FIC: "Unspeakable," Arthur/Merlin, NC-17
With Merlin, everything is new again.
Sensations Arthur thought he’d grown accustomed to, feelings he’d experienced before (fleeting, but still real), words he’s heard spoken by a dozen tongues are all bright and strange when Merlin says them, whispers them into the crook of Arthur’s neck, so shy and innocent, except for the fact that they are both naked and completely, utterly unashamed.
“Shhh,” Arthur whispers, not because he doesn’t want to hear Merlin speak, doesn’t want Merlin’s voice to fill up every silent moment forever and ever, but because he’s afraid he might just die at the sharp-sweet sound of it.
Merlin sighs against his skin and Arthur looks down at him, stretched and marked, the moonlight clinging to his skin in a way that makes Arthur jealous. Were he the moon, Arthur would envelope him, cover every inch of him and refuse to yield, not even to the sun. But he is only a man, and he has just two hands, and so he fists one in Merlin’s sooty hair and uses the other to sweep the long lines of his body like a blind man making a memory.
When Arthur presses their hips together, Merlin bites down on his bottom lip and his eyes flutter shut, a slash of soft black lashes against the sharp-white of his cheek. Arthur thinks if he could just capture that, that contrast so frail and lovely, if he could lock it away in the corner of his heart and keep it always, he might be able to assuage the terrifying need that has not left his chest in months, not since he realized in one brilliant, confusing moment that he would destroy his kingdom if Merlin asked it of him.
“Arthur, come on,” Merlin whispers, his eyes deep as the ocean and sparkling with desire-or perhaps that’s just magic.
“When did peasants get so bossy?” Arthur replies, but even as he says it, he rolls his hips just so.
“I don’t know,” Merlin half-groans. “I haven’t bedded a lot of peasants lately.”
Arthur leans in to bite the corner of Merlin’s jaw, the juncture of his shoulder and neck, the lobe of one ridiculous ear.
He wonders sometimes if Merlin feels this way about him. Part of him hopes so, because he likes to think he isn’t the only one who has laid down his dignity, his pride, his defenses at the feet of whatever gods have put Merlin in his bed. But at the same time, he would not wish this lingering ache on anyone, least of all Merlin, because it is such a wretched, consuming, beautiful pain that sometimes Arthur is afraid he will die, just cease to exist, without Merlin’s skin under his mouth and Merlin’s voice in his ears.
As he moves down Merlin’s chest, licking and biting and murmuring into his skin, he wants to tell him everything, but he doesn’t have words for this. Arthur has known the word love since he was old enough to stand. He loves his father and his kingdom, and he has loved others in his life, but compared to this, compared to Merlin-hard and wet against the palm of Arthur’s hand-those loves were like phantoms in the night made faint and immaterial when compared to what he has now.
“Arthur, please,” Merlin whispers, his voice strained and without dignity, without reservation.
Arthur looks up at him, over the sharp jut of his hipbones and the faint shadows between his ribs, and when he can’t look anymore, he leans in, tracing the head of Merlin’s cock with his tongue. The strangled sound Merlin lets out makes Arthur feel more powerful than he can ever remember feeling, even standing atop the battlements with the crown on his head, even lording over a fallen opponent with his sword in hand. Nothing compares to this.
Without hesitation, Arthur leans down, swallowing Merlin, feeling him collide with the back of his throat, the blunt pressure both reassuring and overwhelming. Merlin twists and his hips twitch involuntarily, but Arthur just closes his eyes and sucks hard, cheeks hollowed and eyes squeezed shut.
Merlin chants his name like a benediction, each repetition growing longer and more breathless. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” again and again, quiet and sincere, like he is imparting some great and terrible secret.
Arthur wants to tell him everything. He wants to explain in no uncertain terms that this is everything, and nothing else matters, because when he looks at Merlin’s face he sees his legacy tucked into the curve of his eye, the sharp slice of his cheekbones, and nothing else is even real but this, this, always this.
Cradled between Merlin’s thighs, Arthur pauses, pulling his mouth away with an obscene pop, because he can’t breathe when it’s like this, when his whole body feels wired and strung out, thrust towards Merlin by some internal momentum that cannot be controlled. Merlin reaches down to palm Arthur’s cheek.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “You’re alright.” And then he is tugging Arthur upwards, grinding their cocks together so hard Arthur barely has time to think about what a fool he must look like.
