.
.
Time blends together. The amount of grinning done, the chill.
When they arrive to the landing of the bus, Merlin's stomach leaps. His vision swims once or twice. Arthur's warmth no longer out of reach. He's sitting down with him in a double-seat, murmuring, their fingers hovering each other's.
Merlin's wet jacket slaps against his leg when his feet find the soil. The earth sighs beneath him, and his magic echoes it faintly.
He watches the fluorescent and roaring bus fade into a pinprick of light.
Arthur tugs his own jacket tighter, now slightly warmer since it dried during the bus ride He keeps close, hand grazing against Merlin's as he meets his eyes. "Come on, Merlin," Arthur tells him, voice no longer faintly slurring. "I want to get back."
Yes. Yes, Merlin does, too.
The afternoon sun has long since fell behind the horizon. Darkness within the canopied woods creeping along, more difficult to navigate. Merlin could maneuver them blind-folded.
However now, he doesn't feel very navigation-worthy.
The instinct, roiling and warming, roots and flares deep inside him. Pushes upwards.
An orb of pale blue, swirling luminescence emerges from the center of Merlin's upturned palm, widening in size. It bobs gently mid-air above their heads, and then slowly weaves a path. Somewhere, like another memory but sluggish and muffled.
Merlin follows it, rooted to the orb just as deeply as it is to him. He grabs onto Arthur's hand, not just for stability, but to guide as well.
The journey takes—longer? Or was it shorter?—than it normally does.
There's very little to question when everything feels like it was clicking together, bits and bots melding and shaping into perfect arrangement.
Merlin's sheltered, little nook of a cottage appears well-lit inside, swimming in the incandescence of the already flickering candlelight, and accompanied by the lone glow of a desk lamp from across the parlour he and Arthur currently stand in, breathing loudly.
The orb dispersed itself by the time they step inside the rune-carved gate, its protective magic humming and welcoming him.
An explanation for the hearth inside the cottage already flame-hot does not matter particularly. Or how the big, wood door unlatches. As soon as the waves of indoor heat register, Merlin's teeth chatter. He thinks he hears Arthur's being as noisy as his.
Arthur doesn't even blink.
His footsteps are heavy but his expression light, pleasant as he looks over at Merlin. Their hands still clasped, but neither an attempt to drop them until Merlin does. That's Arthur's cue to try to tug off his damp jacket.
Arthur's shoulders roll, slow in pace as he jerks it back, but his eyes are on Merlin contemplatively as he does.
Merlin shivers, hair drippy, but smiling broadly at his companion.
"Freezing," he murmurs, rubbing at the length of his arms. Something, anything to gain feeling back in them.
They are here. He and Arthur. They are ancients taking in the young air surrounding them and expelling it, shivering and gladdened to the presence of each other. Miles of warmth and bare, downy skin unexplored within the confines of waterlogged, expensive fabric.
As Merlin remains still, unmoved from standing near the hearth, the other man busies himself, shedding his jacket. Decreased space between them.
Arthur finally manages to shake the top layer off his wrist, dropping it on the back of the couch before coming forward. His gaze trails down Merlin, taking in the brightness of his expression contrasting with the dark blue of Merlin's eyes in the firelight. Arthur is starting to believe the compliment of beautiful has been given to the wrong man.
"You'll need to get out of those clothes, then," Arthur's voice low, contemplative, but not fully innocent in meaning. That's for Merlin to interpret. "You'll catch a cold."
But Arthur never looks away, not even for a moment. He studies Merlin like a painter would an empty canvas, filling in the blanks with his mind's eye. Imagining what can be.
Merlin only hopes what Arthur can see, all those the tiny, infinite spaces are worth the effort.
He quietly appreciates the new heat of Arthur's hands, following the demonstration and rubbing Merlin's upper arms instead. Unashamed of this closeness. Merlin's own fingers decide to rub themselves together, summoning life to them, distracting him.
He shakes his head, grinning and chuckling amused to himself, face lowered. It isn't the worst come-on line Merlin's heard.
(Of course Arthur's meaning isn't entirely innocent; despite what others accused of him during Camelot's time, Merlin is no fool.)
Stormy blue eyes gaze back up, fuzzy and dancing, as they crinkle at the corners with the carefree grin.
