.
.
Never before has he felt such urgency in a kiss.
Arthur doesn't have to tread softly, no longer on unsteady ground, with the sensation of warmth swelling in his belly like a fire. Hot, and upon him in a flash.
While stronger in nature than kisses Arthur was used to, it's not savage, dark and all-consuming.
It's longing and necessity to explore, to disregard the boundaries set by years between them and perhaps yield to temptations Arthur was used to blocking out. Yes, perhaps. It's fast, not as gentle, but underneath there's still tenderness Arthur demands to stay.
This is Merlin, his Merlin, not just anyone—and if he wasn't so hazy, distracted by Merlin's fingers rolling against his scalp, Arthur may have questioned what that meant.
His lungs burn, unnoticed. The rest of him too invested in the shape of Merlin's lips, as well as the occasional gasp that escapes him. God, the noises are driving Arthur insane and setting him on high alert. Everything's in clearer detail than ever, and Arthur experiences it all, all he can be allowed. A taste, a touch, maybe to grip on Merlin's dark locks.
Yet, Arthur's hands occupy Merlin's waist, fingers burying under the layers of his garments. His thumbs slide into the belt loops, right when Merlin's hips push forward once more. It's an intoxicating drag causes a sharp exhale from Arthur's mouth. His mind spins, but he hears the sound of his name. And it's addictive.
A shudder claims him, latching onto the indescribable tone Arthur catches in Merlin's voice, and it only adds dry kindling to the fire. Lips suddenly part. Arthur holds himself back from chasing Merlin's visibly swollen, reddened mouth, glancing at the exposed neck.
He ducks his head, moving in and attaching his lips there.
Pale, soft skin, and vulnerable, and Arthur plans on taking advantage of it. Slowly, Arthur shifts his lips, pressing down, feeling for Merlin's pulse-point jumping.
It feels like a stormy current coursing through Arthur every time he touches Merlin, racing between them. No explanation for the hairs on Arthur's forearms prickling or the jitters, but he craves more, as it increases. There's whispers inside his mind to lower his hands and pull open Merlin's trousers, to properly feel his prick rubbing against Arthur's bare skin.
The way Merlin so readily opens himself for Arthur, simply tilts his head back and allows Arthur to do as he pleases… it speaks volumes of trust.
His lips drift, tasting the cleanness of Merlin's skin, open mouth scraping the bob in Merlin's throat. But, he keeps his hands where they are. For now.
Before Arthur knows he's done it, his tongue darts out.
Curiosity seizes him, as does Merlin, and he's glad for it. Keep going, taste, touch, mark—the remembrance of what Merlin said, that he was his, and Arthur's alone, is enough.
.
.
Sorcery rouses his flesh and bones, humming in Merlin's ribs and stomach.
It's charged with the awareness of the soft, deliberate pressure of Arthur's hands skimming, resting towards Merlin's hips.
Arthur did this.
Merlin's entire face feels hot, like the blood running in his veins and capillaries are a liquid-blaze.
Arthur is the catalyst for everything.
For painful thousand-year-old memories, for desiring an embrace and companionship, for Merlin to be Merlin once more. For his magic to spur on an ache within him, jerking at the fibres of an old-old-soul, and to sing a tuneless reverence. Arthur Pendragon, born of Nimueh's sorcery.
He, with the blood of innocent Druids on unfledged, sorrowful hands. He, who broke tradition by marrying a serving girl and building his people's respect for him as King with ideas of peace, not fear. He, destined to die for Camelot no matter what Merlin tried to do to avoid it.
Merlin could not break the ties of fate, or stall them. Their lives were foretold even before being conceived, and if Merlin's destiny now is to clutch on tightly to the man in front of him, keening in murmured exhales and shamelessness, then he's happily lost.
Lips dragging along Merlin's neck, opening and pressing with heat, as he leans back on instinct.
Arthur's mouth glides where Merlin's artery stands out clenching. When the wet tip of Arthur's tongue flicks out, whether or not it had been an accidental move, Merlin's stomach takes an invisible rear up. He drops his hand out of fine, pale blond hair to join its partner, this time fisting the back of Arthur's grey shirt until the fabric strains in bunches.
