Merlin: M/A: The Taste of Your Words, The Color of Your Voice
Title: The Taste of Your Words, The Color of Your Voice
Series: Merlin
Rating: PG (for nondescript beheading and grief of a mother)
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Disclaimer: dis- (not); claim- (mine); -er (no, really)
Summary: Merlin has seen sounds and tasted words his entire life, so when the color isn't there anymore and the tastes become bland, his world is suddenly dull... only, there's a prince who seems to make it all come back. Written for this Kink Me! Merlin prompt about synaesthesia.
A/N: I don't have synaesthesia. I don't know anyone who does, so some of the descriptions might be off. I admit I didn't do much research which is usually one of my favorite parts of writing. Depression, however, seems to have other ideas. I tried to keep it uplifting as much as possible and it feels like it took forever to write 1802 words, but it's finished now and hopefully it agrees with everyone's taste buds.
Also, there's possibly a barely-there hint of femslash but it could be interpreted as friendship.
The sounds of the cattle are like snakes of violet slithering across his vision; the sheep baaing make it less smooth and a light blue, but not that light. The dogs barking make a bright orange bittersweet starburst. Will’s voice is light yellow and flows like a river, but his laugh makes it darker and faster, like his heart when he’s been running. His mother’s is light pink, almost white, and it looks like the first snow, soft and powdery and sweet.
Merlin’s been like this for as long as he can remember. At first he thought it was just his magic that made him see sound and taste words, but then he left and saw the jagged red words of a King executing a sad man and the black grief of a childless mother promising dark revenge. It disappears just after he saves the physician who speaks with soothing green tones that roll like waves against the shores of Merlin’s mind.
He’s given a room with wooden floorboards that creak a dusty brown and he sleeps on the simple bed; it feels like a luxury compared to the stones back at his mother’s. He awakens during the night to the sound of birds and guards doing rounds but he can’t see them. There’s a voice in the back of his mind that feels like a dream and it almost sparks golden but it fades too quickly and then Merlin is left in the dark with sounds that no longer make color.
The breakfast Gaius gives him tastes as bland as the words he speaks and the people he later gives the potions to are just as much if not more. Outside it is barely better, he can hear and see, but everything is muted and washed out. The thunk of a dagger makes a dull fizzle in his peripheral so Merlin turns and watches.
There’s a small splash of color as the leader tilts his head back and laughs. Momentarily, Merlin is reminded of a pack of wolves: the leader and his followers, and then that one that all the others poke fun at. He’s always felt sorry for that wolf who has to make a fool of himself for the good of the others. It’s probably why he speaks up.
“Do I know you?”
His words are a surprise because they curl around Merlin in the same way his magic does but they’re not gold. They’re some mix between red and pink, darker than his mother’s but lighter than the King’s.
“I’m Merlin,” he says, and it’s weird how his own name feels heavy his tongue, tastes like mint and rosemary and somewhere there’s a hint of bread at the back of his throat, but that probably has more to do with breakfast.
Words pass between them that recolor Merlin’s world and fill his mouth with flavors. It’s a heady experience. He’s never gone without it and now so suddenly he’s drowning in it. It’s almost a surprise when he swings a fist and ends up with his arm twisted behind his back and a display of color that’s almost blinding. Merlin gasps, but he’s not sure if it’s from pain or the fact that his world has suddenly gone from a single burning spark to a full on wildfire that is scorching him from the inside out.
“Who do you think you are? The King?” The words taste bitter in his mouth even before he says them. Merlin suspects it has to do with the last word. Even the thought of the King makes his mouth fill with bile.
“No, I’m his son, Arthur.”
Merlin’s heart stops a beat but the burst of color from Prince Arthur’s words still dance before him like fireflies, or maybe fairies pretending to be fireflies. He wants to repeat the words because he wants to taste the name despite the title but the guards are coming. When they take him away the Prince’s laughter fades away to sound and suddenly, so suddenly, it’s like he’s blind again.
-
There is a dragon beneath the castle who calls him when he sleeps and sparks magic gold behind Merlin’s eyelids when he speaks. The dragon’s voice is great and booming but the shapes are fuzzy and barely-there. It’s more than anyone else gets. Except the Prince.
The dragon laughs like he knows and tells him what his eyes and ears and mouth already believe.
-
Morgana’s voice is dark blue, like midnight, and her name tastes like an exotic spice from some far away land; it reminds Merlin of magic. It mixes beautifully with Gwen’s bright sunshine yellow, reminds Merlin of that moment just after twilight with a cresting sun, where the moon still shines bright and the stars are just beginning to hide.
He’s not touching Arthur but he’s near, near enough that he can still see colorful voices and taste flavorful words without being overwhelmed. Touching the Prince leaves him breathless, wrapped in color and sound and taste and everything he grew up feeling but now he only has moments of it.
