Fic (Merlin): Their Own Private Pace
Fandom: Merlin
Title: Their Own Private Pace
Author:
kianspo
Beta:
secret_chord25 ♥♥♥
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: flangst, h/c, first time
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1950
Warnings: mentions of canonical minor character death (Nimueh)
Spoilers: vague for the end of S3
Summary: Written for this prompt on
kinkme_merlin. There's a storm outside, and Merlin wakes up in a bed that is not his own.
A deafening peal of thunder shakes the window frame and wakes Merlin with a start. It’s pitch-dark in the room, and Merlin blinks rapidly, panting. He doesn’t know - can’t understand - where he is, and bolts, panicking, thrashing around wildly. Why can’t he move? Is he tied up? Has he been captured?
And then, to his utter horror, part of what’s confining him actually stirs, pushing him back down in a no-nonsense manner. Involuntarily, Merlin squeals.
“God, would you just keep quiet?” an annoyed, sleepy-hoarse voice breathes into his ear. “I’m trying to sleep here, if you don’t mind, Merlin.”
His heart still pounding desperately in his chest, Merlin tries to stop hyperventilating. “Arthur?”
Arthur moves again and, just like that, Merlin’s world regains its sky and ground and all the touch points in between. He’s in Arthur’s room, he realises with a surge of knee-weakening relief. In Arthur’s-
“I’m in your bed,” Merlin blurts out, still too loud for the dead of the night hour.
Arthur’s eyes are probably closed; otherwise, he’d be rolling them. “Your powers of observation, Merlin, are astounding. I do wonder sometimes how you withstand such a burden.”
“But why-”
Arthur huffs impatiently and shifts, searching for a better position. “You were sleeping here when I came back last night,” he mutters into the pillow. “I was too tired to deal with you.”
And now Merlin does remember, his thoughts becoming slightly more coherent as his pulse slows down from its maddening gallop.
He was waiting for Arthur, as he had been every night during this horrible week from hell. Between Uther slowly deteriorating and giving out illogical, detrimental orders; attending the funerals of all the fallen defenders of Camelot while simultaneously trying to figure out how to protect the kingdom with depleted forces; dealing with Morgana’s betrayal and Uther’s lies - it was a miracle Arthur could still function. But the simple, cruel truth was - there was no one else. And so the crown prince kept on going, kept on leading, bleary-eyed and tight-lipped and too tired most of the time to even complain about Merlin’s incompetence.
And Merlin, torn between his chores and his guilt and making Arthur’s new order work on an everyday, down-to-earth level, was just as tired, just as spent, as he waited for Arthur last night ostensibly to make sure he ate something, but mostly to spend a few moments alone with him - to reassure himself that Arthur was all right, that it hadn’t become too much yet, that the both of them would make it.
Merlin remembers sitting down on the bed for just a moment, closing his eyes so very briefly just to let them rest. He must have fallen asleep without noticing, and Arthur must have been too exhausted to kick him out.
Except...
Merlin didn’t climb under the covers in his sleep, nor was he the one who removed his boots and his belt, and he certainly wasn’t responsible for Arthur lying half-draped over him, showing no inclination to move.
“Arthur?” Merlin calls tentatively.
Arthur groans. “What now?”
Merlin swallows. He’s warm and comfy and a little dizzy, but in a good way now, and he doesn’t want to ask the question, but he must. “Do you want me to-”
“Shut up and go back to sleep? Yes, very much.” Arthur actually snuggles closer, nesting his chin in the crook between Merlin’s neck and shoulder. His breath is warm and measured, fluttering across Merlin’s throat, and Merlin shifts slightly and thinks, ‘Oh.’
In the daylight world, in the awake world, Arthur is the least casually tactile person Merlin knows, his affection awkwardly (and rarely) expressed through roughhousing and overly forceful friendly punches. But right now, in the dark, his hand is curled around Merlin’s hip, holding onto him; his knee is slotted between Merlin’s as if to prevent his escape; and his hair is tangled with Merlin’s on the pillow.
It’s the kind of mindless, instinctive trust that makes Merlin’s heart ache and whimper. He’ll never betray Arthur, but he’s lying to him every minute of every day; he’s lying with every breath he takes, and he doesn’t know how to break this vicious circle.
A flash of light slices through the blackness of the room, the curtains helpless to stop it, and a new clap of thunder follows, louder than before, the harsh, livid sound cutting to the bone.
