srin
in
mad_poetics
Some Private Hour
Title: Some Private Hour
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Length: ~1,700 words
Summary: Some of their mornings are like this.
Note: Nothing at all to do with series 3, just some boys who have some feelings.
Sometimes, Arthur doesn’t wake Merlin and send him for breakfast. Sometimes, when they’ve had a late night of it and he knows Merlin will sleep for hours if allowed, Arthur will dress quietly, lock the door behind him, eat in the kitchens, and go out for training or patrol or whatever it is he needs to do. And then he’ll come back, and this is why:
Merlin will still be asleep, sprawled on his stomach and drooling into Arthur’s pillows, or stretched out on his back, or curled on his side. He’ll be there, naked and peaceful, and Arthur can (after locking the door behind him again) peel back the sheets, and just look at him. There’s something wonderful about seeing him this way, his body so vulnerable but his face untroubled because he knows he’s safe and wanted in Arthur’s bed.
Arthur sees Merlin undressed plenty, but it’s not the same when his nudity is incidental, an aid to sharing touches rather than an end in itself. Then Arthur is too preoccupied with feeling Merlin, tasting him, indulging in his noises and the scents of his body to pay the visual the attention it deserves. But like this, when Merlin’s breaths come slow and even, and Arthur is content to keep his hands to himself until Merlin’s had his rest, then Arthur can look his fill without distraction.
And he loves it. Merlin’s hair is too short these days to tousle much, but sometimes it still sticks up at the odd angle, dark strands a stark contrast to the white pillow. His mouth is soft and slack, his cheekbones sharp in the sloping sunlight from the window, his nostrils flaring occasionally. Sometimes there will be a faint bruise low on his throat, or a fading imprint of too-eager teeth near his collarbone. They’re lovely little reminders: that Merlin is Arthur’s; that Merlin has left complementary claims on Arthur’s body; that love as well as war may mark the flesh.
Arthur will stare at the sparse dark hair on Merlin’s chest and remember how it felt against his lips last night, when he bent close to suckle at Merlin’s nipples. The little nubs will be soft in these mornings, usually, though sometimes they stiffen from the chill of being exposed, or from the arousal in Merlin’s dreams. Arthur will wonder about Merlin’s dreams, curious what images flicker behind those eyelids while Arthur absorbs the one before him. He rarely asks and doesn’t imagine that Merlin tells him the truth when he does, but he does wonder, and not only about the secrets Merlin keeps in his sleep.
Arthur will take in the jutting shapes of Merlin’s hips, his soft cock resting against his thighs, the angles of his knees. The way he looks innocent and graceful like this, an array of artful lines across Arthur’s sheets, no hint of the clumsy tangle he sometimes becomes in waking, or the shameless filthy creature that he can be when in bed but not sleeping. Arthur will wonder, too, if Merlin ever watches him this way. Perhaps on the mornings when Merlin does wake first, or maybe after Arthur’s fallen asleep at night, sated from their activities. Whether Merlin ever looks at him and sees a mundane collection of bone and muscle and scar, not a knight, not a prince, not a pawn of the destiny Merlin’s always talking about, but just a man, unremarkable in his rest.
It scares Arthur a little, to think of Merlin seeing him so unguarded. But at the same time, he knows he couldn’t help a twinge of disappointment were Merlin to admit a similar fear; he knows full well that Merlin is safe like this, and wants Merlin to know it too, wants Merlin to trust that there’s nothing inside him that Arthur would ever hold against him. Whatever secrets Merlin may keep, they cannot possibly outweigh what he reveals daily.
This morning Merlin is curled around one of Arthur’s pillows, his face half-buried, his legs hitched up and hiding his groin. Denied a view of more titillating parts, Arthur finds himself fixating on Merlin’s wrist, the leather bracelet he rarely bothers to remove and the fine bones beneath. Arthur doesn’t know anything about the bracelet, whether it was a gift or something Merlin acquired for himself, whether its regular presence speaks of significance or simply habit. It’s one of many things he would like to ask but never quite manages to, reluctant to betray too much interest in such strange, small things when they could be bickering instead. Reluctant, too, to see Merlin’s face shutter the way it sometimes does when Arthur asks the (right) wrong questions, a reminder that Arthur’s faith in Merlin is not quite as reciprocal as he would like it to be.
Merlin makes a noise in his sleep, a familiar half-sigh half-whine, and Arthur banishes any maudlin thoughts in favour of leaning closer and craning his neck, trying to see - oh yes. Today Merlin’s cock isn’t limp and disinterested, today it’s going stiff between his legs and Arthur doesn’t have any difficulty guessing the nature of Merlin’s dreams.