Merlin's eyes blink open, lost of their blue colour, the swirling gold brighter. He has to—
Fingers loosen their feverish, knuckling grip, easing away.
Merlin's hands hover to Arthur's face at his throat, as the blond man continues planting lingering and harsh kisses. Hands cradle him steady and guide Arthur's head, lifting his chin up. He seems to let Merlin do this, eyes relaxed, peering back.
"Dollophead," Merlin says, low and affectionate. He sets a feather-light touch of lips to Arthur's, nudging their foreheads, and half-chuckles. "Look whatchu've done now."
"Are you complaining?" he murmurs, subconsciously tightening his grasp on Merlin's belt loops, but no longer humping against him. While joking, all the same Arthur watches Merlin carefully.
Merlin says nothing about it, but he doesn't want to direct away, not a millimeter to stray.
This is something he longed for, with the burden of discretion, since his time in Camelot's kingdom. When he would lay upon his back with arms crossed and ankles propped and tucked on the soggy, cold cot in Gaius' quarters, the darkness of eve flooding every corner of the tiny, cramped room. He would hold a single lighted memory of the day to his mind's eye, muscles sagging and his eyelids closed.
Eventually, as the years of Merlin's service carried on, the memory would be about Arthur. A gleeful shine of summery-blue eyes meeting Merlin's while they spoke to each other, and during their trip they would resort to arguing loudly along the river's edge.
A proud smile, exposing a flash of teeth and gums, taking expanse of Arthur's strongly-boned features. His leathered riding glove clamped onto Merlin's dirtied, sleeved wrist, heaving the slighter boy to his feet and absently dusting off Merlin's shoulder.
A glimpse of hip-bones, protruding from seemingly touchable skin, and it was no different than any other time Merlin oversaw Arthur's bath. He knew the many fleshy angles of sinew and tendon, where hard training prepared him. Raised bumps, mottled pink and silvery white; some areas where the scars marked along Arthur's abdomen and collarbone had pitted appearances— wounds sunken while healing. Scars from battles and missions gone awry, and Arthur's own carelessness about his safety where someone was in mortal peril.
Thick-headed, self-sacrificing prat he was.
Merlin remembered curling his legs to himself on the thin cot, wrapping his arms round his knees. He would turn his face to his pillow and breathe in deep, counting them out, dispelling the images of Arthur's sturdy, powerfully-made body.
Just to avoid fondling himself. To avoid colour-bright fantasies of those scars gently nudged by Merlin's blunt, scratching fingernails, Arthur's blue, blue eyes pinning him, of that body moving in a quick-slow tandem with him, inside Merlin. He wanted to know what that felt like—Arthur's cock enveloped within him, too thick and too paramount in an ever-hot drag of pressure.
The rigid noose on Merlin's control now slips free. Every iota of Merlin's being lackadaisical, teeming with serenity and good-natured haughtiness.
Arthur wants him back. He feels it in the subtlest hints of it, in the minute tics, in the shudders of fanning, hot breath to Merlin's neck and the point of his chin.
There's no more Merlin asks for.
A soft, unimpressed snort leaves his nostrils, cuing Merlin's amusement at the smirking comment.
It's when Arthur urges them closer with a rough, tugging motion, that it sends Merlin's gut delightfully swooping once more.
"Suppose it's better than snogging a real toad," Merlin pretends to consider, mock-thoughtfully frowning. "You've spent a night on my pillow, and yet I'm still waiting on the bit where you turn handsome…"
"If you call me a toad again, I'll keep your pillow and you'll be accustomed to sleeping without it," Arthur replies, but his tone lacks displeasure.
Any evidence that he's heedful about the bizarre, gilded colour in Merlin's eyes—the physical manifestation of magic conjured at great lengths, waiting for release—Arthur does not say. But, Merlin needs to expel it, and lamentably, to rupture this extraordinary moment that came over them, or chance possible and unintended backlash.
Merlin's hands lower as he maneuvers Arthur's fingers apart from his belt.
He offers an honest and patient smile to Arthur's disappointed bemusement, gold-glow eyes crinkling with it, scooting off the kitchen work-top.
