Fic: skin
Title: skin
Recipient: zephre
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: 2,210
Warnings: Very brief mentions of bondage and piercings.
Summary: It begins several days after Arthur’s coronation: the slow, tentative learning of each other’s skin.
Author's Notes: merlin_holidays fic for zephre’s prompt ‘beauty in the dark’. Title and inspiration from this poem. Many thanks to bohemiabythesea for the beta. Any errors are my fault, since I couldn’t stop fiddling. Happy holidays, zephre, and I really hope you like this!
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Shine and the BBC. I make no profit from this.
--
It begins several days after Arthur’s coronation: the slow, tentative learning of each other’s skin.
In the evenings, he takes Arthur’s dinner to his chambers as usual, helps him out of his chainmail as usual. Arthur, quiet, tired, pulls his soft nightshirt over his head, mussing his hair in the process.
One night, when Merlin smoothes the strands back into place with his fingers, unthinking, Arthur doesn’t object, stands as still and obedient as a child. Merlin’s fingers find Arthur’s scalp beneath his hair, map the skin, soft and smooth, behind his ears, trace a path, new, pioneering, down the pliant slope of Arthur’s throat.
While Merlin pulls back the covers and removes the warming-pan from between the sheets, careful not to burn himself on the still-hot coals, Arthur stands by the window, letting the night breeze ruffle his hair. The moon is far too yellow, more bright and full than it could possibly have a right to be.
‘Everything’s falling apart,’ Arthur says, his back to Merlin, his shoulders squared as though they’d bow under the weight of his thoughts if he’d let them. ‘My father.’
‘There’s something that won’t,’ Merlin says, standing at his shoulder. They look at the moon together, a perfect circle, flaming in the reflected orange of the dying sun, already below the horizon.
‘Are there things that don’t fall apart?’ Arthur asks, and it seems as though he’s always been asking questions and expecting Merlin to have the answers, even though they’ve only just begun.
‘Sure there are.’ Merlin raises his hand to the level of Arthur’s shoulder. His fingertips trace the outlines of the darkening clouds in the sky. ‘Those shapes. The redness of the sky-means it’ll rain tonight. Those things will never change.’
Arthur laughs a little. ‘I didn’t know you were such a poet, Merlin.’
Merlin shrugs. ‘When I was a kid, sometimes I thought there were colours there, in the sky, that only I could see. That I’d invented them, and they were just for me. There was a grove... a place Will and I called Pixie’s Parlour. Whenever the other kids bullied me-even Will, sometimes-I’d go there, climb a tall tree with gnarled roots, look at the sky.’
‘Why did they bully you?’
‘I-I guess I was a little odd.’
Arthur laughs, no malice in the sound. His shoulder nudges Merlin’s, warmth sparking between them, skin awakening to the closeness of skin.
‘I’d stay there until it was dark. The others went home before nightfall, but I felt at home at night, in the woods, with the trees.’
‘Weren’t you afraid?’
‘I had ways to entertain myself.’ Colours flaring in the dark, light dancing in the spaces between my fingers. Lines of light drawing themselves across the sky, connecting the stars, making imagined patterns that were all in my head.
Arthur asks, entirely seriously, ‘You telling me you wanked in trees as a kid?’
Merlin smiles. ‘There’s another thing that won’t change: you acting like a prat.’
Arthur smiles briefly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze returns to the sky, the golden moon hanging there in insolent display. ‘Would you do it, if you could? Stop the night, stop everything, keep it just the way it is?’
At first, Merlin says nothing, lets the sounds of the night do his talking for him: whisperings of breeze and rustlings of leaves, shifting sounds that gather silences in their midst and swallow them down. He thinks there is the curl of a hand around the hem of his shirt, fingers like whispers against his thigh, tugging the cloth momentarily tight, defining the lines of his hip. It may have just been the touch of the wind.
‘Would you?’ Arthur says again.
They turn to face each other, and when Arthur’s fingers reach up to trace the sharp line of Merlin’s left cheekbone, he leans into the touch. ‘Yes. If you asked me to.’
‘Anything for me?’ Arthur says wryly, the corner of his mouth twisting up into something that isn’t quite a smile.
Merlin nods, his hand cupping Arthur’s, trapping it against his face.
