At the Touch of Love, a merlin fanfic

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Notes: Written for xxxayakaxxx. Katie, here is the fic you extorted out of me. :) Title is from quote by Plato, "At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet."

WARNING: EXPLICIT MALE/MALE SEX

Merlin kisses Arthur, and he knows it is with lust, and heat, and hunger, but he knows there is also every inch of the love he feels for this maddening man who is looking at him wide-eyed, as if someone has just reached inside and grabbed something tender inside him. Merlin persists, holds close. He hooks one hand around the back of Arthur's neck and leaves the other on his side, licking at his closed lips until he finally parts them.

"Why is it," Merlin murmurs, lips buzzing with the words, "you think you are entitled to all manner of things because you're the prince, but you can't believe anyone would love you for being simply Arthur?" He pulls back but doesn't give Arthur a chance to answer. "The fact that you're the prince just means that you are occasionally a self-important prat. I love you because you could be born a beggar and would still have the heart of a king." A kiss dropped onto the corner of Arthur's mouth draws a low noise from him as Merlin drags his lips slowly over smooth skin. "I love you because you are sometimes ridiculous and always good-hearted." With his mouth pressed half-open to Arthur's chest, Merlin thinks he can feel his heart beating, a quick thumping that echoes through Merlin's body. "Because you are Arthur."

And he joins them at the lips again, tasting wet heat and nervousness and something indefinably Arthur. Arthur responds with typical haste, trembling slightly with feeling, trying to take control of the kiss. Merlin gentles with stroking hands, tangles them together and explores his mouth unhurriedly. He wants to be the one to show Arthur that some things are worth taking their time with and doing properly. He wants to be the only one ever in a position to show Arthur that.

Breaking away, he undresses Arthur like he has wanted to for a time now—with reverent hands, stroking skin as it slowly appears. Arthur is proud, golden. Arthur is unsure but unwilling to show it, titling his head back in defiance. Arthur is too beautiful to express with words, so Merlin makes sure he sees it in his eyes and curling smile.

Arthur swallows, but doesn't look away. He pulls Merlin up and kisses him first, this time, because Arthur will not be content to be the passive member in anything. Merlin opens for him as easily as he eventually does for everything. Somehow they make it to the bed with Merlin's clothing disappearing on the way; he will never tell Arthur but his kisses drug him so that he is not quite sure how it happens.

Now it is Merlin who hesitates, though not from uncertainty. No, Merlin has simply wanted this for so long—his head spins with the choices presented to him. He traces a meandering path down Arthur's chest, lingering over old scars and pausing to mouth at a pebbled nipple. Arthur's breath hitches, he arches up, slightly. Merlin can't help but return to Arthur's swollen red lips again and again; he is washed over by a sudden desire to mark and claim, to leave traces of his existence on every inch of Arthur. Mine, his fingers say when tightening over Arthur's hips, when pressing deep inside his body. Mine, he thinks when biting sharply under the curve of his jaw, when sucking a bruise onto his throat. Arthur groans, hands coming up to tighten on Merlin's shoulders.

Merlin feels dizzy with the realization of what he is doing, of what Arthur is letting him do. He moves into Arthur slowly and halts, breath coming fast. Arthur drops his head back, swallows hard. They wait together until Arthur pushes up, squeezes the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin feels sweat bead up on his skin, and he watches a full-body flush spread slowly over Arthur's form.

It is too new to last very long, but Merlin manages to wait until Arthur bites hard on his lower lip and comes before he lets himself follow. His head drops into the crook of Arthur's neck, and when he licks his lips he can taste the sweat on Arthur's skin. His very body prickles with feeling, and from the shaking of the hand that curls into his hair, he knows Arthur is the same way.

There is silence between them, and then: "Merlin," Arthur whispers, voice raw and hoarse, and for all the talking Merlin has done, he finds that that one words tells him all that is important.