Merlin asks, separating his hands and lifting them, "Are you offering to sully your hands with peasant duties, for me?" Pale, spindly fingers drift into Arthur's space, not fumbling but expertly unknotting the red-dotted tie to Arthur's neck in seconds. Dragging the patterned material free the wrinkled, dress shirt-collar.
"I believe… I'm the only person here qualified for that."
Arthur's true laughter often rang out high-pitched, cracked and full of energy. This laughter is rumbling deep from his core, soft and growing muffled where their lips meet, crashing and needy.
A stirring of that same need overtakes Merlin's chest. He wants to feel, ingrain the sensation desperately. But force his movements slow, nails catching to the pearly, translucent buttons on the white dress-shirt. The kiss clumsy, and tastes like the strong, oaky wine. Then sugar-laced and electric like Merlin's vodka.
Arthur's lips are thin, stretched around Merlin's tongue that probes against his teeth.
He's swept into it, the touch and the pure sense of need. They need this. It's been a long time coming, Arthur reacts with the same urgency.
Lips sliding against each other, shaky breathing as Arthur's fingers rake up into dark hair. He keeps his head angled, trying to find the best way to experience it all. Merlin's mouth sweet, warm like the previous burn of alcohol in his veins, and Arthur is suddenly feeling hot all over. A ledger of noise, too low to be a whine.
But unable to trace the source, Merlin swallows down a groan, eyes closed. His fingers piecing apart the buttons leading down Arthur's sternum. Too slow.
The impulse ensnares him, and Merlin's fingers tear apart, soundly ripping Arthur's shirt the rest of the way, gliding his hands eagerly to gold skin.
Arthur's breath hitches in his throat, eyes opening with a start as long, chilled fingers splay against his skin.
Oh.
Arthur doesn't know what to do with the sudden surge of appreciation that overwhelms him, his thoughts swirling. Except that was: incredibly, infuriatingly attractive.
But, Merlin doesn't take Arthur's silence as dismissive. He frisks apart his clothes, with less professionalism and self-control than the majority of the years they knew each other.
Merlin's thought process doesn't particularly care for rubbish as 'control'. At least, not in its usual meaning. He sat in the backdrop of history, of his own cursed, doomed existence, exercising restraint and humility and pretending to not care.
Patience and him are old friends.
The scorching quality of their kiss is something Merlin wants to get lost into, not remembering any comparison, not any ill emotion. He presses in a bit harder, lips beginning to ache under the pressure.
Arthur's fingers knot to his dampened hair, brushing Merlin's scalp occasionally and sending tingles down his spine. The other man's presence crowds him, as soon as the now ruined, deep red button-up is rucked off Arthur's shoulders.
He's… dark eyes, the faint scent of perspiration and clean water. Not the murkiness of the algae-covered lake. Merlin can trace the ingredients of Arthur's meal, of his bevvys, cataloging the heaviness.
A sharp, but careful, tug on the diamond-patterned tie to Merlin's neck. Arthur's fingers tugging it. His mind blanks out almost instantly, overcome by a shot of primal urge.
The only thing registering: Arthur and… yes.
The warlock repeats the word, softly, ending it with a tinier groan. A flare of yellow tinging around blue irises, melting away as quickly as it appears. His magic sweeps out, hovering but doing no more than that.
A little noise of surprise, almost questioning, and Merlin goes with it, didn't move out of it as Arthur's mouth collides to his again. A warm tongue sliding gently between his lips. Merlin hums into it, parting them lazily and letting Arthur lick his way inside, messy and eager. A coil of arousal twines in Merlin's gut, sinking down, and trembling his breath.
Merlin's thumbs stroke along the jaw in front of him, as he holds Arthur's face to him, feeling a light dusting of stubble on his skin.
He pushes Merlin back into the wall, leading him. The wall smacks into his back, and Merlin pays no mind to it. Even as Arthur's leg presses to his hip, securing him in place. His body sags, taking off weight and Merlin's head tilting back, breaking lip contact.
"God…" he mumbles out slowly, eyes lidded before shutting and gazing at Arthur with honest appreciation. A smile blossoming.
This is really happening. Not a dream. A good one. Even if things do spun a little, and Merlin needs a blink a few times to clear his vision.