Merlin shudders, and bites his lip. The rain throws sprays of water against the glass and stone furiously, lashing the castle as though punishing it for concealing a criminal. Merlin draws in a sharp breath, then another one, but he can’t stop shivering, because sometimes, on nights like this - he sees faces coming out of the rain, accusing and vengeful. And he might never betray Arthur, but he is a traitor, and as long as Arthur lives, he always will be.
Beside him, Arthur goes still, quickly becoming more alert. Merlin tries to stifle it hard as he might, but he can’t stop a shattering gasp from escaping him, a sound that is so like a sob it frightens him. He’s trembling now, and Arthur braces himself on his elbow, peering down at Merlin through the darkness.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur prods, voice raw from sleep but extremely aware. “Merlin, what is it? Are you afraid of thunder?”
“N-no,” Merlin stammers, biting his lip again and turning his head, trying to bury his face in the pillow. He never wanted to break down like this; he can’t afford to; he-
“Merlin,” Arthur growls.
“I killed someone in a thunderstorm,” Merlin whispers, shaking. “Arthur, I-” But then his voice catches in his throat, and he can’t go on.
Seconds pass, and Merlin is too caught up in his memories, wrapped too tightly in his guilt before so many people, that it takes him a while to register that Arthur’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles into his skin, sliding up and down Merlin’s cheek.
Arthur doesn’t laugh; doesn’t tell Merlin he’s being ridiculous. He’s quiet for an unnaturally long time, but he doesn’t tense next to Merlin, and doesn’t pull away.
“Were they dangerous?” Arthur asks softly.
Merlin nods, all too eagerly. “Yeah. She was - she was very dangerous.”
Arthur’s finger traces his brow. “A sorceress?”
Merlin exhales slowly. “Yeah. Powerful. Too - too powerful. Nearly killed Gaius. And my Mum. And” - his voice breaks - “and you were dying. Arthur-”
“Shh,” Arthur soothes. He brings up his free hand to run through Merlin’s hair now, and Merlin’s eyes begin to sting as he waits for the inevitable question.
It never comes. Arthur leans down and presses a soft kiss to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin gasps, bolting.
“Hush, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, his lips sliding along Merlin’s temple. “I won’t ask.”
“Arthur-”
Arthur presses a finger to Merlin’s lips and repeats himself quietly, deliberately. “I won’t ask.”
Merlin shuts his eyes then, hot tears stinging his eyelids and unseen by either of them, as Arthur kisses him. It’s warm and comforting, and surprisingly tender, but nowhere near chaste.
Astonishment only survives for a moment - and then Merlin surges up, grabbing at Arthur blindly, relief and gratitude melting on his tongue almost unnoticed as Arthur pries his lips open, forcing Merlin to forget everything except for this: the darkness, the storm, and the two of them clinging to each other.
Arthur kisses like he fights - with everything that he has, pouring himself fully into it, taking no prisoners, straightforward, single-minded, and yet gentle - so very, very gentle. Merlin feels his throat constrict with emotion, too many words choking him, words he has no right to say, words like: ‘forgive me’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m yours’ and ‘please’ and ‘anything’. They throttle him, and he can’t breathe, twisting his hands in Arthur’s shift, crushing the fabric as he tries to drown in the endless kiss, aching for it.
Arthur pulls away, kissing along Merlin’s jaw and rubbing his face against Merlin’s neck, breathing him in.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts out as Arthur slides his hand under his tunic, pulling it up so that he can squeeze Merlin’s nipple.
“Shut up.” A whisper. Arthur’s teeth graze the defenceless hollow of Merlin’s throat before he sucks in a bruise, methodical and earnest. “Just. Don’t.”
Merlin complies with a muffled whimper, arching up into Arthur’s touch, taking what is given. He knows at that moment that it’s for the both of them. He could stop and demand answers. He could ask what of Gwen, what of Uther, what of everything. He could ask if Arthur knows what this is, if he knows what he’s doing.
But the simple, most honest truth right now is that there’s a storm raging outside, threatening to swallow the whole world, and it is the only thing that has meaning. The storm - and Arthur’s hands, Arthur’s lips, Arthur’s hot, uneven breathing in Merlin’s ear, and the way Arthur’s fingers tangle in the laces of his trousers as he pulls them loose so that he could rut, unrestrained, against Merlin’s length, hot and slick and perfect. Merlin doesn’t know anything except that he wants this, wants this now, wants this now to be always and maybe, just maybe Arthur wants the same thing.
