other, and his fingers are white with the strength of the grip.

"Your magic is no match for the armies of Camelot," Uther says triumphantly. "You will submit to me. You will serve me."

He runs a hand between the boy's shoulder blades, strokes his nape before gripping it hard. Merlin stifles a moan.

"You will serve me," Uther repeats. Satisfaction and lust spread under his skin like a glow. He will use the boy's mouth first, and he'll pretend he's gagging treacherous spells with every thrust of his cock. "With every drop of your filthy craft, you will serve me, and maybe, if you please me, I'll grant you some mercy."

Magic, he thinks, magic, that poisonous thing, and he misses it again. He misses those times when Nimueh's power thrummed through his veins when they joined. He misses the warmth of Gaius's careful spells. He misses having all of that at his command, and it shames him.

He takes his anger out on the boy, digs fingers into his neck, shakes him like a rag doll. Merlin takes it, still holding his hands as if they're bound.

"You fear us," he stutters out, and Uther's grip goes slack with surprise. Merlin draws himself higher, clear his throat.

"You fear us, Uther Pendragon," he says in a laboured voice, pretending to be someone else. Uther gives him a small encouraging nod. Servants rarely play the game well, and he wants Merlin to try at least.

"Our m-magic," Merlin says, and his chest heaves at the forbidden word. "Our magic is powerful. You should be afraid. One day - "

"Silence, you wretch," Uther growls and grips the boy's soft throat, gently, so he can still speak.

"One day we will be free again," Merlin says, wide-eyed, as if in a trance; this must be hard for his little peasant mind, but he's doing his best. "And then we'll make you pay."

"That day will never come," says Uther, even as he feels his knees go weak. His every nightmare is about that day. Sometimes he wonders if that's what the game does for him - it quiets him to see a pretend sorcerer sob and cower at his feet and reach obediently for his cock. It's even better than sending a real one to a pyre, because those stare at him in cold hatred even as they die.

"Maybe it has already," says Merlin and looks up at him, and smiles. It's an awful smile, too-wide, all teeth. "Maybe I'd only pretended to be caught. Maybe I can break these chains with only a thought. What would you say then, Uther? What if you're at my mercy right now?"

He's just a serving boy, with thin face and silly ears, kneeling at his feet half-naked, and it's only a game, but it still send a hot rush of fear and lust through Uther's chest, and he stumbles back a step, dizzy with want and anger.

"No," he says, and the boy drops his hands, and pushes off the floor to stand up. They're of a height now when Merlin's head isn't bowed.

He walks toward Uther, his face still, his eyes unafraid. He's lovely like this.

He lays a hand on his king's neck. It's warm and steady.

"You will kneel for me," he says. "You will beg me for mercy."

He pushes, and Uther goes, topples back on the bed, lets Merlin climb astride his chest. His body is lax and heavy, begging to be taken. It's been so long - there's nobody now who can reduce him to this, make him want and tremble like this. He'd forgotten how that felt.

"I should kill you," Merlin says. "For all your crimes, I should kill you right now. But despite your monstrous heart, you're of a good bloodline. You're still a handsome man. I might spare you."

He unlaces his trousers in a few one-handed jerks and lets his hard cock spring out, and shifts up Uther's chest.

"Come on," he says. "Bargain for your life. Serve me. Do it."

Uther can smell his lust. The madness of the game has taken over the boy, and his eyes blaze with true rage now, his mouth crooked with disdain. This is good. So good.

He curls a hand over Merlin's bony hip and surrenders, and opens his mouth. It's a pleasure, to stroke his tongue over silken flesh, have his lips stretch by the unforgiving hardness. It's a supplication, a repentance for his sins. Forgive me, he whispers in his head, and sucks harder.

Merlin's hips buck, his cock pushes harder into Uther's mouth. Uther gentles him with a stroke to his thigh, and takes him, and takes, and loses himself in it.

When Merlin starts grunting above him and his sweating thighs jerk against Uther's skin, Uther realises he's about to get a mouthful of servant's spunk. He pulls free and shoves the boy off the bed.

Merlin lands on his arse. His trousers slip to his knees. He's startled, blinking, too close to his release to think.

"You overwhelmed me with your lust spell, warlock," Uther says and twists Merlin's arm behind his back. He jerks it tightly, makes it hurt. "But the joke is on you. I've broken free from the charm, but it left my loins stirred. I shall take you now, and make you pay for your insolence. This can't be forgiven."

Merlin twitches in his hold, whimpers. His skin is warm. Uther still tastes him on his tongue.

"Sorcerers can't be forgiven," Uther babbles, pulling the boy closer to the bed. He's hard like he's not been in a while; he's looking forward to this. Merlin is heavy against him, struggling in his grip, continuing the game for his king's pleasure. He won't hurt the boy, will let him have his release. "Magic can never be forgiven, Merlin. I can't have mercy on you. Your magic is a terrible crime. I must punish you."

"Don't," Merlin says, grabbing at his legs. "Forgive me, please forgive me."

"I can't, Merlin. You're a sorcerer," says Uther softly, enjoying the begging as much as he did the rebellious moment.

"What if, what if," Merlin mutters and presses his face to Uther's knees. His voice is thick with tears. He's a good little actor. "What if I told you it was only to serve you. It was always only to protect you. I never used it for evil. I never could. Would you forgive me if I told you that? If I said you're my best friend, and I love you, and all I do is for you, could you forgive me then? Could you?"

Uther stumbles, lets him free. He wonders how much the boy learned in Gaius's rooms, if he'd found forbidden books and charms hidden in dusty corners, if he saw Gaius secretly slip a drop of magic into tonics and poultices he makes for his king, the ones that seem to restore his strength and make him feel years younger. If the boy fears for his mentor's life. If Gaius fears for himself.