While not the first time they kissed, even the first time they did so against the wall, this is the first time desire has them so completely. Arthur plans to let it continue that way.
And, lord have mercy, has it. Merlin's weight falls onto Arthur's leg. Reluctantly, Arthur lets the kiss to break, losing the sensation of swollen pink lips. Arthur chuckles faintly, but the noise clipped and tinged with impatience. He doesn't want to stop, not now. Not to just sit there and be stared at.
A mutter of 'kiss me' and Merlin grins wolfishly, pushing the side of his thumb against Arthur's mouth.
"Earn it," he responded, cheeky. His eyes radiant in colour.
The hand on Arthur's side, clutching for support, loosens. Slides towards the muscles on the blond man's abdomen, and then heads lower.
There's no need for ceremony. Merlin's hand presses against the clothed mound in Arthur's trousers, long fingers curling for a small, easy squeeze. At the same moment, Merlin quickly moves to dart his tongue under Arthur's ear, whispering, "I don't read minds. You have to tell me what you want."
How could one man be so endearing, but so incredibly impossible at the same time?
Arthur's spine feels like wildfire. Arthur's jaw tightening. His knees suddenly go weak, and all he wants is to give in and pull the remaining clothes off. A strained groan erupts from his throat, and Arthur turns his head, pressing his mouth to Merlin's fingers. "What I want?"
"I want you." he murmurs, low and obvious, his lips skimming the underside of Merlin's jaw. "All of you. Everywhere. Mostly I want you out of your bloody trousers."
He can't help it—Arthur looked so promising like this. Mildly irritated in expression but golden skin tainted with color deep flushing. Blond hair tousled and scraped by Merlin's wandering fingers, still wet.
They both aren't exactly in the state of the mind and body to draw things out and savour it. Not like a filmy, halcyon arc of rapturous touch. The weight of Arthur's cock in his trousers is dense and grounding, heavy against Merlin's palm. His mouth numb like it's sore, pink and stinging, edging pleasurable.
It would seem unwise to devil Arthur like this… but since when did Merlin get into the habit of listening to something daft like that? Deviling Arthur had been one of the sole parts—and need he add, a very therapeutic privilege—of his duties as a manservant.
Merlin flashes a set of teeth in his next coy smile, but hidden under Arthur's chin when he hears Arthur groan audibly, jetting torrents of smoldering, lustful heat into Merlin's bloodstream. The vibrations clearly felt where muscles go taut, jerking in place.
He would have Arthur like this, whole bones and thick, ridged muscles, noises, climbing him, leaving marks, sucking Arthur down his throat, tasting freshly accumulated sweat and the irresistible musk of sex. Press open-mouth, gentle kisses to each strange constellation of Arthur's healed injuries.
Hold him, memorize him all over again, take.
Be taken.
The very imaginings cut a loud, rasping breath out of Merlin, but not to the effect of Arthur's lips wrapping one of his digits. Grazing against the soft, round tender of Merlin's thumb, and around the nail. His eyes widen, gazing at Arthur's profile in stark, dazed amazement.
This wasn't the first time someone had—no.
There would be no comparisons. Not to any human soul Merlin known with lecherous intent, abandoned guilt and himself for the desires of physicality.
Arthur deserves honesty, in every aspect Merlin gives willingly.
"I want you."
Merlin's hand between them tenses, halting any rhythm.
"All of you."
(He deserves better.)
A bit of drool gleams on Merlin's pale thumb, as Arthur finally lets it free, and whispers to him, lips sliding across the warlock's jaw and sending his heart fluttering hard to his ribcage.
He needs this. He hopes they both do. Merlin's palm applies steady pressure to Arthur's cock, not longer teasing.
"…'ve no idea," he mumbles out, snatching Arthur's other hand and guiding to his own, letting him become familiar with the sensation before grinding a little, "how badly," Merlin drops his head towards Arthur's bare shoulder, closing his eyes, shuddering, "…wanted this, nn—couldn't have you."
The first touch is a shock through Arthur's body, the surrealism finally charged into reality. Arthur soaks it in, Merlin's hips rolling into his hand. He makes it easier, fingers outlining Merlin's prick.
