FIC: "Every Man Has His Price," Merlin/Arthur, R
Title: Every Man Has His Price
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Notes: Just a random something I found chillin' on my hard drive, complete with second-person weirdness.
You have him pinned-at each wrist, a knee on either side of his legs, your eyes on his like you’re going to devour him (and you are, god, you are, you’re going to swallow him whole, keep him so close he won’t remember what it’s like to exist without your heartbeat in his ears). He draws a shuddering breath beneath you, his eyelashes fluttering soot-black against the milk-white of his skin, and you can see every bone in his body rise and fall, tremble with the same wanting that wakes you up in the dead of night, compels you to run your hands across his sleeping body and breathe him into your lungs. You lean in close, lick the corner of his mouth, the hollow at the base of his throat, the hard peak of one pink-brown nipple. It’s not exploratory, not anymore. You know every inch of skin, every breakable bone, every shadowed place on his body. Each touch is a reminder-this is mine, and this, and this-in case he ever forgets that this is where he belongs, splayed out and vulnerable, trembling beneath you.
You imagine all the ways you could hurt him, the scratches you could leave and the bruises you could paint across the smooth canvas of his back, a medium of pressure and pain. It makes you shiver to think of it, not because you would, not because you ever, ever would, but because you could. He would let you.
When you met, he was a strange thing, fey and innocent as the sunrise, too pristine to walk among the dirty, forsaken likes of man, too honest and lovely to exist amid the death and destruction of this world. You could have broken him, made him hard and calloused so he might survive this life on his own, but you didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, you kept him close, closer, closest to your very beating heart. You hollowed out a place for him, just here, in your bed, between your mattress and your body, and he fits like he was made for you, so perfectly that sometimes you wonder if perhaps he was.
He shakes beneath your weight, the long, lean muscles of his thighs trembling as you push him down into the bed, fuck him deep and slow with your arms around his ribcage and your open mouth panting dangerous things into the damp, curling hair at the nape of his neck. You offer him your body, your life, your kingdom with every thrust, every stuttering press of your hips and involuntary groan ripped raw from within, but he won’t accept. He wants nothing from you, and that is what keeps you awake. There is no bribe that will sway him, no ransom on the heart he so easily scooped out of your chest.
“What do you want?” you ask him in the thick, black silence of the forest at night, sweat sticking your hair to his forehead where you can’t bring yourself to pull away.
“Hmm?” he hums, quiet and unconcerned.
“What do you want, Merlin? From all this.” From me, you don’t say.
“Your body,” Merlin says, cheeky, and you smile. His hand moves from your hip up the line of your body, to the back of your neck. “Your money. A castle-but just a modest one. Perhaps by the sea.”
“I’m being serious, you arse,” you tell him, but you’re laughing.
“I know. I can tell. That’s your ‘serious’ frown… I want your time. And your loyalty. I want your words, the ones you don’t say out loud, but…” He buries his face in your shoulder and sighs. “I want for you to be a good man, Arthur. A good king. That is what I want.”
And you want to tell him, yes, yes, a thousand times, but you know it wouldn’t matter. A thousand promises made aren’t worth a single promise kept. So you say nothing, not with words, but hope that your mouth at the corner of his eyelid, soft and gentle like you never knew you could be, will spell out everything you will become for this, for love, for him.
“What do you want?” he asks, after a long time, eyes still shut tight.
“This,” you tell him, without hesitation. “Just… this.” Perhaps you pull him a little closer, hold him a little tighter as you say it, but only because you can.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Notes: Just a random something I found chillin' on my hard drive, complete with second-person weirdness.
You have him pinned-at each wrist, a knee on either side of his legs, your eyes on his like you’re going to devour him (and you are, god, you are, you’re going to swallow him whole, keep him so close he won’t remember what it’s like to exist without your heartbeat in his ears). He draws a shuddering breath beneath you, his eyelashes fluttering soot-black against the milk-white of his skin, and you can see every bone in his body rise and fall, tremble with the same wanting that wakes you up in the dead of night, compels you to run your hands across his sleeping body and breathe him into your lungs. You lean in close, lick the corner of his mouth, the hollow at the base of his throat, the hard peak of one pink-brown nipple. It’s not exploratory, not anymore. You know every inch of skin, every breakable bone, every shadowed place on his body. Each touch is a reminder-this is mine, and this, and this-in case he ever forgets that this is where he belongs, splayed out and vulnerable, trembling beneath you.
You imagine all the ways you could hurt him, the scratches you could leave and the bruises you could paint across the smooth canvas of his back, a medium of pressure and pain. It makes you shiver to think of it, not because you would, not because you ever, ever would, but because you could. He would let you.
When you met, he was a strange thing, fey and innocent as the sunrise, too pristine to walk among the dirty, forsaken likes of man, too honest and lovely to exist amid the death and destruction of this world. You could have broken him, made him hard and calloused so he might survive this life on his own, but you didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, you kept him close, closer, closest to your very beating heart. You hollowed out a place for him, just here, in your bed, between your mattress and your body, and he fits like he was made for you, so perfectly that sometimes you wonder if perhaps he was.
He shakes beneath your weight, the long, lean muscles of his thighs trembling as you push him down into the bed, fuck him deep and slow with your arms around his ribcage and your open mouth panting dangerous things into the damp, curling hair at the nape of his neck. You offer him your body, your life, your kingdom with every thrust, every stuttering press of your hips and involuntary groan ripped raw from within, but he won’t accept. He wants nothing from you, and that is what keeps you awake. There is no bribe that will sway him, no ransom on the heart he so easily scooped out of your chest.
“What do you want?” you ask him in the thick, black silence of the forest at night, sweat sticking your hair to his forehead where you can’t bring yourself to pull away.
“Hmm?” he hums, quiet and unconcerned.
“What do you want, Merlin? From all this.” From me, you don’t say.
“Your body,” Merlin says, cheeky, and you smile. His hand moves from your hip up the line of your body, to the back of your neck. “Your money. A castle-but just a modest one. Perhaps by the sea.”
“I’m being serious, you arse,” you tell him, but you’re laughing.
“I know. I can tell. That’s your ‘serious’ frown… I want your time. And your loyalty. I want your words, the ones you don’t say out loud, but…” He buries his face in your shoulder and sighs. “I want for you to be a good man, Arthur. A good king. That is what I want.”
And you want to tell him, yes, yes, a thousand times, but you know it wouldn’t matter. A thousand promises made aren’t worth a single promise kept. So you say nothing, not with words, but hope that your mouth at the corner of his eyelid, soft and gentle like you never knew you could be, will spell out everything you will become for this, for love, for him.
“What do you want?” he asks, after a long time, eyes still shut tight.
“This,” you tell him, without hesitation. “Just… this.” Perhaps you pull him a little closer, hold him a little tighter as you say it, but only because you can.