"I'll be a few minutes, no more, I swear."
He lightly squeezes the tanned fingers in his capture, releasing them and walking towards the parlour, and for the entrance's door.
The rainstorm has tapered off from its previous ferocity, leaving a tepid air, glistening to the grass beneath Merlin's feet and the blood-red sky of a setting day.
Merlin crouches down, flattening his palm to the brambly, wet texture of the earth. Feeling its long-seeking relief with the moisture, feeling… everything. Every line of humanity, the dull glow of spirits, the penetrating, buzzing souls of the magical creatures still left in this world. He even feels the weight and agitation of Arthur's footsteps inside the cottage.
They are all connected. Everyone.
All because of the raw magic drifting around them, unseen.
A spell tickles at the back of Merlin's throat.
"Blóstmian," he whispers, head bowed, shivering unconsciously with the exhilaration.
The first thrum of his magic soaks straight into the ground, following heavier waves, and Merlin's breathing shakes as he flushes warmly from toe to cheek. The last raindrop to fall that day lands on the very tip of Merlin's nose, causing him to look up.
Well, what else may he have expected?
Merlin gazes at his garden covered plumb with camellias, a broad grin spreading to his mouth. With their petals blushed salmon-pink and individually heart-shaped, if one were to squint closely.
The middlemist reds, he recalls. The rarest flowers to exist. Only two places managed to cultivate them, a garden hidden away in New Zealand and a quaint, private greenhouse in this country.
Merlin had the peculiar opportunity to meeting the man given their namesake in 1804, notorious for attempting to pass them out on crowded public spaces.
A bit of a foolhardy romantic who stenched of drink, but also a harmless bloke—with the uncanny gift of the Sight. "Y'ull be brin'gig the lilies, m'boy," he slurred, clawing Merlin's sleeve dramatically. The whites of his eyes bloodshot. "R'uhturn to the water where y'uh cast 'em all .. n'misty water. Y'ull find h'em there."
Merlin had thought little of their encounter, since that day, and now realises his mistake too late.
John Middlemist had predicted the day Merlin returned to the Lake of Avalon, for Arthur's return, and what flowers Merlin held in his hands that same day.
"Daft," he says to no-one particular, Merlin's face remaining stretched into the same pensive grin.
.
.
From the short distance, the colour of Merlin's eyes are so incredibly visible, but the familiar blue is gone, replaced with a solid, brilliant gold-glimmer.
The look of it is startling, and he recognizes the stormy current through him makes more sense.
Magic.
He had seen it at work before, in the truest, most deadly forms on expeditions. But, Arthur sees it in flickers, glimpses at best, right across from him, and he's caught off-guard. For the lack of a better word, it's beautiful. The sorcery is palatable, and yet tame. Merlin at his most natural.
Arthur thinks he's been staring too long, when fingers pry him away from Merlin. He dutifully steps backwards, and no less confused as Merlin slides himself onto his feet. Arthur doesn't understand where Merlin's going, but reassured at the purposeful touch. Merlin vanishes from the kitchen.
Then, he's left alone.
As the sounds of footsteps fade, and Arthur's heart calms its frantic pace, the gravity of the moment sets in. He kissed Merlin. Not a chaste kiss, no. One that demanded indulgence and surrender to his whole being, and Arthur had given into it.
Subconsciously, Arthur's tongue grazes his lower lip. A slow grin lifts his mouth as Arthur smooths his hair down.
When his heart picks up, quickening once more… maybe, he shouldn't be alone. Not just yet. And besides—Merlin hadn't told him to stay, had he?
In a way, he had. It's all the same to Arthur. The idiot should absolutely know better by now.
He moves hurriedly for the cottage's door, pulling it open. As soon as Arthur's foot is over the threshold, he stops. Stops and witnesses.
There, in the middle of everything, like he's part of the landscape himself, is Merlin.
The red sky, the water-dotted plants. Flowers, delicate and matching the hue of the clouds. As if spring blossoms into life for a single instant, right before Arthur's eyes. Their stems reach upwards, and flower petals unfurl.
It's… awe-inspiring.
.
.