‘Because I’m the King,’ Arthur says softly. It isn’t a question.
‘God,’ Merlin says, unable to help himself. ‘Just how much of an idiot can you be?’
‘Excuse me?’ Arthur tries to pull his hand away, but Merlin holds it fast against his cheek.
‘For you, you idiot. For you. Arthur. Not King Arthur or Prince Arthur or His Royal Prattiness Arthur. Just you.’
Arthur begins to laugh helplessly, leaning forward into Merlin’s shoulder, his hand leaving Merlin’s face to curl around the nape of his neck. ‘Oh, Merlin. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.’
‘What is this, a hug?’ Merlin asks lightly, circling his arms around Arthur.
Arthur lifts his head from Merlin’s shoulder, and traces the curve of Merlin’s lower lip with his fingertip. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I believe this is foreplay.’
‘Is it? I should do this, then.’ Merlin tightens his arms until Arthur is pulled up close against him, their bodies joined from waist to kneecaps. He tilts his head and presses his lips to Arthur’s, and even though there’s nothing he wants more than to tease Arthur’s mouth open with his tongue, he waits for Arthur to respond.
And Arthur does, a little hesitantly at first, his fingers gripping the back of Merlin’s neck tightly, his lips moving beneath Merlin’s.
Merlin takes charge, then, pressing gentle, insistent kisses on Arthur’s mouth, bringing his hands up to cup Arthur’s face. Arthur’s lips finally part beneath his, just as there is a crackle of lightning outside the window, and the rain starts pouring as though a dam had broken. Merlin wonders wildly if his magic has something to do with it, if the red sky and the orange moon are all reflections of what’s inside him, if he really has been inventing the colours all along.
But then there’s no more time to think, not when Arthur’s tongue is curling around his own, slow and sweet and filthy and delicious, and a surprised part of Merlin’s brain registers not only that Arthur’s hands are busy undoing his belt, but also that his own are doing the same to Arthur’s. Really, who would have thought kissing was such an engrossing task.
But it’s kissing Arthur that’s doing this to him, unravelling him, taking him apart like leaves falling from a tree and leaving it completely bare. If they can just do this, keep doing this, maybe Arthur can get his wish after all, and the moon can remain in the sky all the time, and it can always be night. Shielding, cloaking, welcoming night that takes the colours of Merlin’s magic and blurs them until they’re just another part of him, a part that Arthur’ll never see, never recognise for what it is, never see what’s beneath Merlin’s skin.
They stop kissing to strip each other, breeches and boots and fabric pushed aside until there’s only skin between them, flushed and warm and hard. Merlin turns them around and gently pushes Arthur on to the bed. He has never wanted so badly to push and shove and claim, but there’s something about Arthur lying on his back, hands beside his head and his legs bent at the knees and pressed together, that makes Merlin slow down. He wets his lips with his tongue, covers Arthur’s knees with his hands and rubs his thumbs into Arthur’s skin.
‘If you turn out to be as bad as this as you are at being a servant,’ Arthur says calmly.
‘What if I do?’ Merlin grins, bending to brush a kiss against Arthur’s knee, lapping gently at a tiny fold of skin.
‘I’ll send you back to Ealdor.’ Arthur stretches a leg to hook around the backs of Merlin’s thighs, tugging him off his feet and on to the long length of his body.
Merlin braces himself on his palms to keep from crushing Arthur beneath him. ‘You do that,’ he agrees, and they shift together until they’ve found the right position, Arthur’s legs wrapped around Merlin’s hips. ‘I’ve always wanted to go back to farming.’
‘Is that so?’ Arthur reaches behind them to grasp Merlin’s arse, pulling him even closer. Merlin gasps against Arthur’s throat, the sound muffled by Arthur’s skin, his pulse racing beneath Merlin’s mouth. ‘I bet you’re rubbish at farming, too,’ Arthur says lazily, arching up into Merlin, his hand curling into Merlin’s hair, keeping his face buried in Arthur’s neck.
Merlin smiles, nosing along the strong line of Arthur’s jaw. He nips at the soft, vulnerable skin at Arthur’s throat, imagining the deep redness of the blood, bright and sweet, rising up under the skin. ‘I’ll have you know I won potato-harvester-of-the-year award. Thrice. In a row.’