"Yes, you can," he breathes out before Arthur realises it, fiercely wanting to be done with the word couldn't. There's no need for it now.
Hands releasing. Scrabbling for belts.
At some point, in the haze and murk of thoughts, Merlin knows he's undoing his own. Feels Arthur's fingers straying to his hips, and his feet sloppily kicking off his Docs.
Groping along through the hallway.
Arthur's mouth back to his, nearly swallowing down his tongue. Merlin's hip painfully slamming to the door-frame of the bedroom. Someone bumping the door shut.
Merlin's ears burns with the whisper of Arthur's consent verging on determination and an impossible measure of fervency. This… this would have never came to be, boundless centuries and centuries ago.
He longed for this, as he longs now. Longed for Arthur physically and emotionally and to allow his king to know how Merlin wants him. Not as just a sovereign, and not just that bright spark of hope for many—but as a person, flesh and blood and the sweet countenance of a smile.
Merlin could allow himself this now. He doesn't have to fight, or dismiss his feelings. Let it shrink away in favor of another's needs. Or some bleedin' rubbish cosmic destiny. Or tempt the idea of giving over to someone else.
No one… deserves what he feels for Arthur. No one ever would, or would understand.
He's eager to hear and touch and see, to hear Arthur's noises, the low, breathy gasps for stabilizing air as if it has been punched right out of his lungs. Eager to sense where the littlest twitches and shocks draw from Arthur's body, as they ground each other and feel with wholehearted curiosity and need.
His bedroom is stifling, somehow. He's incredibly lightheaded and swimmy. Cast in early night and slits of moonlight. Arthur's skin pressing to him radiates so much heat.
Merlin has been distracted mostly by roaming, soft lips on his, gripping at Arthur's waist, when his white dress-shirt buttons ease apart. Losing patience with how gentle and meticulous the process is steadily becoming, Merlin's teeth drag against Arthur's bottom lip, nipping hard.
In return, Arthur's nails dig down warningly across Merlin's chest, as the damp material is thrown off. And Merlin can't stop grinning.
Not very fond of the idea from separating, not when they are leading up to the good part… as soon his shirt discards, Merlin's hands relock around Arthur's waist possessively.
But the grin fades.
And slowly, very slowly, Merlin realises his mistake late when he allows Arthur to peel off his damp, white shirt.
Everyone bleeds when wounded. Skin ruptures apart, but eventually the manifestations disappear.
And if they don't, they aren't this.
Littered across Merlin's exposed flesh are long, silvery marks. Some grouped together, others isolated. Scars of manifestation never to disappear. Flat and untraceable to any distinct sense of touch, but there all the same, smoothed and curled into Merlin's own skin. The largest of the silvery marks roped to the left side of Merlin's neck, like the mimic of a gash, and the ones to his abdomen and to his shoulders.
But one in particular on his side, hovering somewhere between the space of Merlin's hip and under his ribcage, does not match the others.
Unlike them, it's slightly ridged and wrinkled, like Arthur's scars. Sunken in its center. Tinged with violet-bruising and blackened at the centre.
A patch no bigger than a cherry tomato. Angry-looking.
Merlin should not have these scars. Warrior wounds; scars that came from battle or a difficult life.
There are more than Arthur's sure he notices, the ones trailing down his side rivaling Percival's own boasted scars. The one on his side was what catches Arthur's attention. Arthur feels something stick in the back of his throat, fingers subconsciously lowering to ghost over it.
It looks painful.
He—
He's cold. Exposed. Chest heaving and silvery, roping scars there. Arthur can see them.
Suddenly, the urge to back away seizes Merlin. Something, anything—retreat, cover up, stammer out an apology.
But Merlin only stands in numbed, unmoved hush, watching with growing horror as Arthur's eyes travels down.
The look on Arthur's face, stretched out for maybe only a few seconds, had been agony to see manifest. Subdued distress and concern among the clearest of the emotions to register, Arthur's eyebrows furrowing together as his fingertips hover over the arrow-wound.
No. No, it had been far more than a simple wound. It could never heal. The rest of Merlin's scars are evidence of his abilities. But, this…
This is a reminder.
He swallows, throat clenching, meeting bright blues. Arthur's eyes reveal nothing. Merlin's lips part anxiously, as if he's going to speak. But only a weak, moaning breath escapes him as Arthur's hand winds quickly to his diamond-pattern tie and yanks him forward.