Merlin's palm lifts from the sparse patch of grass left in a sea of pink, swaying flowers.
He stands and turns in place, glancing at the cottage door where Arthur eyes him and what he created. Somewhere between wanting to preserve the middlemist reds, and heading back to the door, Merlin feels ridiculous wading through the flowers, wincing to himself as clusters of them smash mercilessly under the thick, faux-leather soles of his buckled boots.
Arthur's concentration returns to him, and he leans himself on the door-frame, his arms crossing his chest.
"I had no idea you cared so much for gardening," Arthur speaks up, finding this the easiest route between dismissive and complimentary.
"Part of the forest had suffered from the construction demolition several years ago, and a fire," Merlin says, smiling. "When I discovered I could, I restored it. Didn't want anything missing."
It goes unspoken, but his motives for this may have been Arthur. For the chance his king would see the trees and leaves and underbrush, and remember it all. The forest is still obviously different, but enough for Arthur to know where he is, which direction to go, even if one would lead him to the empty lands where Camelot once stood tall and proud.
For the past twenty years, he done everything in his power, preventing the eradication of the woods Arthur grew up in, preventing greedy hands and interests and business from consuming this land.
The woods settled quietly with Merlin's protection, miles of it with his wards against black magic (though, not as stable as the ones Merlin laid around his cottage— those magical wards would hold until Merlin drew his very last breath, he was certain of that).
Merlin's smile droops at its corners, from its mirth, as he halts at the entryway, dirt-covered boots and all. He glances down instead of the person nearby.
"Sorry for leaving like that. I… I needed a moment to myself." (Which is what Merlin deserved for going without human touch for so long? How could he have thought it would be alright?)
"My magic acted on my body's heightened reactions, and needed to be… dealt with safely. This doesn't normally happen," Merlin adds, side-eying him now. "The magic that brought you back is strong and must be lingering in bursts… it tangled with mine. It shouldn't be like this all the time."
Contained, controlled, it's disconcerting to imagine. Arthur chooses to dismiss the thought. Magic, especially what forced him to return, isn't what needs to be discussed.
"I'm sure it won't," he replies, blankly. "You seem to have your wits about you, Merlin—for once."
Looking back downwards, Merlin uses the bottom edge of the door-frame to scrape away the congealing mud from his boots. His thumb shoves away a clump of grass from the heel, wiping it off on his henley. The warlock lets the silence permeate, his tongue gently pushing against the inside of his cheek.
"Let's get some horses," Merlin announces, placid and musing, eyes on his shoe. "Two of the thoroughbred palfrey, just like the ones from the stables." He sets his foot down, straightening his back. A yawn creeps up on him suddenly, and Merlin struggles against it, forearm to his mouth.
"Who knows," he says. "I might even saddle yours for you."
"I don't need a horse, Merlin."
Despite the rambling, the other man glimpses once again the hint of a past tense. As if Camelot's a distant memory, nostalgic. For Merlin it was, but for Arthur?
For Arthur, it still feels like he's left his kingdom for a short time, for Camlann and for the battle against Morgana's men.
The terror of acknowledging this is real, no matter what Arthur has read, no matter what Merlin tells him. And he can't say it, can't think on it either. Arthur knows when someone is meaning to be kind with him, and while appreciated, it's not coddling he needs. What Arthur needs, what he thinks he needs, is to focus on this, and ignore the rest. Focus on Merlin.
Trying to break the awareness, Merlin shoots him a more enthusiastic grin.
"Anyway, you should see the garden during summer. Loads of vegetables." Merlin says, holding up both of his hands to measure the emptiness. "Cabbages as big as your head—which, yours is actually quite larger than the average human head, I say. Too much hot air."
An eye-roll.
"At least all of my head is proportionate, unlike yours," Arthur responses, uncrossing his arms and flicking on one of Merlin's ears.
He yelps, cupping at it and sending Arthur a glare that reads part astonishment, part indignation. Merlin follows Arthur inside, shutting the cottage door behind him manually and locking it.
"If it's you, I can see why my magic is agitated," he mutters under his breath, grumpily, working off his shoes and boots on the rug.
"I heard that," Arthur says, doing the same. "What's the matter now?"