Arthur laughs out loud, the sound curling into Merlin’s chest, warm and lingering, and he breathes it in greedily. ‘You just made that up. You made it up, right now.’
‘Shows how little you know about farming.’ Merlin moves his hips experimentally, letting himself thrust against Arthur.
‘About as little as you do about jousting.’ Arthur sounds far too calm for what they’re doing, so Merlin thrusts again, slow and deep, until their balls are pressed together. ‘Merlin. Fuck. Merlin.’
‘You mean that game you play when you try to knock each other off horses? With really big sticks?’ Merlin bites Arthur’s neck again, harder this time, leaving little impressions of his teeth in Arthur’s skin.
‘Nnngh.’ Arthur wedges an arm between their bodies, taking them both in hand. ‘It’s not just a game, Merlin. If you paid any attention at all to what being a knight is all about, you’d know that.’ His other hand remains in Merlin’s hair, keeping his head in place as he licks at Merlin’s ear, getting his own back by taking the soft flesh of Merlin’s earlobe between his teeth and worrying at it.
Both of Merlin’s hands are in Arthur’s hair now, fingers sifting through strands of gold, as they move together, Arthur’s hand strong and tight around their cocks, sliding back and forth. ‘Jousting,’ Merlin manages, ‘can’t possibly compare to potato-harvesting.’
‘Tell me,’ Arthur murmurs into his ear, nudging upward with his hips, encouraging Merlin to keep moving. ‘Tell me what it’s like.’
Merlin keeps talking, because he knows that all Arthur wants is to hear his voice, knows it because all he wants is to hear Arthur talk, splash words on to his skin like desultory patterns of paint on a blank canvas. He’d never understood before how tactile sounds could be, how like touch the sound of a voice can be, low and warm and resonant and wanting against his ear. ‘Brown,’ he says, ‘the earth, all brown and damp and fresh when you slide your fingers in, feel for what you know’s beneath, even if you can’t see... Arthur!’
He’s far too close now. He lifts his head, settling a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and wrapping the other around Arthur’s, around both their cocks, wet and shining. Their fingers tangle together as they stroke, Arthur using the hand that’s never left Merlin’s hair to guide their mouths together again. Arthur’s mouth tastes like cinnamon, like cloves, like something piquant that Merlin is the first to discover. He explores Arthur blindly, wanting to secure him in place, wind ropes around his stretched, shaking body and chart its dips and planes. Wanting to slip a thin gold ring into the tender skin at the rim of Arthur’s navel, the gold glittering and warming beneath Arthur’s red tunic as he goes about his duties, reminding him of the way his skin has been marked and claimed.
Merlin comes first, spilling over their joined hands, gasping into Arthur’s mouth, managing to keep the rhythm going because Arthur’s close, so close that Merlin can feel it in his bones. ‘Come on,’ he pants into Arthur’s mouth. ‘Come for me, Arthur.’ Arthur kisses him again, his thighs tight around Merlin’s hips as he comes.
‘You were right,’ Arthur says against Merlin’s mouth, still trying to catch his breath. ‘Potato-farming is definitely superior to jousting.’
‘Did you actually confess you were wrong?’ Merlin lets Arthur roll them over, wriggling back into the mattress as Arthur pulls the covers up around them.
‘Idiot.’ Arthur leans over him, rubs his knuckles against Merlin’s chin. ‘I was merely trying to engage in pillow talk. I’m never wrong.’
‘Of course you aren’t, sire.’ Merlin rolls his eyes, kisses a bent finger before taking it between his teeth.
Arthur watches as Merlin sucks his knuckle into his mouth. ‘Don’t,’ he warns. ‘Or we’ll never get to sleep.’
‘Tired out already?’ Merlin grins, releasing Arthur’s finger.
‘Yes,’ Arthur laughs, swatting at Merlin’s face with a pillow before shoving it under Merlin’s head and slumping down against him, throwing an arm around his waist. ‘Remind me to continue your lessons in obedience in the morning.’
It’s only when Arthur’s head is warm and heavy with sleep against his shoulder that Merlin lifts his hand to dim the candles, shuttering the darkness in with them, letting it curl around them like a soft, warm blanket as he follows Arthur into sleep.
