Random Merlin ficlet
Title: Battle's Eve
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (hints of Merlin/Knights)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fiction, and all it entails.
A/N: Just a random piece of shortness, because I apparently felt the need to write a missing scene from last night's episode.
Warnings: Slight spoilers for S4; stream-of-consciousness
Word count: 811
It’s been too long. Arthur’s touch is unfamiliar, making Merlin’s body recoil, unsettling his magic, until Merlin blinks the feeling away.
Arthur, oblivious in his need, presses desperate fingers to fire-warmed skin, uncovering it inch by inch, without pause. Merlin’s breath hitches, his fingers tingling with the desire to either touch back or push Arthur away. He swallows, unable to tell if it’s blood or magic rushing through him, making him dizzy, or whether it’s just being here, with Arthur, after so long.
Arthur kisses him, biting at his lips, feverish. He tastes of sorrow, of regret, and Merlin kisses him back, trying to provide comfort, trying to ease Arthur’s mind. It’s his job, after all. It’s what’s kept him at Arthur’s side.
Merlin undresses his king, kneeling before him, drunk with lust but sobered by memories, trying to remember the first nights in Arthur’s bed. It seems like lifetimes ago. Everything has changed, and Merlin knows why Arthur’s pushed him away, knows all the reasons behind it, but he can’t help the resentment bubbling inside him. And then his resent turns into that foreboding fear that’s been his companion since Uther’s death.
He chokes on the taste of Arthur on his tongue, or perhaps just to keep his tears at bay. He knows all the reasons that made Arthur cast him aside: Morgana’s betrayal, Gwen’s love, Uther’s death, Lancelot...Merlin tries not to think of Lancelot, and the words Lancelot kissed into Merlin’s skin that last time, the night neither of them knew would be last.
But Merlin’s fear is a fundamental change, for he has never feared Arthur before, never like this. He’s felt love and devotion, and more than enough annoyance. He’s felt pain, Arthur drifting away, Arthur’s each scathing remark, but he’s never felt fear.
Guilt has kept him awake more nights than he could keep count of. He should have known that Morgana would use her tricks, he should have known better, he shouldn’t have risked it, he shouldn’t have condemned himself to a lifetime of secrecy. He wouldn’t listen, and his failure changed everything.
But now his magic courses through him, unbidden, a defiant response to Arthur’s touch, with Arthur a heavy weight on Merlin’s tongue, with Arthur leaving bruises on Merlin’s arms as he pulls Merlin up, shoving him back on the bed. Merlin’s magic is there, just beneath his skin, and he wonders how Arthur can’t feel it, Arthur who is hours away from battle, Arthur who pauses from his frenzy to trace his fingers down Merlin’s body, drawing goosebumps on Merlin’s skin.
“Merlin,” he says, a whisper that sounds awed.
“Sire,” Merlin replies, his voice catching, breaking.
Arthur’s eyes are clear, and for the first time in months, he feels familiar, he feels like the one Merlin’s known for years, the one Merlin’s loved for years, and suffered for, and protected, always protected.
His hands grip Arthur’s shoulders tightly, Arthur’s fingers inside him, familiar yet foreign, and it takes a few breaths for Merlin’s body to remember.
Dawn is almost breaking, and their time is running out. Merlin’s cheeks are wet, and Arthur kisses the tears away, murmuring something that wishes to be comfort, gasping as Merlin grips him tighter inside.
“It’s alright, Merlin, I’ve got you.”
Merlin knows Arthur won’t die today, knows it with the conviction his magic feeds him, but it’s better to let Arthur think that Merlin is crying like a maiden on battle’s eve, instead of looking at Merlin and seeing the truth. Arthur might have betrayed Merlin, but he would take Merlin’s betrayal far worse, perhaps even worse than Morgana’s. And as the world disintegrates in the darkness of pleasure, his magic coursing through his veins, his blunt nails leaving marks on Arthur’s skin, Merlin is blinded by fear.
He breathes Arthur’s breath in the moments afterwards, sweat cooling on their skin, aware of seed drying on him, of Arthur’s forehead damp against his lips.
His heartbeat slows to a normal pace, fear momentarily banished, until Arthur looks up at him, alert once more, eyes blank, unfeeling. His thoughts are somewhere else, not with Merlin, but back in Camelot, and the corners of Merlin’s eyes burn like the magic in his veins.
Merlin moves away before he is dismissed, sharing not a word nor a glance with his king, wishing for the dying embers of the fire to keep him warm; or perhaps for Gwaine, who wraps his arms around Merlin without comment whenever Merlin lies next to him in the dark.
Neither of them notices that Arthur’s sword has been tampered with, that it's been moved. When Merlin looks back, Arthur’s either asleep or pretending to be, and not even fear is stronger than pain, not now, if ever.
As Merlin’s sigh snuffs out the remaining candle, dawn breaks, sweet with promise and heavy with the threats it brings.