“There,” Merlin pleads, gripping Arthur’s arse with fingers gone numb with need. “There - there - there - oh God - Arthur - just-”
Arthur cuts off his air with his lips, growling and thrusting against Merlin furiously as his tongue fucks Merlin’s mouth into submission. Merlin sucks on it, dizzy, too hot for his own skin, spreading his legs as far as they’d go, drunk on arousal. His knees dig into Arthur’s ribs, trying to push him down, press him closer, and Arthur growls, throwing his weight down, because Merlin wouldn’t stay still for a second, never could, and it must be frustrating except when it’s glorious.
“I’m gonna-” Merlin mumbles, urgent, desperate. “I’m gonna - gonna - Arthur, I’m-”
“Yeah.” Arthur thrusts against him, teeth clenched. “Yeah. Me too. Metoometoomerrrrrlin-”
They seize at the same time - Merlin clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur arching his back tight as he presses down-down-down, just a little more, just, right there, oh, and then it’s suddenly too much, and Merlin moans under him, nails breaking skin, and Arthur collapses next to him, shuddering and gasping.
For the longest time, all Merlin knows is his own breathing: in and out, again and again, his whole body tingling with the echoes, tiny jerky motions he can’t stop. Gradually, he becomes aware of other things, like the cooling wetness coiling on his belly and inside his breeches (only partially undone), and Arthur’s skin, hot and sticky and right there.
It’s awfully quiet all of a sudden; the sounds of the storm seem distant and irrelevant.
Merlin takes a deep breath and wonders if he should leave. Next to him, Arthur sighs in tired exasperation and then moves closer again, cupping Merlin’s face in his hands and kissing it. He kisses Merlin’s eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his chin, until finally his lips find Merlin’s again in the sweetest kiss they’ve shared yet. Merlin smiles into the darkness, feeling Arthur trace the contours of his mouth with his fingers, before they settle back into the pillows in much the same position as when they woke up.
Arthur murmurs softly, seemingly addressing Merlin’s collarbone, and Merlin shifts slightly, pulling up the covers.
They might not know all the answers; they might never find them at all. But this - this they have, right now, and it’s all that matters. Merlin kisses Arthur’s hair, and holds him, closing his eyes and listening to the thunder waging war outside.
Title: Their Own Private Pace
Author:
kianspo
Beta:
secret_chord25 ♥♥♥
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: flangst, h/c, first time
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1950
Warnings: mentions of canonical minor character death (Nimueh)
Spoilers: vague for the end of S3
Summary: Written for this prompt on
kinkme_merlin. There's a storm outside, and Merlin wakes up in a bed that is not his own.
A deafening peal of thunder shakes the window frame and wakes Merlin with a start. It’s pitch-dark in the room, and Merlin blinks rapidly, panting. He doesn’t know - can’t understand - where he is, and bolts, panicking, thrashing around wildly. Why can’t he move? Is he tied up? Has he been captured?
And then, to his utter horror, part of what’s confining him actually stirs, pushing him back down in a no-nonsense manner. Involuntarily, Merlin squeals.
“God, would you just keep quiet?” an annoyed, sleepy-hoarse voice breathes into his ear. “I’m trying to sleep here, if you don’t mind, Merlin.”
His heart still pounding desperately in his chest, Merlin tries to stop hyperventilating. “Arthur?”
Arthur moves again and, just like that, Merlin’s world regains its sky and ground and all the touch points in between. He’s in Arthur’s room, he realises with a surge of knee-weakening relief. In Arthur’s-
“I’m in your bed,” Merlin blurts out, still too loud for the dead of the night hour.
Arthur’s eyes are probably closed; otherwise, he’d be rolling them. “Your powers of observation, Merlin, are astounding. I do wonder sometimes how you withstand such a burden.”
“But why-”
Arthur huffs impatiently and shifts, searching for a better position. “You were sleeping here when I came back last night,” he mutters into the pillow. “I was too tired to deal with you.”
And now Merlin does remember, his thoughts becoming slightly more coherent as his pulse slows down from its maddening gallop.
He was waiting for Arthur, as he had been every night during this horrible week from hell. Between Uther slowly deteriorating and giving out illogical, detrimental orders; attending the funerals of all the fallen defenders of Camelot while simultaneously trying to figure out how to protect the kingdom with depleted forces; dealing with Morgana’s betrayal and Uther’s lies - it was a miracle Arthur could still function. But the simple, cruel truth was - there was no one else. And so the crown prince kept on going, kept on leading, bleary-eyed and tight-lipped and too tired most of the time to even complain about Merlin’s incompetence.