Arthur considers his options for a moment, remembers that he hasn’t anywhere else to be until after lunch, and promptly sheds his jacket and boots. Then he climbs up onto the bed, settles in behind Merlin, and slides his arms along Merlin’s, gently prying Merlin’s fingers away from the pillowcase to tangle with his own instead. His skin is a little cool, but warms quickly where they’re pressed together. Merlin fails to respond to any of this and then, in typical contrarian fashion, startles awake a minute or two after Arthur’s finished adjusting them.
“Wha- you were just- when did you-” Merlin demands, slurring faintly.
“I got in bed just now.”
“No, I was- You were-” And then he notices that the pillow in his arms is, in fact, a pillow. “Oh.”
“Oh indeed. Dreaming about me?” Arthur asks, nuzzling behind Merlin’s ear.
“Dreaming about a-” Merlin begins, and Arthur can tell from his tone that he’s planning to say something irreverent, possibly involving a bizarre new insult, but then he pauses, and seems to notice that Arthur’s clothed. “You let me sleep?” Merlin asks instead.
“I expect you’ll be wanting to thank me for my generosity,” Arthur says. Merlin snorts, and tries to elbow him but Arthur expects it and keeps a tight hold on his hands. Merlin struggles for a moment but it’s half-hearted at best, and he quickly relaxes back in Arthur’s arms.
“So you want a reward?”
“Tell me what you were dreaming.”
“I think you can guess,” Merlin says, using his chin to indicate the pillow still pressed against his chest.
“Molesting the linens again?” Arthur says, mock-appalled, and goes on even as Merlin starts laughing and shoving at his arms, “Honestly, Merlin, we’ve talked about this, it isn’t natural, I distinctly remember promising you a healthier outlet for your perversions…”
“A healthier outlet?” Merlin asks. He’s rolled over to face Arthur now, and raises his eyebrows suggestively. Arthur searches for a retort, suddenly distracted by the crease lines on Merlin’s cheek, and before he comes up with anything Merlin’s expression softens, and he tilts his head to touch his lips to Arthur’s.
His lips are dry and soft and familiar and Arthur sinks into the kiss immediately, a slow, languid play of lips and tongue and Merlin’s hands curling around Arthur’s shoulders. After a few minutes Arthur breaks off to trail his mouth along Merlin’s jaw and down his throat; Merlin shivers and presses closer, his naked hips rocking against Arthur’s clothed ones. Arthur isn’t fully hard yet but he’s getting there quickly with Merlin stretched out all along his body like this, and he wishes he’d thought to take off the rest of his clothes before climbing in, but he’s not about to pull away now.
“Tell me what you were dreaming,” Arthur murmurs again.
“Don’t remember the details,” Merlin tells the skin of Arthur’s throat, “Just you. Us. You might’ve been sucking me?”
“Want me to?”
“Stay here,” Merlin says, sneaking his hands up under Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur’s not at all inclined to argue, especially not when Merlin’s thumb starts rubbing over his nipple, each pass feeding into his arousal. They carry on kissing and pawing lazily at one another, pouring quiet affection into slow heat and gradually seeking more carnal contact. At some point Merlin gets Arthur’s trousers unlaced and shoves them down as far as his knees. Then Arthur spits in his palm, uses it to slick Merlin’s prick, and parts his legs as much as he can, lets Merlin slip in between his thighs. Merlin wraps a hand around Arthur’s dick, stroking leisurely; Merlin’s cock slides along Arthur’s balls on every roll of his hips, teasing the sensitive skin. They move that way, all unhurried motions and soft sighs into each other’s mouths, idle thrusts and an indolent, winding path to satisfaction.
After they’ve both finished, kicked away Arthur’s trousers and made a token effort to clean up with Arthur’s now-shed shirt, Arthur tugs the sheets up over them and burrows into the warm cocoon of blankets and Merlin’s body. He shouldn’t, probably, should send Merlin to his chores and start on the grain reports or something of the sort, but he’s too sated to bring himself to move. So instead he listens to Merlin’s calming heartbeat and lets the heavy, post-orgasmic haze envelope him.
“Arthur?” Merlin whispers.
“Shh,” Arthur says, eyes closed. “Sleeping.”
“You’re not,” Merlin says, fond, carding gentle fingers through Arthur’s hair.
“Will be when you shut up.”
Merlin laughs. “Right, of course. Wake you for lunch?”
“If you must,” Arthur huffs, his breath humid in the small space between his mouth and Merlin’s shoulder. These are the good sorts of mornings: watching Merlin, and sleepy sex, and a nice nap after, all carefully sheltered from the sharper things in both their lives. Merlin doesn’t speak any more, just continues his small caresses, and Arthur lets himself doze off as he sometimes does, content in the cradle of Merlin’s arms.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Length: ~1,700 words
Summary: Some of their mornings are like this.