But this is love, and this is destiny, and just like Merlin has bled magic into every pore of Arthur’s skin, Arthur needs to know Merlin is his, completely and unreasonably. He wants more than Merlin’s loyalty, more than his love, more than his devotion-he wants to keep him here always, willing and waiting and as vulnerable as Arthur feels every second of every day, like a champion without armor.
“God,” Arthur says helplessly, sounding as desperate and as lost as he feels. “God, you…”
Merlin groans and rocks faster so that they are thrusting against each other, ungracefully and without reserve, just greedy and hot and fueled by the taste of each other’s skin.
“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin says sharply, and Arthur knows what happens next.
Suddenly, it’s as though all the air in the room is made of fire, scorching and crackling around them but harmless when it fills Arthur’s lungs. Merlin stiffens, and his body jerks, coming all over his stomach and Arthur’s chest, and as he shakes and twitches, he whispers the words Arthur spends every minute searching for, words like always and death and mine.
Arthur grits his teeth and shudders, every nerve in his body hot and alive, awakened by Merlin’s voice, connected intrinsically to the gold in Merlin’s irises and the ragged breath in Merlin’s lungs. Somehow, in the tangled sprawl of their bodies, Merlin’s hand finds Arthur’s cock and pulls once, twice, and then Arthur’s mind is burning, burning, burning, and all he can think is yes, this, just this, because for a moment the ache is gone and everything is whole and right and perfect.
When he can think again, Merlin’s fingers are carding through his hair, and he is holding Arthur close like a mother cradles a newborn-protective and fascinated at once. Arthur forces himself to breathe the cool night air, and even as the tightness in his chest starts to creep back in, he is so, so grateful for Merlin’s body beneath his, all hard and lean. He curls into Merlin’s shoulder, exhausted to the core of his being, and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the terrifying, addictive words that Merlin’s heartbeat whispers to him-forever, forever, forever-because they instill in Arthur such bone-deep fear that sometimes, even with his body sated and his mind drained, he can’t sleep.
Sensations Arthur thought he’d grown accustomed to, feelings he’d experienced before (fleeting, but still real), words he’s heard spoken by a dozen tongues are all bright and strange when Merlin says them, whispers them into the crook of Arthur’s neck, so shy and innocent, except for the fact that they are both naked and completely, utterly unashamed.
“Shhh,” Arthur whispers, not because he doesn’t want to hear Merlin speak, doesn’t want Merlin’s voice to fill up every silent moment forever and ever, but because he’s afraid he might just die at the sharp-sweet sound of it.
Merlin sighs against his skin and Arthur looks down at him, stretched and marked, the moonlight clinging to his skin in a way that makes Arthur jealous. Were he the moon, Arthur would envelope him, cover every inch of him and refuse to yield, not even to the sun. But he is only a man, and he has just two hands, and so he fists one in Merlin’s sooty hair and uses the other to sweep the long lines of his body like a blind man making a memory.
When Arthur presses their hips together, Merlin bites down on his bottom lip and his eyes flutter shut, a slash of soft black lashes against the sharp-white of his cheek. Arthur thinks if he could just capture that, that contrast so frail and lovely, if he could lock it away in the corner of his heart and keep it always, he might be able to assuage the terrifying need that has not left his chest in months, not since he realized in one brilliant, confusing moment that he would destroy his kingdom if Merlin asked it of him.
“Arthur, come on,” Merlin whispers, his eyes deep as the ocean and sparkling with desire-or perhaps that’s just magic.
“When did peasants get so bossy?” Arthur replies, but even as he says it, he rolls his hips just so.
“I don’t know,” Merlin half-groans. “I haven’t bedded a lot of peasants lately.”
Arthur leans in to bite the corner of Merlin’s jaw, the juncture of his shoulder and neck, the lobe of one ridiculous ear.
He wonders sometimes if Merlin feels this way about him. Part of him hopes so, because he likes to think he isn’t the only one who has laid down his dignity, his pride, his defenses at the feet of whatever gods have put Merlin in his bed. But at the same time, he would not wish this lingering ache on anyone, least of all Merlin, because it is such a wretched, consuming, beautiful pain that sometimes Arthur is afraid he will die, just cease to exist, without Merlin’s skin under his mouth and Merlin’s voice in his ears.