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (hints of Merlin/Knights)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fiction, and all it entails.
A/N: Just a random piece of shortness, because I apparently felt the need to write a missing scene from last night's episode.
Warnings: Slight spoilers for S4; stream-of-consciousness
Word count: 811
It’s been too long. Arthur’s touch is unfamiliar, making Merlin’s body recoil, unsettling his magic, until Merlin blinks the feeling away.
Arthur, oblivious in his need, presses desperate fingers to fire-warmed skin, uncovering it inch by inch, without pause. Merlin’s breath hitches, his fingers tingling with the desire to either touch back or push Arthur away. He swallows, unable to tell if it’s blood or magic rushing through him, making him dizzy, or whether it’s just being here, with Arthur, after so long.
Arthur kisses him, biting at his lips, feverish. He tastes of sorrow, of regret, and Merlin kisses him back, trying to provide comfort, trying to ease Arthur’s mind. It’s his job, after all. It’s what’s kept him at Arthur’s side.
Merlin undresses his king, kneeling before him, drunk with lust but sobered by memories, trying to remember the first nights in Arthur’s bed. It seems like lifetimes ago. Everything has changed, and Merlin knows why Arthur’s pushed him away, knows all the reasons behind it, but he can’t help the resentment bubbling inside him. And then his resent turns into that foreboding fear that’s been his companion since Uther’s death.
He chokes on the taste of Arthur on his tongue, or perhaps just to keep his tears at bay. He knows all the reasons that made Arthur cast him aside: Morgana’s betrayal, Gwen’s love, Uther’s death, Lancelot...Merlin tries not to think of Lancelot, and the words Lancelot kissed into Merlin’s skin that last time, the night neither of them knew would be last.
But Merlin’s fear is a fundamental change, for he has never feared Arthur before, never like this. He’s felt love and devotion, and more than enough annoyance. He’s felt pain, Arthur drifting away, Arthur’s each scathing remark, but he’s never felt fear.
Guilt has kept him awake more nights than he could keep count of. He should have known that Morgana would use her tricks, he should have known better, he shouldn’t have risked it, he shouldn’t have condemned himself to a lifetime of secrecy. He wouldn’t listen, and his failure changed everything.
But now his magic courses through him, unbidden, a defiant response to Arthur’s touch, with Arthur a heavy weight on Merlin’s tongue, with Arthur leaving bruises on Merlin’s arms as he pulls Merlin up, shoving him back on the bed. Merlin’s magic is there, just beneath his skin, and he wonders how Arthur can’t feel it, Arthur who is hours away from battle, Arthur who pauses from his frenzy to trace his fingers down Merlin’s body, drawing goosebumps on Merlin’s skin.
“Merlin,” he says, a whisper that sounds awed.
“Sire,” Merlin replies, his voice catching, breaking.
Arthur’s eyes are clear, and for the first time in months, he feels familiar, he feels like the one Merlin’s known for years, the one Merlin’s loved for years, and suffered for, and protected, always protected.
His hands grip Arthur’s shoulders tightly, Arthur’s fingers inside him, familiar yet foreign, and it takes a few breaths for Merlin’s body to remember.
Dawn is almost breaking, and their time is running out. Merlin’s cheeks are wet, and Arthur kisses the tears away, murmuring something that wishes to be comfort, gasping as Merlin grips him tighter inside.
“It’s alright, Merlin, I’ve got you.”
Merlin knows Arthur won’t die today, knows it with the conviction his magic feeds him, but it’s better to let Arthur think that Merlin is crying like a maiden on battle’s eve, instead of looking at Merlin and seeing the truth. Arthur might have betrayed Merlin, but he would take Merlin’s betrayal far worse, perhaps even worse than Morgana’s. And as the world disintegrates in the darkness of pleasure, his magic coursing through his veins, his blunt nails leaving marks on Arthur’s skin, Merlin is blinded by fear.
He breathes Arthur’s breath in the moments afterwards, sweat cooling on their skin, aware of seed drying on him, of Arthur’s forehead damp against his lips.
His heartbeat slows to a normal pace, fear momentarily banished, until Arthur looks up at him, alert once more, eyes blank, unfeeling. His thoughts are somewhere else, not with Merlin, but back in Camelot, and the corners of Merlin’s eyes burn like the magic in his veins.
Merlin moves away before he is dismissed, sharing not a word nor a glance with his king, wishing for the dying embers of the fire to keep him warm; or perhaps for Gwaine, who wraps his arms around Merlin without comment whenever Merlin lies next to him in the dark.
Neither of them notices that Arthur’s sword has been tampered with, that it's been moved. When Merlin looks back, Arthur’s either asleep or pretending to be, and not even fear is stronger than pain, not now, if ever.
As Merlin’s sigh snuffs out the remaining candle, dawn breaks, sweet with promise and heavy with the threats it brings.