It still shocks him when he steps inside Arthur’s room and is blinded by insults and the sound of the morning bustle outside. Merlin’s clumsiness reaches new heights because of it.
When Arthur is under Sophia’s spell, Merlin should know. Arthur’s color changes, becomes darker and is lined with blue and gold but it’s harder for Merlin to see, like the spell mutes whatever power Arthur holds over him. The water takes everything away, all the color and sound and the only taste left in his mouth is both bitter and sour.
There’s nothing when he grabs onto the cold metal of Arthur’s armor, nothing when he breaks the surface except for wet, nothing when he pulls Arthur’s limp body onto dry land.
Merlin’s seen this done before, when Will jumped into the creek before learning how to swim and one of the older boys had to fish him out and Hunith had to revive him. He remembered because his colors had muted then, too, until Will rolled over and threw up water and laughed at his own stupidity.
He tilts Arthur’s head back, closes his nose and grabs his chin and presses his lips to Arthur’s, blowing air into his lungs. It takes several tries before Arthur stirs and when he does, Merlin thinks he might die. Not of happiness, or joy, or the fact that he’s saved the Prince of Camelot once again, but the explosion of life within him. Every sound, every movement that Arthur makes paints Merlin’s eyes with rippling waves of color.
He might moan because of it, because it feels beautiful and amazing, like its magic thrumming through his veins instead of Arthur’s color and Arthur’s taste. Arthur blinks up at him and the words that aren’t spoken flow like honey down Merlin’s throat and are the same color as a virgin’s blush.
And then Arthur cough’s up water all over Merlin’s knees and proceeds to pass out.
-
Merlin has conflicted emotions when it comes to hunting. He hates killing defenseless animals but he loves the nights, sitting in front of the fire next to Arthur, shoulders pressed together and knees knocking together. The touch sends ripples through Merlin’s very soul and sends little rainbows twirling through the flames.
He sleeps next to Arthur, too. The nights are usually cold, so it’s something he can get away with, tends to pull his bedroll as close as he can. Merlin likes to watch Arthur fall asleep and then scoots closer until he can feel slow breaths against his cheek. It takes him a moment to lean up, puts weight on his forearm and lets his lips gently brush Arthur’s.
It sparks the life of him into color and the heartbeat in his mouth tastes like cinnamon. He falls into a kaleidoscope of magic and marvel but his lips are barely making contact with Arthur’s skin. Merlin pauses, blinks, and wonders what would happen to him if he pressed harder, slipped his tongue in and gave Arthur a proper kiss.
He wonders, but he won’t do it. Somehow, it feels like taking advantage, like anything more than this is wrong. He’d ponder it more but suddenly instead of golden lashes and flickering eyelids he’s staring into blue eyes with dark pupils blown wide.
“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, lips moving against Merlin’s. It’s a very pretty pink that curls around them, surrounds Merlin until it’s all he can see and the only thing he can feel is Arthur. “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to see,” Merlin says simply, but all he can taste is cinnamon.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Arthur says but fumbles his words when his tongue touches lips that aren’t his own. “You’re not blind.”
“I want to see the colors,” Merlin continues as he watches starbursts flash before his eyes at the taste of Arthur’s tongue. “I want to taste your voice.”
“Merlin, you’re not making any sense.”
Merlin opens his mouth, watches Arthur’s eyes darken impossibly and the lust there tastes like fresh apples and red grapes. The wariness dims it a little. “Can I show you?”
It’s his magic that lets him do it when he deepens the kiss, lets him share his colors and tastes and sounds with his very own Prince. Arthur’s fingers press canyons into his arms and he becomes mountains and valleys and plains, filled with waterfalls and rainbows and lightning and gardens of spice that swirl in the wind and dissolve on his tongue.
He can feel Arthur drowning in it, flying and tasting and burning. When he pulls away Arthur is breathless and flushed, lips as pink as his voice.
“This can’t get back to the castle, Merlin.”
Merlin bites his lip and nods, looks away and then rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder. A moment later he feels a hand in the hair at the back of his neck.
“I don’t think I want to know how that was possible, but… I won’t tell anyone.” Arthur’s fingers pause briefly. “Is that what it’s like for you all the time?”
Merlin shifts, lets his arm stretch across Arthur’s chest and lay there. “It used to be. But now it’s only when I’m with you.”
“You don’t need to be sappy, Merlin. You’ve already kissed me.”
“Can I do it again?”
Arthur rolls towards him and kisses his forehead. “Go to sleep. You can kiss me in the morning.”
“You promise?” Merlin’s half asleep as it is.
“Mm. Just don’t tell my father.”
Merlin would laugh, but the color cradling him is too soothing, and Arthur’s arms are warm. He sleeps, and dreams of the colorful kisses that await him in the morning.