And Merlin, torn between his chores and his guilt and making Arthur’s new order work on an everyday, down-to-earth level, was just as tired, just as spent, as he waited for Arthur last night ostensibly to make sure he ate something, but mostly to spend a few moments alone with him - to reassure himself that Arthur was all right, that it hadn’t become too much yet, that the both of them would make it.
Merlin remembers sitting down on the bed for just a moment, closing his eyes so very briefly just to let them rest. He must have fallen asleep without noticing, and Arthur must have been too exhausted to kick him out.
Except...
Merlin didn’t climb under the covers in his sleep, nor was he the one who removed his boots and his belt, and he certainly wasn’t responsible for Arthur lying half-draped over him, showing no inclination to move.
“Arthur?” Merlin calls tentatively.
Arthur groans. “What now?”
Merlin swallows. He’s warm and comfy and a little dizzy, but in a good way now, and he doesn’t want to ask the question, but he must. “Do you want me to-”
“Shut up and go back to sleep? Yes, very much.” Arthur actually snuggles closer, nesting his chin in the crook between Merlin’s neck and shoulder. His breath is warm and measured, fluttering across Merlin’s throat, and Merlin shifts slightly and thinks, ‘Oh.’
In the daylight world, in the awake world, Arthur is the least casually tactile person Merlin knows, his affection awkwardly (and rarely) expressed through roughhousing and overly forceful friendly punches. But right now, in the dark, his hand is curled around Merlin’s hip, holding onto him; his knee is slotted between Merlin’s as if to prevent his escape; and his hair is tangled with Merlin’s on the pillow.
It’s the kind of mindless, instinctive trust that makes Merlin’s heart ache and whimper. He’ll never betray Arthur, but he’s lying to him every minute of every day; he’s lying with every breath he takes, and he doesn’t know how to break this vicious circle.
A flash of light slices through the blackness of the room, the curtains helpless to stop it, and a new clap of thunder follows, louder than before, the harsh, livid sound cutting to the bone.
Merlin shudders, and bites his lip. The rain throws sprays of water against the glass and stone furiously, lashing the castle as though punishing it for concealing a criminal. Merlin draws in a sharp breath, then another one, but he can’t stop shivering, because sometimes, on nights like this - he sees faces coming out of the rain, accusing and vengeful. And he might never betray Arthur, but he is a traitor, and as long as Arthur lives, he always will be.
Beside him, Arthur goes still, quickly becoming more alert. Merlin tries to stifle it hard as he might, but he can’t stop a shattering gasp from escaping him, a sound that is so like a sob it frightens him. He’s trembling now, and Arthur braces himself on his elbow, peering down at Merlin through the darkness.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur prods, voice raw from sleep but extremely aware. “Merlin, what is it? Are you afraid of thunder?”
“N-no,” Merlin stammers, biting his lip again and turning his head, trying to bury his face in the pillow. He never wanted to break down like this; he can’t afford to; he-
“Merlin,” Arthur growls.
“I killed someone in a thunderstorm,” Merlin whispers, shaking. “Arthur, I-” But then his voice catches in his throat, and he can’t go on.
Seconds pass, and Merlin is too caught up in his memories, wrapped too tightly in his guilt before so many people, that it takes him a while to register that Arthur’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles into his skin, sliding up and down Merlin’s cheek.
Arthur doesn’t laugh; doesn’t tell Merlin he’s being ridiculous. He’s quiet for an unnaturally long time, but he doesn’t tense next to Merlin, and doesn’t pull away.
“Were they dangerous?” Arthur asks softly.
Merlin nods, all too eagerly. “Yeah. She was - she was very dangerous.”
Arthur’s finger traces his brow. “A sorceress?”
Merlin exhales slowly. “Yeah. Powerful. Too - too powerful. Nearly killed Gaius. And my Mum. And” - his voice breaks - “and you were dying. Arthur-”
“Shh,” Arthur soothes. He brings up his free hand to run through Merlin’s hair now, and Merlin’s eyes begin to sting as he waits for the inevitable question.
It never comes. Arthur leans down and presses a soft kiss to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin gasps, bolting.
“Hush, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, his lips sliding along Merlin’s temple. “I won’t ask.”
“Arthur-”
Arthur presses a finger to Merlin’s lips and repeats himself quietly, deliberately. “I won’t ask.”