Note: Nothing at all to do with series 3, just some boys who have some feelings.
Sometimes, Arthur doesn’t wake Merlin and send him for breakfast. Sometimes, when they’ve had a late night of it and he knows Merlin will sleep for hours if allowed, Arthur will dress quietly, lock the door behind him, eat in the kitchens, and go out for training or patrol or whatever it is he needs to do. And then he’ll come back, and this is why:
Merlin will still be asleep, sprawled on his stomach and drooling into Arthur’s pillows, or stretched out on his back, or curled on his side. He’ll be there, naked and peaceful, and Arthur can (after locking the door behind him again) peel back the sheets, and just look at him. There’s something wonderful about seeing him this way, his body so vulnerable but his face untroubled because he knows he’s safe and wanted in Arthur’s bed.
Arthur sees Merlin undressed plenty, but it’s not the same when his nudity is incidental, an aid to sharing touches rather than an end in itself. Then Arthur is too preoccupied with feeling Merlin, tasting him, indulging in his noises and the scents of his body to pay the visual the attention it deserves. But like this, when Merlin’s breaths come slow and even, and Arthur is content to keep his hands to himself until Merlin’s had his rest, then Arthur can look his fill without distraction.
And he loves it. Merlin’s hair is too short these days to tousle much, but sometimes it still sticks up at the odd angle, dark strands a stark contrast to the white pillow. His mouth is soft and slack, his cheekbones sharp in the sloping sunlight from the window, his nostrils flaring occasionally. Sometimes there will be a faint bruise low on his throat, or a fading imprint of too-eager teeth near his collarbone. They’re lovely little reminders: that Merlin is Arthur’s; that Merlin has left complementary claims on Arthur’s body; that love as well as war may mark the flesh.
Arthur will stare at the sparse dark hair on Merlin’s chest and remember how it felt against his lips last night, when he bent close to suckle at Merlin’s nipples. The little nubs will be soft in these mornings, usually, though sometimes they stiffen from the chill of being exposed, or from the arousal in Merlin’s dreams. Arthur will wonder about Merlin’s dreams, curious what images flicker behind those eyelids while Arthur absorbs the one before him. He rarely asks and doesn’t imagine that Merlin tells him the truth when he does, but he does wonder, and not only about the secrets Merlin keeps in his sleep.
Arthur will take in the jutting shapes of Merlin’s hips, his soft cock resting against his thighs, the angles of his knees. The way he looks innocent and graceful like this, an array of artful lines across Arthur’s sheets, no hint of the clumsy tangle he sometimes becomes in waking, or the shameless filthy creature that he can be when in bed but not sleeping. Arthur will wonder, too, if Merlin ever watches him this way. Perhaps on the mornings when Merlin does wake first, or maybe after Arthur’s fallen asleep at night, sated from their activities. Whether Merlin ever looks at him and sees a mundane collection of bone and muscle and scar, not a knight, not a prince, not a pawn of the destiny Merlin’s always talking about, but just a man, unremarkable in his rest.
It scares Arthur a little, to think of Merlin seeing him so unguarded. But at the same time, he knows he couldn’t help a twinge of disappointment were Merlin to admit a similar fear; he knows full well that Merlin is safe like this, and wants Merlin to know it too, wants Merlin to trust that there’s nothing inside him that Arthur would ever hold against him. Whatever secrets Merlin may keep, they cannot possibly outweigh what he reveals daily.
This morning Merlin is curled around one of Arthur’s pillows, his face half-buried, his legs hitched up and hiding his groin. Denied a view of more titillating parts, Arthur finds himself fixating on Merlin’s wrist, the leather bracelet he rarely bothers to remove and the fine bones beneath. Arthur doesn’t know anything about the bracelet, whether it was a gift or something Merlin acquired for himself, whether its regular presence speaks of significance or simply habit. It’s one of many things he would like to ask but never quite manages to, reluctant to betray too much interest in such strange, small things when they could be bickering instead. Reluctant, too, to see Merlin’s face shutter the way it sometimes does when Arthur asks the (right) wrong questions, a reminder that Arthur’s faith in Merlin is not quite as reciprocal as he would like it to be.
Merlin makes a noise in his sleep, a familiar half-sigh half-whine, and Arthur banishes any maudlin thoughts in favour of leaning closer and craning his neck, trying to see - oh yes. Today Merlin’s cock isn’t limp and disinterested, today it’s going stiff between his legs and Arthur doesn’t have any difficulty guessing the nature of Merlin’s dreams.