Series: Merlin
Rating: PG (for nondescript beheading and grief of a mother)
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Disclaimer: dis- (not); claim- (mine); -er (no, really)
Summary: Merlin has seen sounds and tasted words his entire life, so when the color isn't there anymore and the tastes become bland, his world is suddenly dull... only, there's a prince who seems to make it all come back. Written for this Kink Me! Merlin prompt about synaesthesia.
A/N: I don't have synaesthesia. I don't know anyone who does, so some of the descriptions might be off. I admit I didn't do much research which is usually one of my favorite parts of writing. Depression, however, seems to have other ideas. I tried to keep it uplifting as much as possible and it feels like it took forever to write 1802 words, but it's finished now and hopefully it agrees with everyone's taste buds.
Also, there's possibly a barely-there hint of femslash but it could be interpreted as friendship.
The sounds of the cattle are like snakes of violet slithering across his vision; the sheep baaing make it less smooth and a light blue, but not that light. The dogs barking make a bright orange bittersweet starburst. Will’s voice is light yellow and flows like a river, but his laugh makes it darker and faster, like his heart when he’s been running. His mother’s is light pink, almost white, and it looks like the first snow, soft and powdery and sweet.
Merlin’s been like this for as long as he can remember. At first he thought it was just his magic that made him see sound and taste words, but then he left and saw the jagged red words of a King executing a sad man and the black grief of a childless mother promising dark revenge. It disappears just after he saves the physician who speaks with soothing green tones that roll like waves against the shores of Merlin’s mind.
He’s given a room with wooden floorboards that creak a dusty brown and he sleeps on the simple bed; it feels like a luxury compared to the stones back at his mother’s. He awakens during the night to the sound of birds and guards doing rounds but he can’t see them. There’s a voice in the back of his mind that feels like a dream and it almost sparks golden but it fades too quickly and then Merlin is left in the dark with sounds that no longer make color.
The breakfast Gaius gives him tastes as bland as the words he speaks and the people he later gives the potions to are just as much if not more. Outside it is barely better, he can hear and see, but everything is muted and washed out. The thunk of a dagger makes a dull fizzle in his peripheral so Merlin turns and watches.
There’s a small splash of color as the leader tilts his head back and laughs. Momentarily, Merlin is reminded of a pack of wolves: the leader and his followers, and then that one that all the others poke fun at. He’s always felt sorry for that wolf who has to make a fool of himself for the good of the others. It’s probably why he speaks up.
“Do I know you?”
His words are a surprise because they curl around Merlin in the same way his magic does but they’re not gold. They’re some mix between red and pink, darker than his mother’s but lighter than the King’s.
“I’m Merlin,” he says, and it’s weird how his own name feels heavy his tongue, tastes like mint and rosemary and somewhere there’s a hint of bread at the back of his throat, but that probably has more to do with breakfast.
Words pass between them that recolor Merlin’s world and fill his mouth with flavors. It’s a heady experience. He’s never gone without it and now so suddenly he’s drowning in it. It’s almost a surprise when he swings a fist and ends up with his arm twisted behind his back and a display of color that’s almost blinding. Merlin gasps, but he’s not sure if it’s from pain or the fact that his world has suddenly gone from a single burning spark to a full on wildfire that is scorching him from the inside out.
“Who do you think you are? The King?” The words taste bitter in his mouth even before he says them. Merlin suspects it has to do with the last word. Even the thought of the King makes his mouth fill with bile.
“No, I’m his son, Arthur.”
Merlin’s heart stops a beat but the burst of color from Prince Arthur’s words still dance before him like fireflies, or maybe fairies pretending to be fireflies. He wants to repeat the words because he wants to taste the name despite the title but the guards are coming. When they take him away the Prince’s laughter fades away to sound and suddenly, so suddenly, it’s like he’s blind again.
-
There is a dragon beneath the castle who calls him when he sleeps and sparks magic gold behind Merlin’s eyelids when he speaks. The dragon’s voice is great and booming but the shapes are fuzzy and barely-there. It’s more than anyone else gets. Except the Prince.
The dragon laughs like he knows and tells him what his eyes and ears and mouth already believe.
-
Morgana’s voice is dark blue, like midnight, and her name tastes like an exotic spice from some far away land; it reminds Merlin of magic. It mixes beautifully with Gwen’s bright sunshine yellow, reminds Merlin of that moment just after twilight with a cresting sun, where the moon still shines bright and the stars are just beginning to hide.
He’s not touching Arthur but he’s near, near enough that he can still see colorful voices and taste flavorful words without being overwhelmed. Touching the Prince leaves him breathless, wrapped in color and sound and taste and everything he grew up feeling but now he only has moments of it.