Merlin shuts his eyes then, hot tears stinging his eyelids and unseen by either of them, as Arthur kisses him. It’s warm and comforting, and surprisingly tender, but nowhere near chaste.
Astonishment only survives for a moment - and then Merlin surges up, grabbing at Arthur blindly, relief and gratitude melting on his tongue almost unnoticed as Arthur pries his lips open, forcing Merlin to forget everything except for this: the darkness, the storm, and the two of them clinging to each other.
Arthur kisses like he fights - with everything that he has, pouring himself fully into it, taking no prisoners, straightforward, single-minded, and yet gentle - so very, very gentle. Merlin feels his throat constrict with emotion, too many words choking him, words he has no right to say, words like: ‘forgive me’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m yours’ and ‘please’ and ‘anything’. They throttle him, and he can’t breathe, twisting his hands in Arthur’s shift, crushing the fabric as he tries to drown in the endless kiss, aching for it.
Arthur pulls away, kissing along Merlin’s jaw and rubbing his face against Merlin’s neck, breathing him in.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts out as Arthur slides his hand under his tunic, pulling it up so that he can squeeze Merlin’s nipple.
“Shut up.” A whisper. Arthur’s teeth graze the defenceless hollow of Merlin’s throat before he sucks in a bruise, methodical and earnest. “Just. Don’t.”
Merlin complies with a muffled whimper, arching up into Arthur’s touch, taking what is given. He knows at that moment that it’s for the both of them. He could stop and demand answers. He could ask what of Gwen, what of Uther, what of everything. He could ask if Arthur knows what this is, if he knows what he’s doing.
But the simple, most honest truth right now is that there’s a storm raging outside, threatening to swallow the whole world, and it is the only thing that has meaning. The storm - and Arthur’s hands, Arthur’s lips, Arthur’s hot, uneven breathing in Merlin’s ear, and the way Arthur’s fingers tangle in the laces of his trousers as he pulls them loose so that he could rut, unrestrained, against Merlin’s length, hot and slick and perfect. Merlin doesn’t know anything except that he wants this, wants this now, wants this now to be always and maybe, just maybe Arthur wants the same thing.
“There,” Merlin pleads, gripping Arthur’s arse with fingers gone numb with need. “There - there - there - oh God - Arthur - just-”
Arthur cuts off his air with his lips, growling and thrusting against Merlin furiously as his tongue fucks Merlin’s mouth into submission. Merlin sucks on it, dizzy, too hot for his own skin, spreading his legs as far as they’d go, drunk on arousal. His knees dig into Arthur’s ribs, trying to push him down, press him closer, and Arthur growls, throwing his weight down, because Merlin wouldn’t stay still for a second, never could, and it must be frustrating except when it’s glorious.
“I’m gonna-” Merlin mumbles, urgent, desperate. “I’m gonna - gonna - Arthur, I’m-”
“Yeah.” Arthur thrusts against him, teeth clenched. “Yeah. Me too. Metoometoomerrrrrlin-”
They seize at the same time - Merlin clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur arching his back tight as he presses down-down-down, just a little more, just, right there, oh, and then it’s suddenly too much, and Merlin moans under him, nails breaking skin, and Arthur collapses next to him, shuddering and gasping.
For the longest time, all Merlin knows is his own breathing: in and out, again and again, his whole body tingling with the echoes, tiny jerky motions he can’t stop. Gradually, he becomes aware of other things, like the cooling wetness coiling on his belly and inside his breeches (only partially undone), and Arthur’s skin, hot and sticky and right there.
It’s awfully quiet all of a sudden; the sounds of the storm seem distant and irrelevant.
Merlin takes a deep breath and wonders if he should leave. Next to him, Arthur sighs in tired exasperation and then moves closer again, cupping Merlin’s face in his hands and kissing it. He kisses Merlin’s eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his chin, until finally his lips find Merlin’s again in the sweetest kiss they’ve shared yet. Merlin smiles into the darkness, feeling Arthur trace the contours of his mouth with his fingers, before they settle back into the pillows in much the same position as when they woke up.
Arthur murmurs softly, seemingly addressing Merlin’s collarbone, and Merlin shifts slightly, pulling up the covers.
They might not know all the answers; they might never find them at all. But this - this they have, right now, and it’s all that matters. Merlin kisses Arthur’s hair, and holds him, closing his eyes and listening to the thunder waging war outside.