Recipient: zephre
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: 2,210
Warnings: Very brief mentions of bondage and piercings.
Summary: It begins several days after Arthur’s coronation: the slow, tentative learning of each other’s skin.
Author's Notes: merlin_holidays fic for zephre’s prompt ‘beauty in the dark’. Title and inspiration from this poem. Many thanks to bohemiabythesea for the beta. Any errors are my fault, since I couldn’t stop fiddling. Happy holidays, zephre, and I really hope you like this!
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Shine and the BBC. I make no profit from this.
--
It begins several days after Arthur’s coronation: the slow, tentative learning of each other’s skin.
In the evenings, he takes Arthur’s dinner to his chambers as usual, helps him out of his chainmail as usual. Arthur, quiet, tired, pulls his soft nightshirt over his head, mussing his hair in the process.
One night, when Merlin smoothes the strands back into place with his fingers, unthinking, Arthur doesn’t object, stands as still and obedient as a child. Merlin’s fingers find Arthur’s scalp beneath his hair, map the skin, soft and smooth, behind his ears, trace a path, new, pioneering, down the pliant slope of Arthur’s throat.
While Merlin pulls back the covers and removes the warming-pan from between the sheets, careful not to burn himself on the still-hot coals, Arthur stands by the window, letting the night breeze ruffle his hair. The moon is far too yellow, more bright and full than it could possibly have a right to be.
‘Everything’s falling apart,’ Arthur says, his back to Merlin, his shoulders squared as though they’d bow under the weight of his thoughts if he’d let them. ‘My father.’
‘There’s something that won’t,’ Merlin says, standing at his shoulder. They look at the moon together, a perfect circle, flaming in the reflected orange of the dying sun, already below the horizon.
‘Are there things that don’t fall apart?’ Arthur asks, and it seems as though he’s always been asking questions and expecting Merlin to have the answers, even though they’ve only just begun.
‘Sure there are.’ Merlin raises his hand to the level of Arthur’s shoulder. His fingertips trace the outlines of the darkening clouds in the sky. ‘Those shapes. The redness of the sky-means it’ll rain tonight. Those things will never change.’
Arthur laughs a little. ‘I didn’t know you were such a poet, Merlin.’
Merlin shrugs. ‘When I was a kid, sometimes I thought there were colours there, in the sky, that only I could see. That I’d invented them, and they were just for me. There was a grove... a place Will and I called Pixie’s Parlour. Whenever the other kids bullied me-even Will, sometimes-I’d go there, climb a tall tree with gnarled roots, look at the sky.’
‘Why did they bully you?’
‘I-I guess I was a little odd.’
Arthur laughs, no malice in the sound. His shoulder nudges Merlin’s, warmth sparking between them, skin awakening to the closeness of skin.
‘I’d stay there until it was dark. The others went home before nightfall, but I felt at home at night, in the woods, with the trees.’
‘Weren’t you afraid?’
‘I had ways to entertain myself.’ Colours flaring in the dark, light dancing in the spaces between my fingers. Lines of light drawing themselves across the sky, connecting the stars, making imagined patterns that were all in my head.
Arthur asks, entirely seriously, ‘You telling me you wanked in trees as a kid?’
Merlin smiles. ‘There’s another thing that won’t change: you acting like a prat.’
Arthur smiles briefly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze returns to the sky, the golden moon hanging there in insolent display. ‘Would you do it, if you could? Stop the night, stop everything, keep it just the way it is?’
At first, Merlin says nothing, lets the sounds of the night do his talking for him: whisperings of breeze and rustlings of leaves, shifting sounds that gather silences in their midst and swallow them down. He thinks there is the curl of a hand around the hem of his shirt, fingers like whispers against his thigh, tugging the cloth momentarily tight, defining the lines of his hip. It may have just been the touch of the wind.
‘Would you?’ Arthur says again.
They turn to face each other, and when Arthur’s fingers reach up to trace the sharp line of Merlin’s left cheekbone, he leans into the touch. ‘Yes. If you asked me to.’
‘Anything for me?’ Arthur says wryly, the corner of his mouth twisting up into something that isn’t quite a smile.
Merlin nods, his hand cupping Arthur’s, trapping it against his face.