Merlin sleepily rubs at his eyes, wrinkling his nose. "Good, what least your hearing still works…"
"You're tired." It's a patronizing comment, but he honestly doesn't care if Arthur can tell how exhausted he is.
The thickly-constructed, wooden door at Merlin's back feels strangely comfortable, as everything around him lulls to a sort-of haze. He leans there with his upper body weighed down, head sluggishly thudding. Merlin's eyes slit open a little in defiance.
"Wh'err have you that idea…?" he slurs out, lips barely parting. The events of the day, running through the rainstorm to speak with the Vilia, reliving the end of Camelot's days, letting go of the barriers between him and his feelings for Arthur, and then unleashing so much magic at once…
But he doesn't want to give Arthur the satisfaction of being right about that. Didn't need a bigger ego… than what was… already there…
Merlin's back slowly drags against the door, as the sort-of haze darkens with the closing of his eyelids, knees weakening under him.
.
.
The battle's already won, it seems.
While Merlin is stubborn, irritatingly so, he loses composure right in front of Arthur's eyes.
Arthur raises his eyebrows pointedly at the slurring question, giving him an 'oh please' expression. Merlin's entire body weight practically relies on the door to keep him upright, if the garbled words aren't an indicator.
He opens his mouth to snap back, to take advantage of the laggard response time in Merlin's case, but all that comes out is a "woah!" when Arthur notices Merlin slipping down.
Instinctively, he rushes forward, grasping Merlin up and pressing his own side to the door to stabilize them both from careening. Arthur adjusts the loop of his arms and grunts, heaving Merlin up, an arm slipping around his thin upper torso to grab a hold. The gesture mimics the morning of his return a bit too well, but now with their roles reversed.
And thankfully, under separate circumstances.
"Come on," he sighs, heaving Merlin again. "You can't fall asleep standing up, you dolt."
Even half-conscious Merlin is no great wonder to carry, and Arthur gets them into the bedroom without a problem. Almost, because it's a bit difficult to focus with the tired warmth radiating off the other man, but Arthur simply readjusts his grip and moves on.
The room is dark with the sun descending behind the treeline. Arthur nudges the door with his foot.
The few last steps towards the bed are filled with manhandling, albeit gentler, instead of dropping Merlin down.
Arthur shifts to his right side facing the bed, quickly reaching over and tugging the covers back, making enough room for Merlin. Then, after a satisfied half-nod, he turns and lowers him on the bed. Tossing the blankets over him, Arthur glances down, hand once more absently tugging on the folds.
Just for the briefest of moments, his fingers itch to card through Merlin's fringe, smoothing the mess from his eyes and Arthur berates himself. He doesn't know how to do gentle with Merlin, but it needs to be… gradual, much slower. They need more time.
.
.
Merlin likes this darkness cocooning him, making him lightheaded and stripping away his worries.
He hardly registers his balance, or Arthur's steadying hip against him, or his arms limp as the other man leads him to the corridor. Merlin can drift, light on his bare feet, warm and hal.
Someone murmuring to him; someone with muscular arms and the citrusy hint of his shampoo; someone who took deliberate care to allow Merlin to rest his flopping head on his pillow before lifting his legs onto the mattress. He wanted to thank them, open his heavy, heavy eyes.
But instead, Merlin burrows down under quilted blanket covers, curling his arms protectively in front of himself, and dozes.
Right through Arthur's goodnight, and an instinctively fond, missed opportunity, and Merlin's bedroom door shutting firmly.
.
.
TBC...
.
.
Fanart companion piece located at: calamity-annie dot tu mblr dot slash post slash 117634049598/ou-bist-hal-you-are-safe-some-kissy-merthur
OKAY SO. HERE'S THE DEAL. I can get a nice, juicy OVER 5K update out around end of May for you, because this month is especially busy for me - I'm quitting a job and looking for an immediate new one, I've got a few projects due - and since it's exams month, everyone else is gonna be done around the time I am. You should expect that update in the last week of May, BUT it's a possibility it'll be SOONER. MUCH SOONER. If everything works out. xC I hope so. Okay, thank you lovelies! Any thoughts/comments are so loved please!