srin
in
mad_poetics
Tidal Forces
Title: Tidal Forces
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~900 words
Summary: Gwaine wears clothes, but only just.
Note: So a few months ago, the lovely luisadeza posted this delightful image:
(That's Eoin Macken there, in case you don't recognize him without the facial hair!)
And I stared for a while, and then pulled myself together and decided it called for beach porn, but I never actually got to the porn part, and then forgot about the fic for a while. Then I posted what I did have at a pornathon party, still with vague intentions of someday doing the porn; the porn still hasn't happened, but I figured I might as well just repost what I do have instead of leaving it to languish forever. So! Apologies for the lack of porn, basically. (I'll do the pornathon entry reposts next, if anyone's interested.)
It’s not like Merlin hasn’t seen Gwaine shirtless before. It’s not even like Merlin hasn’t seen Gwaine shirtless and wet before, because Gwaine has this thing about taking showers when he comes home just past bawdy-singing drunk but not quite to falling-down-and-giggling drunk, and sometimes he picks the wrong door afterwards and sways into Merlin’s room wearing nothing but a towel and a grin, and then Merlin has to gently steer him back to his own room instead of stripping off the towel and ravishing him like he would really rather like to.
So Merlin didn’t think it would be a problem, going to the beach with Gwaine and everyone. He maintains this delusion through the whole conversation about how Percy and Lance have a stomach flu, Arthur and Leon need to work, Gwen and Elyan are out of town visiting family, and Elena, Vivian, and Morgana elected to go riding instead, so ‘Gwaine and everyone’ is actually just Gwaine. Merlin maintains this delusion while they drive to the shore, loudly singing along with the radio; while they get the towels and cooler out of the car, wander down to a quiet sandy spot between two rock formations, strip down to their trunks, and charge into the water before they can be put off by the fact that it really isn’t quite warm enough.
It feels freezing and horrible for the first few moments, but then Merlin’s body adjusts, and it’s still chilly, but fine. Manageable. Merlin maintains the delusion that the whole damp-and-topless Gwaine thing will also be fine right up until the point when he turns around in the shallow surf and sees Gwaine, wet and beaming and with his trunks riding so insanely low on his hips that Merlin doesn’t even know how they’re staying up at all. It’s sort of surreal, and Merlin has the powerful urge to reach out and touch the waistband, just to make sure it’s really there. Or to encourage it to stop fighting the clearly-losing battle with gravity, and slip the rest of the way down. That would work too.
(Merlin has wanted Gwaine for ages, and Gwaine has been doing ridiculous seductive things for ages. But Merlin’s convinced that Gwaine’s way out of his league and only flirts all the time because he doesn’t actually know any other way to interact with people he’s fond of. Merlin hasn’t quite noticed that Gwaine doesn’t flirt with anyone else the same way he does with Merlin. He’s also failed to notice the little flash of disappointment that tends to cross Gwaine’s face whenever Merlin laughs off his innuendo, and the way Gwaine will go all wobbly and start leaning on Merlin when he’s only eyebrow-waggling drunk, even though he doesn’t do that with anyone else until he’s at least bawdy-singing drunk.)
Merlin stares. Gwaine sees him staring, and smiles even more broadly.
“Hi,” Gwaine says.
“Um. Hi. Your um. Your hips,” Merlin says, distantly aware that he sounds sort of strangled. The swell of a wave is rolling in behind Gwaine, and Merlin wonders whether it’s going to take the trunks down with it when it reaches them.
“My hips?” Gwaine repeats, obviously amused.
“I swear, you are the world’s biggest tease,” Merlin says, getting a slightly better hold of himself.
Gwaine blinks, and then moves in, closer, and says in a low voice,
“Am I? Surely it would only be teasing if I didn’t mean to follow through.”
Merlin tears his eyes away from the trail of dark hair leading down below Gwaine’s waistband, and looks at his face. He expects Gwaine’s usual seductive mask, the bright smile and hooded eyes, but that’s not what he finds, not at all. Gwaine’s expression is open, unpracticed, raw in a way that’s at once startling and achingly endearing, and Merlin thinks, oh. (The wave passes and leaves Gwaine’s trunks where they are, though only just.)
“Gwaine,” Merlin says, at a bit of a loss, and then he thinks oh, what the hell, closes the remaining space between them, and kisses Gwaine full on the mouth.
Gwaine’s arms come up around Merlin’s body instantly, but the way he returns the kiss is hesitant, almost shy.
“Merlin…”
“I thought you didn’t mean it,” Merlin interrupts. He slides his fingers into Gwaine’s hair, which is lovely even when it’s wet and dishevelled, and tilts his face to press kisses to his forehead and the unbearded bits of his cheeks. “I thought you didn’t mean it, I thought you were only being you, and you didn’t really want-”
“I always wanted,” Gwaine admits, and kisses Merlin in earnest then.
The heat of his mouth against Merlin’s is a sharp contrast to the cold water and chilled skin between them. This is not at all how Merlin imagined this going, the many, many times he did imagine it, but he’s certainly not complaining. It’s a decided improvement on what he thought were his more realistic fantasies, the ones where Gwaine’s drunk enough to go for Merlin and Merlin’s drunk enough himself that he doesn’t feel as though he’s taking advantage.
There’s no taste of alcohol on Gwaine’s tongue now, only a faint tang of salt on his lips. And his kiss is much too clever, his hands on Merlin’s body much too intent and tender for a blind intoxicated fumble. It turns out that Gwaine being wet and topless and very-nearly-bottomless too really isn’t a problem at all.