It's smooth and effortless motion, causing Merlin's forehead to bump to Arthur's without sharp pain and his stomach to flip in anticipation.
Arthur's lips find his again and it's bliss. Clouding away bruises and dark magic and thoughts of his humanity dying.
Just like that, Arthur pulls them back on track. He will not settle on the scars, or act surprised. He's seen plenty in his lifetime. Now is not the time for that sort of attention. Still, Arthur is careful to not jar him as he pushes Merlin down against the only bed.
With Merlin half on the mattress, Arthur raises a leg, knee sinking into it as he hovers over the other man, using the tie to tilt Merlin's head up.
Merlin scoots up it, reveling the sensation of being intimately crowded. Another warm body inches from. It's a familiar reflection.
Merlin's neck jerks up, obeying the unspoken, hungry demand from his companion, and gives into it with shimmering instinct, his blood seemingly on fire. And he keeps his hands at his sides, fingers curling.
No one. No one but Arthur elicits this response from him. So easily dominant and overtake. Treat him harshly but with obvious care. (Merlin… yes, he's an old, experienced creature. The passage of time with only his immortality to keep him company and his memories grant him a medley of aesthetic and carnal pleasure, wherever he seeks it. He rarely let people witness a shade of truth about him.)
The loosened tie slips over Merlin's head, tugging at one of his ears and he wrinkles his nose in hazy displeasure, lips pursed. Bugger.
Arthur's hands scrambles for Merlin's belt, unhooking it and unzipping him. Merlin forgoes the idea of remaining still any longer, just as his trousers are finally being removed. He aids it along, wiggling his hips up a moment from the bed as large, sun-gold fingers tug everything away, including Merlin's pants and the thin, wool socks.
So much for keeping their brand-new, expensive clothes wrinkle-free, let alone dry from the weather.
"Your turn, clotpole," he murmurs, eyes on where he plainly sees Arthur's trousers beginning to strain, words sounding raspy and affectionate.
This time Merlin lets his hands wander with intent, undoing the front button and stripping away the belt expertly from his loops, barely rocking Arthur a millimeter.
Merlin's words warm and rough enough to send a lick of heat straight through his body. Arthur huffs in response. Merlin switches roles with him, slipping the belt without fault from the loops and unbuttoning the pants. If only he could've been that careful when it was his actual job to undress him.
But, Merlin can definitely get used to this. Getting Arthur properly naked with the motivation to do something about it.
The problem, however, is slowly becoming 'getting him properly naked' part.
Merlin's eyes flick over to Arthur's leg where it makes impact the quilt. Most of Arthur's weight situated on it. Brilliant.
"Mind your head," Merlin says in a mutter before knocking that leg, and Arthur's weight included, down. Thankful for the large space of bed still left for horseplay, and other variations thereof, Merlin uses momentum and the laws of gravity to his advantage. He grabs at the bigger, now likely startled, man and rolls Arthur on his back.
Not wasting a couple seconds for an explanation—and not needing to—Merlin heaves himself up, smirking, and pulls at Arthur's trousers, nudging Arthur's hips to arch up to better the process. He laughs out loud at Arthur's grunt, and deposits the rest of Arthur's clothing on the floor with Merlin's things.
"Could have asked," Arthur says indignantly, arching his back.
"S'rry 'bout that," Merlin whispers, leaning over to gleefully set a lighter peck on Arthur's mouth, and not appearing the least bit sorry. Naturally.
Arthur's eyes roll, fingers trailing Merlin's thighs. "You're hardly sorry," he responds, lips finding Merlin's jaw, thumbs trailing over jutting hip-bone before slipping underneath the hem of Merlin's boxers. "Not when you've got that smug look of yours on your face."
Etiquette or delicate technique isn't a matter Merlin sought out. Neither keen nor focused now except for immediate sensation permeating him. He and Arthur—they are soaked, chilled skin thawing, runny noses mopped and wet, sodden hair threaded.
Quick, muffled breathes and the noise of blood rushing. Merlin can hear it, in his own head, thudding away. His own blood surging and pumping through him. Just as strongly as the pace of Arthur's heart.