"I could," he says very quietly. "Yes, dear friend. The heart is foolish, even the heart of a king. For you, I could."

Merlin sobs loudly and clings to his shins, and Uther lets himself play with his unruly hair for a moment.

"Well, enough of that," he says. "Let's get on with the fucking."

"All right," Merlin wipes at his face and crawls on the bed, shedding his boots and trousers. Uther would take him over the table, but he feels indulgent, pleased with the boy's effort. He'll let him luxuriate on the king's sheets.

He tosses a vial of oil at him and laughs as Merlin fumbles the catch.

"You may prepare yourself," he says. "I don't wish you any discomfort."

Merlin drips the oil everywhere, hides his face in the pillow and reaches behind, to awkwardly push his fingertip into his tight hole.

Uther watches him huff and writhe for a while, and then takes over. Merlin stills, spreads, lets him. He tucks his arms under his chest, clasps his hands at his face, chews on his thumb. His toes dig nervously into the bedding.

"Have you done this before?" Uther asks and pushes another slippery finger into the tight clench of Merlin's body. Merlin shakes his head and pliantly shifts his hips.

"Does my son not ask this of you?"

"No," says Merlin and sighs. "No, he never would. He's..."

"A better man than me?" Uther chuckles and strokes Merlin's long back. "It's fine to say it. That's what every father wants to hear."

He tugs Merlin's hole loose and lays on him, and slowly fits his cock into Merlin's body.

"Ah," Merlin gasps and presses his open mouth into a pillow.

"Hurts?" Uther asks, teasing him in gentle short strokes. Merlin doesn't complain, only grunts and arches, and Uther angles his thrusts, searching for the right spot.

"I won't have you for long," he promises, making it sound like a favour. His release is very close, had been building since the game began. "So you won't be too sore. You may touch yourself."

Merlin pushes a hand down and tugs at himself fast. Uther shifts to give him space. His cock slides in easily, hits just right. He wants to feel Merlin's arse milk him as he comes.

"No," Merlin whines into the pillow. "Touch me. With your hand, I want you to do it."

"Lazy sod," Uther lightly slaps his arse and takes his hard, sweat-slick cock in his hand, and he barely has to stroke before Merlin cries out and shudders.

"Ah, A - mmph," he stuffs his fist into his mouth and bites on it. He goes tight, so tight every thrust must burn him, and Uther slams in hard as he takes his pleasure.

Afterwards Merlin lays there bonelessly, as if he's going to fall asleep in his king's bed. Uther gives him a few minutes to rest and soundly slaps his arse.

"Off," he says, and Merlin jerks as if he had dozed off already.

"Always so damn overbearing," he grumbles before he checks himself and crawls off the bed quietly. Uther lets the insolence slip.

"Wash up," he commands. "And don't breathe a word of this to anyone, or I'll have you flogged."

He lazes on the bed, watching as Merlin splashes in the water bowl and scrubs the king's seed from his thighs.

"Am I good to bed?" Merlin asks suddenly, with a cheeky grin.

"I won't make a habit out of you," Uther says. "So don't get any ideas above your station."

"I'm not," says Merlin indignantly. "I just, I wanted to know if I'm good. I'd been curious, and..."

He blushes and lowers his head.

"Have your eye on someone, do you?" Uther laughs. "I'm sure they'll enjoy you. You're lovely."

He opens a small chest by his bedside, rummages through trinkets there and picks something without any sentimental value, a golden brooch set in with bright gems. He hands it to the boy.

Merlin's face flushes dark red.

"I didn't," he says and rears back. The trinket must cost more than his village, and he looks at it like he would at a snake. "That's not why, I'm not, I don't."

"What's that to do with you?" Uther asks, grabs his hand and presses the brooch into the boy's palm, hard, digging the edges into his skin. "I took what was mine to take, now I give what's mine to give. Get out."

Merlin stumbles through the doors, and just before they shut close Uther hears a voice outside:

"Well? What did he want?"

Merlin slams the door hastily.

It's Arthur's voice.

Uther tip-toes across the floor and opens the peephole, hidden in the intricate carvings.

"He wanted me to tell him folk stories," Merlin says, serene. Arthur has his hand on his servant's shoulder, kneading it worriedly. "Because I'm a peasant and I know them. Were you here all this time?"

"Of course. Like I said I would. I've sent the guards away, I'd come in if you'd screamed. I thought I heard arguing..."

"I was doing the voices. When I was telling stories."

"Why did he want you to do that, anyway?" Arthur frowns suspiciously.

"Whimsy, I guess," Merlin shrugs.

"Well," Arthur says, and beams with condescension. "Have I not told you there was nothing to worry about? My father is an honourable man. He wouldn't want anything untoward from you."

"I was never worried. It was you who'd made a fuss," Merlin grumbles. "Why did you come here? I asked you not to."

"Just in case. You don't understand what power is," Arthur says. "What it can do to the best of men. If you could order someone to - to do anything, with just a word or a glance, and they'd do it, and even pretend to be willing, the temptation is... You're lucky you'll never know what it's like."

"But you order me around all the time," Merlin says sullenly.

"It's not like that."

"You know I hate mucking out your horses, and you order me to do that. That doesn't bother you. But when it comes to doing something nice, then you get all noble and pig-headed."

"Merlin, you've no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Arthur sighs in frustration. "Well, it's for the best, really. Keeps you out of trouble. Come on then, you still have to clean out my supper."

He takes off, heading toward his quarters in long strides. Merlin hops after him, barely limping.

"Did you save me any of those honey cakes?" he asks.

"Well if I hadn't, you'd just steal my sausages at breakfast, wouldn't you?"

Uther closes the peephole and gets into bed, feeling tired and cold.

He won't use the boy again. There are plenty of others.

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