As he moves down Merlin’s chest, licking and biting and murmuring into his skin, he wants to tell him everything, but he doesn’t have words for this. Arthur has known the word love since he was old enough to stand. He loves his father and his kingdom, and he has loved others in his life, but compared to this, compared to Merlin-hard and wet against the palm of Arthur’s hand-those loves were like phantoms in the night made faint and immaterial when compared to what he has now.
“Arthur, please,” Merlin whispers, his voice strained and without dignity, without reservation.
Arthur looks up at him, over the sharp jut of his hipbones and the faint shadows between his ribs, and when he can’t look anymore, he leans in, tracing the head of Merlin’s cock with his tongue. The strangled sound Merlin lets out makes Arthur feel more powerful than he can ever remember feeling, even standing atop the battlements with the crown on his head, even lording over a fallen opponent with his sword in hand. Nothing compares to this.
Without hesitation, Arthur leans down, swallowing Merlin, feeling him collide with the back of his throat, the blunt pressure both reassuring and overwhelming. Merlin twists and his hips twitch involuntarily, but Arthur just closes his eyes and sucks hard, cheeks hollowed and eyes squeezed shut.
Merlin chants his name like a benediction, each repetition growing longer and more breathless. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” again and again, quiet and sincere, like he is imparting some great and terrible secret.
Arthur wants to tell him everything. He wants to explain in no uncertain terms that this is everything, and nothing else matters, because when he looks at Merlin’s face he sees his legacy tucked into the curve of his eye, the sharp slice of his cheekbones, and nothing else is even real but this, this, always this.
Cradled between Merlin’s thighs, Arthur pauses, pulling his mouth away with an obscene pop, because he can’t breathe when it’s like this, when his whole body feels wired and strung out, thrust towards Merlin by some internal momentum that cannot be controlled. Merlin reaches down to palm Arthur’s cheek.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “You’re alright.” And then he is tugging Arthur upwards, grinding their cocks together so hard Arthur barely has time to think about what a fool he must look like.
But this is love, and this is destiny, and just like Merlin has bled magic into every pore of Arthur’s skin, Arthur needs to know Merlin is his, completely and unreasonably. He wants more than Merlin’s loyalty, more than his love, more than his devotion-he wants to keep him here always, willing and waiting and as vulnerable as Arthur feels every second of every day, like a champion without armor.
“God,” Arthur says helplessly, sounding as desperate and as lost as he feels. “God, you…”
Merlin groans and rocks faster so that they are thrusting against each other, ungracefully and without reserve, just greedy and hot and fueled by the taste of each other’s skin.
“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin says sharply, and Arthur knows what happens next.
Suddenly, it’s as though all the air in the room is made of fire, scorching and crackling around them but harmless when it fills Arthur’s lungs. Merlin stiffens, and his body jerks, coming all over his stomach and Arthur’s chest, and as he shakes and twitches, he whispers the words Arthur spends every minute searching for, words like always and death and mine.
Arthur grits his teeth and shudders, every nerve in his body hot and alive, awakened by Merlin’s voice, connected intrinsically to the gold in Merlin’s irises and the ragged breath in Merlin’s lungs. Somehow, in the tangled sprawl of their bodies, Merlin’s hand finds Arthur’s cock and pulls once, twice, and then Arthur’s mind is burning, burning, burning, and all he can think is yes, this, just this, because for a moment the ache is gone and everything is whole and right and perfect.
When he can think again, Merlin’s fingers are carding through his hair, and he is holding Arthur close like a mother cradles a newborn-protective and fascinated at once. Arthur forces himself to breathe the cool night air, and even as the tightness in his chest starts to creep back in, he is so, so grateful for Merlin’s body beneath his, all hard and lean. He curls into Merlin’s shoulder, exhausted to the core of his being, and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the terrifying, addictive words that Merlin’s heartbeat whispers to him-forever, forever, forever-because they instill in Arthur such bone-deep fear that sometimes, even with his body sated and his mind drained, he can’t sleep.