List (Merlin)
The flat isn't his, but he'd been couriered the key along with a note ("For our interviews.") and he'd smiled down at it, wondering. When he'd first reached the address — in a sleek, modern building with white-glove concierge service and no questions asked, a whisper-quiet elevator that took him to the 17th floor — he'd been forced to admit that cost was, apparently, not at all an issue.
He likes to keep it dark, carefully lit, without the abrasiveness of halogen lights, and so Merlin ignites the fireplace, turns on a few hall lights, wanders through the flat on bare feet, thoughtful, and inching things here and there out of the way until he's satisfied.
The plan for this week hadn't been a plan at all, just a package left at his post office box with a brief note in now-familiar copperplate writing: Make it convincing.
He'd take professional affront to it, except that it's Arthur and he's genetically predisposed to being a twat, so Merlin just does as he's told, spends all day running errands and subjecting himself to various trials and tribulations that come part and parcel with the job and dashes into the flat at half-nine to decant the wine, get ready.
The stockings are La Perla, black, with a seam down the back, with a wide band of satin along the tops, where they end mid-thigh, and he toes into a pair of severe, black stilettos. Standing in front of the white-sheeted bed, in front of the full-length mirror, Merlin admires the effect: the stark line it down the back of his thigh, the curve of his knee, the lines of his calves. He slides on the black satin panties, purring at the way they glide over his legs, smooth, before they settle low on the flare of his hips, and Merlin reaches for the make-up bag, the lipstick.
He saves the corset for last.
Merlin likes the corset, probably more than he should, but it's an exquisite piece of work: black satin and a flat bust, severe, and Merlin laces it up, expert, and feels it squeezing the air out of him, closing in tight like a fist — like Arthur's fist — and loves the breathlessness of it.
He splays his hand, flat, across his belly and looks at himself in the mirror, the dark red moue of his mouth, the kohl around his eyes making them look smokey and blown, dark hair a mess.
Merlin barely has a minute to think, maybe a comb, before Arthur's hand covers his own, sliding over his belly, his mouth hot on the back of Merlin's neck, possessing, and when Merlin looks up in the mirror, Arthur's blue eyes are mostly black in the half-light.
"Convincing enough?" Merlin manages, husky, he hasn't spoken so long.
"Yes," Arthur murmurs, eyes sweeping shut, his other hand hot and and closing in a fist in Merlin's hair, drawing his neck back, so when he says, "Yes," again, it's into Merlin's mouth — one of those kisses that's all teeth and tongue and conquest, against which Merlin has no defenses.
***
Their first appointment had been in a private room at a members-only restaurant. The carpet had been lush and the walls had been dark panels of wood, and Arthur had been off-puttingly handsome and familiarly businesslike, appropriating the largest wingback chair in the suite and instructing Merlin on his knees in front of him. There'd been something about the way he'd said it, too — so offhand, disinterested — that had felt like a dare, and Merlin had taken it wholeheartedly. Everybody who says they love their job is, of course, talking bullshit, but Merlin loves sucking Arthur's cock, hands on Arthur's knees, the muscles taught underneath the bespoke trousers, his mouth wet and sloppy, tongue tracking the vein along the bottom of Arthur's dick and sucking Arthur's balls into his mouth and mouthing along the spot just beneath the head. Arthur had tapped him on the shoulder, polite, before he was about to come, and Merlin had let Arthur's cock slip out from between his lips, jerked him off the rest of the way.
Two days later, in his P.O. Box were the key, a tag with the address and Arthur's handwriting scratching out, Fridays, 10 p.m.
Since, it's been as reliable as clockwork, the note, the package, the parcel on Thursday, and then Friday, half-nine, rushing to the flat. Sometimes, Arthur slams him into a wall, fucks him savage and reckless against it, holding Merlin rough against the wall, using him up; sometimes, Arthur likes it slow, maddening, laying Merlin out on the bed and taking him apart by inches. Sometimes, Arthur sends accessories.
This Friday, at half-ten, Merlin is sobbing for breath, bracing himself against the wardrobe. In the mirror, the Merlin staring back at him is wet-mouthed from Arthur's kisses, ferociously expensive lipstick smeared, bruises on his neck still red and fading purple, Arthur's hands tight on his hips, his body rocking from where Arthur's fucking him from behind. He can barely breathe, the corset crushing down onto his ribs, and he can feel everything, all of it, heightened: the grainy smooth stretch of the stockings, the ache in his legs from the heels, the crushed satin where Arthur had just pushed the panties aside, eased his cock out of his trousers and fucked into him where Merlin was already wet and loose, ready for Arthur.