Arthur's grunt cues his loss of attention, or rather—how he had not been expecting Merlin's wiliness. Though he really should. Knowing Merlin as he does, after reading all Merlin done in the past and is capable of, Arthur really does need to expect the unexpected.
"My way was faster," Merlin replies to the indignant mutter below him, grin soft but no less cheeky. It doesn't feel a retort, but more casual, as if they are sharing a weekly paper over some coffee instead of sprawled out on Merlin's bed with flushed expressions and raging biggies.
"… And I think you fancy it when I have to do all the work."
Arthur's fingers spread across his skin, tracing lightly, with clear, wanting intent even if the other man 'appears' mildly irritated.
Merlin heaves a breath, thin chest sucking in. He stared back into paler blue eyes, still grinning until another kiss, like the peck, answers all possible scenarios. And all to hang forgotten.
The more time he spends against the heat of Arthur's mouth, the more Merlin is certain he never wants to leave it. The taste of a pure heart and noble humanity never to wash out. Maybe then, if Merlin ever considered himself the lucky sort, it will slowly course inside him with time, purging the obscurity and emptiness.
It's a beautiful want, and he was sure Arthur can provide.
A deep chuckle rises from Merlin, a hand curled around Arthur's side as the other helps support his weight, humming quietly and tilting his head and neck to allow Arthur to kiss his jaw. And then, he feels the hot drag and weight of Arthur's cock. Still through Merlin's underwear, but it's nearly like being naked.
A partly choked gasp leaves Merlin, as he rocks into Arthur's hips. Both hands pressing and open to his mattress, right beside where Arthur's shoulders rest. A slight tremble in his arms.
"You still have too much on, Merlin."
Merlin repeats the motion, grinding harder, Arthur's hands and his fingertips traveling across his tailbone, leaving hallmarks of churning fire. Merlin doesn't close his eyes.
Can't. He doesn't want to.
Merlin drops his forehead to Arthur's, letting them cushion each other for a few seconds. He breathes out harshly to smirking, pink lips and with a faint bite to his voice, "Arse."
He rolls off of Arthur, but with no intentions to sally. Wiggling on available space of mattress and shucking off the horribly tight material, bare skin rubbing to quilt cloth.
"Quit complaining, Merlin."
Merlin tries to work some relief back into his parts, fingers brushing and cupping his bollocks under himself a moment. Merlin catches Arthur's eye while he did this, corner of his mouth quirking and teasing. "Mm, so much better," he murmurs, eyelids quivering together.
A heavy sigh issues out from between Merlin's kiss-swollen lips, as he leans his head forward. He doesn't want to handle himself too much though. The occasion would be all over before it could even begin.
Merlin's eyes reopened the low, thundering noise from Arthur, having the register crackle electricity though his nerves lightning-quick. And to see the other man glance him over in slow hunger and flushed approval. He doesn't mind ending back underneath Arthur, or how Arthur lying against Merlin makes him go lax and pliant.
Arthur obviously has no complaints either, fitting so nicely in the warm, bony cradle between Merlin's opening legs. Their eyes never tear away from each other. The look Arthur gives him so… trusting.
He always wanted that look from him. Merlin always wanted to know Arthur trusted him, would be open with him. Even if Merlin had betrayed that honest-hearted trust before, and wanted nothing more than to mend it and rekindle it to the former, wondrous spark.
Arthur's forefinger and several of his fingertips dance across Merlin's naked forearm, black hairs rising on the surface.
He lets out a breathless, soft chuckle, gladdened by the smirk on Arthur's face.
"Indeed, better," Arthur says, lowly. "I like this much more."
"I—I'll bet."
He lost that sensible train of thought when Merlin feels Arthur's hand on his cock. A smooth, but roughly calloused, grasp, beginning tentative in its exploration. "Ohh."
One of Merlin's hands grasp into the mess of Arthur's hair, nails scraping. The other traces Arthur's jaw and and down his neck, each touch burning Merlin's skin. Just as Arthur's mouth had the ability to burn pleasantly to the round of Merlin's cheek and to his lips.
"Mhm," Arthur sighs out the agreement, stroking Merlin's cock a little faster.