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~900 words
Summary: Gwaine wears clothes, but only just.
Note: So a few months ago, the lovely luisadeza posted this delightful image:
(That's Eoin Macken there, in case you don't recognize him without the facial hair!)
And I stared for a while, and then pulled myself together and decided it called for beach porn, but I never actually got to the porn part, and then forgot about the fic for a while. Then I posted what I did have at a pornathon party, still with vague intentions of someday doing the porn; the porn still hasn't happened, but I figured I might as well just repost what I do have instead of leaving it to languish forever. So! Apologies for the lack of porn, basically. (I'll do the pornathon entry reposts next, if anyone's interested.)
It’s not like Merlin hasn’t seen Gwaine shirtless before. It’s not even like Merlin hasn’t seen Gwaine shirtless and wet before, because Gwaine has this thing about taking showers when he comes home just past bawdy-singing drunk but not quite to falling-down-and-giggling drunk, and sometimes he picks the wrong door afterwards and sways into Merlin’s room wearing nothing but a towel and a grin, and then Merlin has to gently steer him back to his own room instead of stripping off the towel and ravishing him like he would really rather like to.
So Merlin didn’t think it would be a problem, going to the beach with Gwaine and everyone. He maintains this delusion through the whole conversation about how Percy and Lance have a stomach flu, Arthur and Leon need to work, Gwen and Elyan are out of town visiting family, and Elena, Vivian, and Morgana elected to go riding instead, so ‘Gwaine and everyone’ is actually just Gwaine. Merlin maintains this delusion while they drive to the shore, loudly singing along with the radio; while they get the towels and cooler out of the car, wander down to a quiet sandy spot between two rock formations, strip down to their trunks, and charge into the water before they can be put off by the fact that it really isn’t quite warm enough.
It feels freezing and horrible for the first few moments, but then Merlin’s body adjusts, and it’s still chilly, but fine. Manageable. Merlin maintains the delusion that the whole damp-and-topless Gwaine thing will also be fine right up until the point when he turns around in the shallow surf and sees Gwaine, wet and beaming and with his trunks riding so insanely low on his hips that Merlin doesn’t even know how they’re staying up at all. It’s sort of surreal, and Merlin has the powerful urge to reach out and touch the waistband, just to make sure it’s really there. Or to encourage it to stop fighting the clearly-losing battle with gravity, and slip the rest of the way down. That would work too.
(Merlin has wanted Gwaine for ages, and Gwaine has been doing ridiculous seductive things for ages. But Merlin’s convinced that Gwaine’s way out of his league and only flirts all the time because he doesn’t actually know any other way to interact with people he’s fond of. Merlin hasn’t quite noticed that Gwaine doesn’t flirt with anyone else the same way he does with Merlin. He’s also failed to notice the little flash of disappointment that tends to cross Gwaine’s face whenever Merlin laughs off his innuendo, and the way Gwaine will go all wobbly and start leaning on Merlin when he’s only eyebrow-waggling drunk, even though he doesn’t do that with anyone else until he’s at least bawdy-singing drunk.)
Merlin stares. Gwaine sees him staring, and smiles even more broadly.
“Hi,” Gwaine says.
“Um. Hi. Your um. Your hips,” Merlin says, distantly aware that he sounds sort of strangled. The swell of a wave is rolling in behind Gwaine, and Merlin wonders whether it’s going to take the trunks down with it when it reaches them.
“My hips?” Gwaine repeats, obviously amused.
“I swear, you are the world’s biggest tease,” Merlin says, getting a slightly better hold of himself.
Gwaine blinks, and then moves in, closer, and says in a low voice,
“Am I? Surely it would only be teasing if I didn’t mean to follow through.”
Merlin tears his eyes away from the trail of dark hair leading down below Gwaine’s waistband, and looks at his face. He expects Gwaine’s usual seductive mask, the bright smile and hooded eyes, but that’s not what he finds, not at all. Gwaine’s expression is open, unpracticed, raw in a way that’s at once startling and achingly endearing, and Merlin thinks, oh. (The wave passes and leaves Gwaine’s trunks where they are, though only just.)
“Gwaine,” Merlin says, at a bit of a loss, and then he thinks oh, what the hell, closes the remaining space between them, and kisses Gwaine full on the mouth.
Gwaine’s arms come up around Merlin’s body instantly, but the way he returns the kiss is hesitant, almost shy.
“Merlin…”
“I thought you didn’t mean it,” Merlin interrupts. He slides his fingers into Gwaine’s hair, which is lovely even when it’s wet and dishevelled, and tilts his face to press kisses to his forehead and the unbearded bits of his cheeks. “I thought you didn’t mean it, I thought you were only being you, and you didn’t really want-”
“I always wanted,” Gwaine admits, and kisses Merlin in earnest then.
The heat of his mouth against Merlin’s is a sharp contrast to the cold water and chilled skin between them. This is not at all how Merlin imagined this going, the many, many times he did imagine it, but he’s certainly not complaining. It’s a decided improvement on what he thought were his more realistic fantasies, the ones where Gwaine’s drunk enough to go for Merlin and Merlin’s drunk enough himself that he doesn’t feel as though he’s taking advantage.
There’s no taste of alcohol on Gwaine’s tongue now, only a faint tang of salt on his lips. And his kiss is much too clever, his hands on Merlin’s body much too intent and tender for a blind intoxicated fumble. It turns out that Gwaine being wet and topless and very-nearly-bottomless too really isn’t a problem at all.