It still shocks him when he steps inside Arthur’s room and is blinded by insults and the sound of the morning bustle outside. Merlin’s clumsiness reaches new heights because of it.
When Arthur is under Sophia’s spell, Merlin should know. Arthur’s color changes, becomes darker and is lined with blue and gold but it’s harder for Merlin to see, like the spell mutes whatever power Arthur holds over him. The water takes everything away, all the color and sound and the only taste left in his mouth is both bitter and sour.
There’s nothing when he grabs onto the cold metal of Arthur’s armor, nothing when he breaks the surface except for wet, nothing when he pulls Arthur’s limp body onto dry land.
Merlin’s seen this done before, when Will jumped into the creek before learning how to swim and one of the older boys had to fish him out and Hunith had to revive him. He remembered because his colors had muted then, too, until Will rolled over and threw up water and laughed at his own stupidity.
He tilts Arthur’s head back, closes his nose and grabs his chin and presses his lips to Arthur’s, blowing air into his lungs. It takes several tries before Arthur stirs and when he does, Merlin thinks he might die. Not of happiness, or joy, or the fact that he’s saved the Prince of Camelot once again, but the explosion of life within him. Every sound, every movement that Arthur makes paints Merlin’s eyes with rippling waves of color.
He might moan because of it, because it feels beautiful and amazing, like its magic thrumming through his veins instead of Arthur’s color and Arthur’s taste. Arthur blinks up at him and the words that aren’t spoken flow like honey down Merlin’s throat and are the same color as a virgin’s blush.
And then Arthur cough’s up water all over Merlin’s knees and proceeds to pass out.
-
Merlin has conflicted emotions when it comes to hunting. He hates killing defenseless animals but he loves the nights, sitting in front of the fire next to Arthur, shoulders pressed together and knees knocking together. The touch sends ripples through Merlin’s very soul and sends little rainbows twirling through the flames.
He sleeps next to Arthur, too. The nights are usually cold, so it’s something he can get away with, tends to pull his bedroll as close as he can. Merlin likes to watch Arthur fall asleep and then scoots closer until he can feel slow breaths against his cheek. It takes him a moment to lean up, puts weight on his forearm and lets his lips gently brush Arthur’s.
It sparks the life of him into color and the heartbeat in his mouth tastes like cinnamon. He falls into a kaleidoscope of magic and marvel but his lips are barely making contact with Arthur’s skin. Merlin pauses, blinks, and wonders what would happen to him if he pressed harder, slipped his tongue in and gave Arthur a proper kiss.
He wonders, but he won’t do it. Somehow, it feels like taking advantage, like anything more than this is wrong. He’d ponder it more but suddenly instead of golden lashes and flickering eyelids he’s staring into blue eyes with dark pupils blown wide.
“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, lips moving against Merlin’s. It’s a very pretty pink that curls around them, surrounds Merlin until it’s all he can see and the only thing he can feel is Arthur. “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to see,” Merlin says simply, but all he can taste is cinnamon.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Arthur says but fumbles his words when his tongue touches lips that aren’t his own. “You’re not blind.”
“I want to see the colors,” Merlin continues as he watches starbursts flash before his eyes at the taste of Arthur’s tongue. “I want to taste your voice.”
“Merlin, you’re not making any sense.”
Merlin opens his mouth, watches Arthur’s eyes darken impossibly and the lust there tastes like fresh apples and red grapes. The wariness dims it a little. “Can I show you?”
It’s his magic that lets him do it when he deepens the kiss, lets him share his colors and tastes and sounds with his very own Prince. Arthur’s fingers press canyons into his arms and he becomes mountains and valleys and plains, filled with waterfalls and rainbows and lightning and gardens of spice that swirl in the wind and dissolve on his tongue.
He can feel Arthur drowning in it, flying and tasting and burning. When he pulls away Arthur is breathless and flushed, lips as pink as his voice.
“This can’t get back to the castle, Merlin.”
Merlin bites his lip and nods, looks away and then rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder. A moment later he feels a hand in the hair at the back of his neck.
“I don’t think I want to know how that was possible, but… I won’t tell anyone.” Arthur’s fingers pause briefly. “Is that what it’s like for you all the time?”
Merlin shifts, lets his arm stretch across Arthur’s chest and lay there. “It used to be. But now it’s only when I’m with you.”
“You don’t need to be sappy, Merlin. You’ve already kissed me.”
“Can I do it again?”
Arthur rolls towards him and kisses his forehead. “Go to sleep. You can kiss me in the morning.”
“You promise?” Merlin’s half asleep as it is.
“Mm. Just don’t tell my father.”
Merlin would laugh, but the color cradling him is too soothing, and Arthur’s arms are warm. He sleeps, and dreams of the colorful kisses that await him in the morning.