"Wait…" The urgency in Merlin's voice isn't worrisome, or fearful. "Wait… …"
He doesn't want to stop this. He just wants Arthur to follow. Merlin shoves the hand away, gently. Determination flooding him.
Merlin kisses him, lifting his head somewhat to do it properly, certainty and adoration channeling every inch of it, and then moans, arching. Hooking an arm around Arthur to bring him closer. Merlin's hips rub up against Arthur's, their cocks nestled together, slipping side-by-side.
It's almost perfect. There's some unsteadiness and lack of focus.
There's a bit of dryness from the raw friction, against their skin, with only what little pre-cum can be provided, but Merlin favours it.
Arthur's hands on him, golden and firm and perfect heat, damn near what Merlin only chanced imagining to himself while alone.
Untried and youthful vigilance, those many years ago, he imagined deeds and powerful emotions that could only be risked by the cover of dark and with noises stifled by either Merlin's fist or his thin, hard pillow. By the old gods, it was Gaius' workshop just outside Merlin's door. He didn't very well want to startle or embarrass his father-figure.
(Neither had Merlin require a lecture on… the dandelions and the hens. That conversation had well been thoroughly discussed with his mother and another neighbor when he had been at a wee age.)
The friction sharp and shocking, and a ragged noise leaves him in time with Merlin. Oh, god yes. Arthur's teeth drags into his lower lip as he instinctively presses back into the dry rub. Arthur steadies himself a little more, breath harsh, but then he lowers down against Merlin's hips.
Merlin gasps low into the line of Arthur's throat, hearing the ragged breath and feeling where the other man pushes back for more.
He searches down, purposely smearing the gathering of fluid against his hand and the length of their cocks sliding together.
It felt like slow effervescence residing in Merlin's chest, warm and filmy bubbling, less obvious than the caffeine in his syrupy gin. His head and his very scalp tingle pleasantly, his limbs, whatever bare of him that presses up against Arthur's body. The hollow inside of Merlin's mouth.
Which Arthur's tongue seems rather fond of seeking out. Overbearing, maybe. Persistent, yes. The surface of Arthur's lips tastes damp and swollen to Merlin's, as he nudges past them, teasing and exploring, licking the upper ridge of Arthur's mouth. Tasting something deeper, like remnants of aching nostalgia, sweat and fresh air and woods.
Merlin repeats the lick, mouths wider open, their breath twining.
He bucks harder to Arthur's hips, urging him on, to bring them to some closing point. But silently never wanting it to come.
Arthur's hands fist into the quilt, knuckles white as he matches his thrusts, to Merlin's pace.
Fingers and nails don't remove themselves from Arthur's hair, but Merlin's arm removes itself to Arthur's waist. Instead, one of Merlin's hands roam as it desires, running across broad chest until his thumbnail scrapes against Arthur's nipple, jolting sensation.
Arthur groans faintly into Merlin's mouth.
The little—.
He can feel the devious smile.
Merlin does manage to time another raw-feeling scrape, this time with a middle fingernail on the same nipple, with a light suck on the point of Arthur's tongue. Grinning softly, mischievously and enjoying the littlest responses of arousal.
He can't keep that attitude for long. Their combined rhythm quickens, losing any grace. The need for an orgasm building, tugging at him. Merlin presses a sharp, desperate thrust against Arthur, back arched, head digging back against the mattress. A sighed mumble, incoherent at best, but possibly could have been meant for Arthur.
It's a constant battle between wanting to touch and needing to keep himself upright. Merlin holds him close enough for both of them. Arthur is given the chance to take a real breath for the first time in a while, the sound ragged.
Arthur's shoulders flex as he bows forward, head pressing to Merlin's collar-bone as he throws his body into it. Lips pressing uncoordinated kisses, teeth grazing—
"Merlin," Arthur says, muffling, the noise strange and barely coherent against his skin.
Merlin's body feels as if it was beyond his control, undeniably aroused and slickened with perspiration, with his blood pounding loudly inside his skull. He's weighed down by Arthur's continued, warm presence and riding a need so great it might as well rip him apart.
It could have the universe split apart, and he would be satisfied. With the man above him—his other half—wrapped around him, long, heavy limbs and gold skin, kissing and sucking the very air out of Merlin.