And behind him, Merlin can see Arthur staring at him in the mirror, the top button of Arthur's shirt undone and tie lose now, and Merlin gasps, "Please," so it overlaps with Arthur's, "Fuck, yes." And finally Arthur gives in, presses himself along Merlin's back, burying his face between Merlin's shoulderblades as he snaps his hips into Merlin's ass, vicious, relentless. Just when Merlin thinks the heat and sensation and need and lack of oxygen are going to make him pass out, Arthur reaches over and fists his cock, jerks it fast, once, twice, and Merlin comes, wailing, and Arthur does, too, fucking into him deeper, sending near-painful aftershocks though Merlin's body long after.
Arthur doesn't bother to unhook the corset after that, either, just strips the panties off of Merlin — down the slick, sticky skin of his inner thighs, over his bony knees — lays him flat out on the bed and plows him into him again, not bothering to undress himself. All Merlin can do is clutch at Arthur's shoulders, wrinkle the fine poplin of his slate-gray suit jacket and gasp for air, all he can do is let Arthur hook his knees over Arthur's shoulders and give it up to Arthur, who takes and takes, greedy, needful.
***
Merlin has never spent any time under a street corner or suffered abuse under the hands of a client without being properly compensated for his efforts. He's not listed on any websites or in any phone books, and you could search all of London's remaining telephone booths without finding a card with his name and number on them. He takes clients case by case, by referral only, and he doesn't remember how exactly he came to be told of Arthur Pendragon's interests, only that shortly after, holding Arthur's business card — it's heavy, with a watermarked vellum finish — he'd walked past a newsstand and seen Arthur's face there: rendered in the cross-hatch of all familiar front-page faces on the Wall Street Journal's European edition.
***
The Friday after, all of London is held captive by abysmal weather. The snow is falling fast and thick and unrelenting, and Merlin cancels all of his weekend appointments, rings up Gaius to say he probably won't make it for their customary Sunday tea, and goes to hide in the flat with half the contents of the nearest Waitrose.
He's not expecting Arthur in this weather, and technically, Merlin knows better than to encroach upon space reserved for business transactions for personal use, but his own place feels terribly far away, and he doubts Arthur would mind, so he kicks off his shoes and curls up on the couch. The snow's a foot thick, the curry's in the oven, and Merlin's an hour into Torchwood when he hears Arthur say:
"My God, tell me you're not watching this rubbish."
When Merlin twists around on the sofa to stare at him, Arthur looks wretched: damp and frozen, his lips tinged blue, black cashmere coat dotted in snow and his trouser legs soaked mid-shin.
"Arthur," he says stupidly.
Arthur, equally dumb from the frigid wind, asks, "Do I smell curry?"
"Um, yes," Merlin says, finally, and then like someone's given him a shove, he gets climbs over the couch and starts tugging at Arthur's coat. "Oh my God, you're soaked."
Teeth chattering now, Arthur's shivering too hard now to give Merlin his customary dirty look, just manages around the shaking, "Yes — I — told Hathaway not — to risk it."
Merlin decides not to address the issue of Arthur deciding it was too dangerous to drive and then choosing to walk to the flat, dragging Arthur into the bedroom and peeling him out of his drenched clothing instead.
They eat the chicken tikka on the couch, and Merlin sacrifices most of the papadums to Arthur's voracious appetite, because it turns out that any time he doesn't have his mouth full, Arthur is busy making some sort of snotty comment about Children of the Earth. Merlin doesn't particularly care about the logical fallacy of walking into a room with a plastic containment chamber of evil alien, and he particularly doesn't care for Arthur destroying the romantic tragedy of Ianto Jones perishing in Jack's arms, so before Arthur can start ranting again, Merlin tears off a piece of his roti and jams it in Arthur's mouth.
"I'm just saying, Merlin, that given how dangerous the situation is and how supposedly competent Captain Jack is that — "
Merlin whirls around at Arthur, glaring. "Arthur — stop."
Arthur does, looking constipated.
"Has what you've seen of Torchwood, at any point, betrayed any indication that they're competent?" Merlin asks, and as Arthur ponders this, Merlin adds, "And anyway, if you don't want to watch this, you could just say so."
"I didn't say I didn't want to watch it," Arthur says.
"So this constant complaining," Merlin asks, "this is just how you engage with media."
Arthur looks mulish. "Yes."
"Right," Merlin says, turns off the television, and reaches a hand down Arthur's trousers, since at least when they're fucking, Arthur is cooperative.
***
The agency does a comprehensive background check on all of its clients, and so Merlin knows far, far more about Arthur William Henry Phillip Pendragon than the other way around.