‘Because I’m the King,’ Arthur says softly. It isn’t a question.
‘God,’ Merlin says, unable to help himself. ‘Just how much of an idiot can you be?’
‘Excuse me?’ Arthur tries to pull his hand away, but Merlin holds it fast against his cheek.
‘For you, you idiot. For you. Arthur. Not King Arthur or Prince Arthur or His Royal Prattiness Arthur. Just you.’
Arthur begins to laugh helplessly, leaning forward into Merlin’s shoulder, his hand leaving Merlin’s face to curl around the nape of his neck. ‘Oh, Merlin. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.’
‘What is this, a hug?’ Merlin asks lightly, circling his arms around Arthur.
Arthur lifts his head from Merlin’s shoulder, and traces the curve of Merlin’s lower lip with his fingertip. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I believe this is foreplay.’
‘Is it? I should do this, then.’ Merlin tightens his arms until Arthur is pulled up close against him, their bodies joined from waist to kneecaps. He tilts his head and presses his lips to Arthur’s, and even though there’s nothing he wants more than to tease Arthur’s mouth open with his tongue, he waits for Arthur to respond.
And Arthur does, a little hesitantly at first, his fingers gripping the back of Merlin’s neck tightly, his lips moving beneath Merlin’s.
Merlin takes charge, then, pressing gentle, insistent kisses on Arthur’s mouth, bringing his hands up to cup Arthur’s face. Arthur’s lips finally part beneath his, just as there is a crackle of lightning outside the window, and the rain starts pouring as though a dam had broken. Merlin wonders wildly if his magic has something to do with it, if the red sky and the orange moon are all reflections of what’s inside him, if he really has been inventing the colours all along.
But then there’s no more time to think, not when Arthur’s tongue is curling around his own, slow and sweet and filthy and delicious, and a surprised part of Merlin’s brain registers not only that Arthur’s hands are busy undoing his belt, but also that his own are doing the same to Arthur’s. Really, who would have thought kissing was such an engrossing task.
But it’s kissing Arthur that’s doing this to him, unravelling him, taking him apart like leaves falling from a tree and leaving it completely bare. If they can just do this, keep doing this, maybe Arthur can get his wish after all, and the moon can remain in the sky all the time, and it can always be night. Shielding, cloaking, welcoming night that takes the colours of Merlin’s magic and blurs them until they’re just another part of him, a part that Arthur’ll never see, never recognise for what it is, never see what’s beneath Merlin’s skin.
They stop kissing to strip each other, breeches and boots and fabric pushed aside until there’s only skin between them, flushed and warm and hard. Merlin turns them around and gently pushes Arthur on to the bed. He has never wanted so badly to push and shove and claim, but there’s something about Arthur lying on his back, hands beside his head and his legs bent at the knees and pressed together, that makes Merlin slow down. He wets his lips with his tongue, covers Arthur’s knees with his hands and rubs his thumbs into Arthur’s skin.
‘If you turn out to be as bad as this as you are at being a servant,’ Arthur says calmly.
‘What if I do?’ Merlin grins, bending to brush a kiss against Arthur’s knee, lapping gently at a tiny fold of skin.
‘I’ll send you back to Ealdor.’ Arthur stretches a leg to hook around the backs of Merlin’s thighs, tugging him off his feet and on to the long length of his body.
Merlin braces himself on his palms to keep from crushing Arthur beneath him. ‘You do that,’ he agrees, and they shift together until they’ve found the right position, Arthur’s legs wrapped around Merlin’s hips. ‘I’ve always wanted to go back to farming.’
‘Is that so?’ Arthur reaches behind them to grasp Merlin’s arse, pulling him even closer. Merlin gasps against Arthur’s throat, the sound muffled by Arthur’s skin, his pulse racing beneath Merlin’s mouth. ‘I bet you’re rubbish at farming, too,’ Arthur says lazily, arching up into Merlin, his hand curling into Merlin’s hair, keeping his face buried in Arthur’s neck.
Merlin smiles, nosing along the strong line of Arthur’s jaw. He nips at the soft, vulnerable skin at Arthur’s throat, imagining the deep redness of the blood, bright and sweet, rising up under the skin. ‘I’ll have you know I won potato-harvester-of-the-year award. Thrice. In a row.’