He vaguely feels the sheets bunching around him where Arthur's hands pin down, but ignores it. Merlin can't focus on much else other than pushing his lips open and fiercely against Arthur's, and thrusting his cock back to Arthur's rocking grinds, and holding on.
It's nearly rough enough between them to consider the faintest notions of a sore friction-burn. But he would cherish any reminder of this.
Even if it's hurried, arching bodies and soft, quick groans. Merlin's heels create dips to the mattress as it seems that Arthur got the message—the other man spurring on the pace, nudging his face against Merlin's neck and collar, the hot flush of his damp breaths on him.
Fingers grip tighter, harder to Arthur's hair. He—
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, needing, needing, trembling and shoving up wildly to Arthur's rocking hips, leaving no space untouched. He needs—Arthur, he needs— him, he needs—this.
He, just, come on—
His ears pick up the gasp of his own name, passing from Arthur's red-raw mouth and his teeth clinking to Merlin's. Feeling it. And with that, the desperation is over. Merlin heaves out his orgasm soundless, lips parted, tilting his head back once more.
An invisible wash of magic rushes out of Merlin, blown up in proportions from the tangible manifestation of a release. Rattling several items in place, including the bed-frame, before quieting. Dully blinking on the lights within the bedroom, before fading off.
He misses it; Merlin's fingers drift to lightly claw the nape of Arthur's neck, as his other hand weakly grasps at Arthur's side.
Any semblance of what's happening around him disappears; Arthur doesn't even catch the quivering of his own breath or the half-conscious words and sounds leaving him as his teeth bite down on Merlin's skin. He wants to leave marks. He wants a reminder that this is real when Merlin and him wake up the next morning. God knows Arthur won't need it.
Arthur has never been a verbal lover.
When forced to keep quiet, whether in the forest or in tents or his own chambers, he learned how to stop the rough moans inside. Bruised lips, teeth burying into pillows or gloves. Guinevere managed to soften his instincts, stripping down those walls until he was panting and murmuring words of love to her sweet, dark skin.
He knows before feeling the damp heat slide against his cock, some dragging against his stomach. Arthur knows by the near silent hitch in Merlin's throat.
The bed trembles underneath them, the rattling of the headboard is only background noise to the pounding of his heart. Just a little more, just a little quicker.
And then, Arthur loses himself to his own pleasure.
Matted, blond hair scratches against the nape of Merlin's neck as Arthur lays his head there, mouth open in a strained gasp as the friction becomes too much. Hands on him, his neck, his side, but his own can't remove themselves from the bunched sheets, from between his fingers.
.
.
They have been waiting for the build of some manner; an overflow.
It lingered thick and hard to ignore between them for some time now—emotions and physicality—stolen, remarkably gentle kisses under a magicked umbrella, or knowledge that Arthur opened his heart about his past. Or that Merlin's stony, distanced countenance fell away. Or that they both couldn't for the life of them stop flirting.
Modern-day romances take no root in his heart, no seed to embed. Books, movies, the fantastical and illuminating stories of Person A and Person B conquering all impossible obstacles they faced together and gaining all they needed for an almost-perfect happy ending…
He never knew love to be like that.
Love was sacrifice. Love was utter frustration and turmoil. Love swept over you and then gnawed at you, some days kindly, only taking a few pieces here and there… and others, it burned a hole in your chest so large that a nebulous-sun didn't match.
Merlin didn't know it then, as the wide-eyed and charming youth, but he was born for Arthur.
To be entangled in a long-foretold destiny with his King that battered and rammed the psyche, that trapped Merlin in a body that wouldn't die. That never grew as old as he felt in the last millennium—bone-weary and ancient as the raging sea.
He didn't want Arthur strictly as bed-company. It was undeniably enticing on the senses, yes. It was the present moment, yes—Arthur's hot, low breathes to his ear, his cock sliding easier against the body-warmed mess as Merlin writhed and gasped softly under him, over-sensitized. But it wasn't necessary to his… happiness.
Having Arthur at all, bright and as ancient, is.
.
.
BBC Merlin isn't mine. WEEEEEEEEELL. HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE NEW CHAPTER, AHAHAHA. All of you readers and reviewers have been amazing, and so thoughtful and kind, and there isn't enough love in the world I can send you so ilysm and I'm so happy you are here! :)