Arthur considers his options for a moment, remembers that he hasn’t anywhere else to be until after lunch, and promptly sheds his jacket and boots. Then he climbs up onto the bed, settles in behind Merlin, and slides his arms along Merlin’s, gently prying Merlin’s fingers away from the pillowcase to tangle with his own instead. His skin is a little cool, but warms quickly where they’re pressed together. Merlin fails to respond to any of this and then, in typical contrarian fashion, startles awake a minute or two after Arthur’s finished adjusting them.
“Wha- you were just- when did you-” Merlin demands, slurring faintly.
“I got in bed just now.”
“No, I was- You were-” And then he notices that the pillow in his arms is, in fact, a pillow. “Oh.”
“Oh indeed. Dreaming about me?” Arthur asks, nuzzling behind Merlin’s ear.
“Dreaming about a-” Merlin begins, and Arthur can tell from his tone that he’s planning to say something irreverent, possibly involving a bizarre new insult, but then he pauses, and seems to notice that Arthur’s clothed. “You let me sleep?” Merlin asks instead.
“I expect you’ll be wanting to thank me for my generosity,” Arthur says. Merlin snorts, and tries to elbow him but Arthur expects it and keeps a tight hold on his hands. Merlin struggles for a moment but it’s half-hearted at best, and he quickly relaxes back in Arthur’s arms.
“So you want a reward?”
“Tell me what you were dreaming.”
“I think you can guess,” Merlin says, using his chin to indicate the pillow still pressed against his chest.
“Molesting the linens again?” Arthur says, mock-appalled, and goes on even as Merlin starts laughing and shoving at his arms, “Honestly, Merlin, we’ve talked about this, it isn’t natural, I distinctly remember promising you a healthier outlet for your perversions…”
“A healthier outlet?” Merlin asks. He’s rolled over to face Arthur now, and raises his eyebrows suggestively. Arthur searches for a retort, suddenly distracted by the crease lines on Merlin’s cheek, and before he comes up with anything Merlin’s expression softens, and he tilts his head to touch his lips to Arthur’s.
His lips are dry and soft and familiar and Arthur sinks into the kiss immediately, a slow, languid play of lips and tongue and Merlin’s hands curling around Arthur’s shoulders. After a few minutes Arthur breaks off to trail his mouth along Merlin’s jaw and down his throat; Merlin shivers and presses closer, his naked hips rocking against Arthur’s clothed ones. Arthur isn’t fully hard yet but he’s getting there quickly with Merlin stretched out all along his body like this, and he wishes he’d thought to take off the rest of his clothes before climbing in, but he’s not about to pull away now.
“Tell me what you were dreaming,” Arthur murmurs again.
“Don’t remember the details,” Merlin tells the skin of Arthur’s throat, “Just you. Us. You might’ve been sucking me?”
“Want me to?”
“Stay here,” Merlin says, sneaking his hands up under Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur’s not at all inclined to argue, especially not when Merlin’s thumb starts rubbing over his nipple, each pass feeding into his arousal. They carry on kissing and pawing lazily at one another, pouring quiet affection into slow heat and gradually seeking more carnal contact. At some point Merlin gets Arthur’s trousers unlaced and shoves them down as far as his knees. Then Arthur spits in his palm, uses it to slick Merlin’s prick, and parts his legs as much as he can, lets Merlin slip in between his thighs. Merlin wraps a hand around Arthur’s dick, stroking leisurely; Merlin’s cock slides along Arthur’s balls on every roll of his hips, teasing the sensitive skin. They move that way, all unhurried motions and soft sighs into each other’s mouths, idle thrusts and an indolent, winding path to satisfaction.
After they’ve both finished, kicked away Arthur’s trousers and made a token effort to clean up with Arthur’s now-shed shirt, Arthur tugs the sheets up over them and burrows into the warm cocoon of blankets and Merlin’s body. He shouldn’t, probably, should send Merlin to his chores and start on the grain reports or something of the sort, but he’s too sated to bring himself to move. So instead he listens to Merlin’s calming heartbeat and lets the heavy, post-orgasmic haze envelope him.
“Arthur?” Merlin whispers.
“Shh,” Arthur says, eyes closed. “Sleeping.”
“You’re not,” Merlin says, fond, carding gentle fingers through Arthur’s hair.
“Will be when you shut up.”
Merlin laughs. “Right, of course. Wake you for lunch?”
“If you must,” Arthur huffs, his breath humid in the small space between his mouth and Merlin’s shoulder. These are the good sorts of mornings: watching Merlin, and sleepy sex, and a nice nap after, all carefully sheltered from the sharper things in both their lives. Merlin doesn’t speak any more, just continues his small caresses, and Arthur lets himself doze off as he sometimes does, content in the cradle of Merlin’s arms.