Arthur laughs out loud, the sound curling into Merlin’s chest, warm and lingering, and he breathes it in greedily. ‘You just made that up. You made it up, right now.’
‘Shows how little you know about farming.’ Merlin moves his hips experimentally, letting himself thrust against Arthur.
‘About as little as you do about jousting.’ Arthur sounds far too calm for what they’re doing, so Merlin thrusts again, slow and deep, until their balls are pressed together. ‘Merlin. Fuck. Merlin.’
‘You mean that game you play when you try to knock each other off horses? With really big sticks?’ Merlin bites Arthur’s neck again, harder this time, leaving little impressions of his teeth in Arthur’s skin.
‘Nnngh.’ Arthur wedges an arm between their bodies, taking them both in hand. ‘It’s not just a game, Merlin. If you paid any attention at all to what being a knight is all about, you’d know that.’ His other hand remains in Merlin’s hair, keeping his head in place as he licks at Merlin’s ear, getting his own back by taking the soft flesh of Merlin’s earlobe between his teeth and worrying at it.
Both of Merlin’s hands are in Arthur’s hair now, fingers sifting through strands of gold, as they move together, Arthur’s hand strong and tight around their cocks, sliding back and forth. ‘Jousting,’ Merlin manages, ‘can’t possibly compare to potato-harvesting.’
‘Tell me,’ Arthur murmurs into his ear, nudging upward with his hips, encouraging Merlin to keep moving. ‘Tell me what it’s like.’
Merlin keeps talking, because he knows that all Arthur wants is to hear his voice, knows it because all he wants is to hear Arthur talk, splash words on to his skin like desultory patterns of paint on a blank canvas. He’d never understood before how tactile sounds could be, how like touch the sound of a voice can be, low and warm and resonant and wanting against his ear. ‘Brown,’ he says, ‘the earth, all brown and damp and fresh when you slide your fingers in, feel for what you know’s beneath, even if you can’t see... Arthur!’
He’s far too close now. He lifts his head, settling a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and wrapping the other around Arthur’s, around both their cocks, wet and shining. Their fingers tangle together as they stroke, Arthur using the hand that’s never left Merlin’s hair to guide their mouths together again. Arthur’s mouth tastes like cinnamon, like cloves, like something piquant that Merlin is the first to discover. He explores Arthur blindly, wanting to secure him in place, wind ropes around his stretched, shaking body and chart its dips and planes. Wanting to slip a thin gold ring into the tender skin at the rim of Arthur’s navel, the gold glittering and warming beneath Arthur’s red tunic as he goes about his duties, reminding him of the way his skin has been marked and claimed.
Merlin comes first, spilling over their joined hands, gasping into Arthur’s mouth, managing to keep the rhythm going because Arthur’s close, so close that Merlin can feel it in his bones. ‘Come on,’ he pants into Arthur’s mouth. ‘Come for me, Arthur.’ Arthur kisses him again, his thighs tight around Merlin’s hips as he comes.
‘You were right,’ Arthur says against Merlin’s mouth, still trying to catch his breath. ‘Potato-farming is definitely superior to jousting.’
‘Did you actually confess you were wrong?’ Merlin lets Arthur roll them over, wriggling back into the mattress as Arthur pulls the covers up around them.
‘Idiot.’ Arthur leans over him, rubs his knuckles against Merlin’s chin. ‘I was merely trying to engage in pillow talk. I’m never wrong.’
‘Of course you aren’t, sire.’ Merlin rolls his eyes, kisses a bent finger before taking it between his teeth.
Arthur watches as Merlin sucks his knuckle into his mouth. ‘Don’t,’ he warns. ‘Or we’ll never get to sleep.’
‘Tired out already?’ Merlin grins, releasing Arthur’s finger.
‘Yes,’ Arthur laughs, swatting at Merlin’s face with a pillow before shoving it under Merlin’s head and slumping down against him, throwing an arm around his waist. ‘Remind me to continue your lessons in obedience in the morning.’
It’s only when Arthur’s head is warm and heavy with sleep against his shoulder that Merlin lifts his hand to dim the candles, shuttering the darkness in with them, letting it curl around them like a soft, warm blanket as he follows Arthur into sleep.