Excuses to Remain
Title: Excuses to Remain
Series: (BBC) Merlin
Characters: Merlin, Arthur, one brief mention of Guinevere
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Warning: Sex, but more introspection so it's nothing too explicit
Summary: They are both too rough, too gentle. And they are both a little too broken, learning to be whole again.
Notes: Written for the prompt "rough sex"
Merlin’s back is arched, hips thrusting up towards Arthur, needy and imprecise and desperate, his mouth opened as he makes soft, keening sounds. Repeatedly, he shifts, surging against Arthur’s touch, into the flex and hold of Arthur’s hands. Arthur’s hands grip his hips tightly, hard enough to almost bruise. The words that stutter out of Merlin’s mouth in time to the movement of his hips aren’t quite words, but sounds that are deep with meaning, full of breath and air and curses. Arthur watches his mouth for a long moment, sees rather than hears those half-words, his hips shuddering at the way Merlin’s lips form around the sound of Arthur’s name. The noises are feral, deep, and he push down into Arthur’s skin and lodge there, and it isn’t loud but it rings in his ears all the same - he feels with equal force the swell of Merlin’s magic, the way it crackles underneath the surface, never breaching but so unspeakably there now that he knows to look for it.
The way Merlin arches under him, squirms and gasps and curses, there is a relief there - the feeling of finally, Arthur, the feeling of I’ve waited so long, that unspeakably breakable and unrepeatable need for relief, something he doesn’t quite understand so much as feels, as if the emotions themselves are palpable.
Merlin’s hand lifts, touches at Arthur’s cheek, touches at his hair, over his ear, and slides to rest at the back of his neck, fingernails threatening to cut into flesh. Arthur leans down, listening to the breathing, the way it quickens and flashes against his mouth as he kisses Merlin, swallows around the quiet gasp of his half-words, teeth scraping over the full bottom lip, then ducking down, laving his tongue and teeth over Merlin’s throat in a way that is not gentle.
He wants to ask - how long have you wanted this? How long have you known you wanted this? - but he is afraid of the answer, already knows that answer. Look what finally rose to the surface - look what finally crackled between them, snapping into place, this undeniable energy and recognition. Arthur almost wishes the moment had drawn out, only kisses to every inch of Merlin’s skin, to make Merlin feel how long he’d wanted it, how long it’d been since he’d allowed himself the thought of savoring it, of loving-
Eons is what Merlin would say. Ages and ages.
And Merlin wouldn’t lie about it - and Arthur cannot lie, not about this. Not to him. So he pushes, harder than he normally would have, perhaps, hard and fast, shaking out everything that he’s pent up - for thousands of years, so many it’s hard to fathom even if he hadn’t been on the other side of that waiting, caged and tamed and tucked away, waiting in a way different from Merlin’s waiting.
It felt like forever, anyway.
It felt as if forever had passed since he’d realized he wanted it - knew, in the moments too late, the depth of his thoughts. No need now, to be afraid - no need now, to be lost. And his hands tremble, even so, when he shifts them up over Merlin’s body - touching him. Touching him now. Just for the sake of touching.
He doesn’t want to rush, but he finds he can’t stop - as if too much time has been spent waiting and wanting. When he thought of the moment, he imagined something more choreographed, slower and gentler - not rushed like this, not furious and forceful. Even if there is a certain beauty to the way Merlin’s mouth goes slack and soft, the sounds still stuttering out with each snap of Arthur’s hips as he rocks his hips up into Merlin. He imagined cupping Merlin’s face gently, cupping that slack jaw, and kissing the breath back into him.
But most of the thoughts were half-vague, half-wanting, fantasy. Because part of Arthur’s mind always thought that being with Merlin was an impossibility, and the hows and whys weren’t important - or necessary to focus on.
Instead, he is done in by Merlin’s shaky smile and he squeezes the back of Arthur’s neck, and whispers out, “Keep going.”
And all Arthur can do is obey.
The readjustment of living has been something - and this is living. He rocks against Merlin, delights in the way Merlin’s breath hitches and then moans, louder, tilting his chin up so his lips bump messily against Arthur’s jaw and cheek, and he mouths his name against his ear, and Arthur can only shiver and shudder, his body aching and longing. Merlin’s smile, still overwhelming happy, as if he still can’t quite believe that Arthur is solid and above him, and there are tears in his eyes that have nothing to do with a physical pain and everything to do with the gnawing ache in his gut he’s still learning to let go of.
And there’s something to be said about seeing these smiles, or the way Merlin just looks at him, as if drinking in the sight of him, for long moments of the day - and Arthur is growing used to it, and growing used to not having to view his desire from a foggy distance.
Arthur likes the way Merlin hisses at the sensation of his nails digging down his sides as he scrambles for more purchase, to hold him in place as he rocks into him, shudders when Merlin’s legs shift up and wrap tight around Arthur’s hips to drag him in deeper, closer, keeping him there and clinging to him, the tears stinging his expression. So Arthur repeats the motion, dragging the blunt side of his nails down his chest, whispers Merlin’s name when fingers curl tight into his hair and hold face, tugging in his encouragement.
The friction is tight, drifting towards the side of pain, and sometimes the half-words from Merlin’s mouth are one of pain even as he encourages Arthur to keep going. He did not prepare him enough, perhaps, his hands shaking too badly, his mouth fumbling with the half-spoken confessions that are a thousand years in the making, and he can tell by the way Merlin gnaws on his lower lip he is trying to keep quiet, even as the half-words and full-noises filter out. Arthur pushes in deeper to him and Merlin cries out, and Arthur takes it as a victory that he could get him to speak when trying to be silent. Then again, Merlin never does shut up.
The trembling moan that Merlin lets out filters through both of them as Arthur ducks his head, pressing his forehead to his shoulder, shuddering as hands scramble down his back, trying to get him to move.
“I’m hurting you,” he whispers, his body aching to keep moving, desperate to keep moving, desperate for Merlin.
Merlin shakes his head, but his voice is hitched and light and breathy. “No - keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
And, again, Arthur has to obey.
Sweaty hands touch at the back of his thighs and drag him in closer, setting the pace for him, forcing him to keep moving in deeper and harder, long, full strokes, pulling their bodies together closer, closer, all the more closer-
Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing. Merlin’s words are bleeding into his hair where he nuzzles absently, quiet yes and feels good and Arthur. His moans tremble out of him and his body arches and arcs below him, pressing up closer and pulling him insistently, commanding him. And Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing - thousands of years of waiting and never knowing this, this desire for another man, familiar while different (but don’t think of Guinevere, he reminds himself, because that is a dull, painful ache he isn’t ready to think about fully yet - not here; not when she’s gone and buried without the opportunity to mourn). But it’s strange, to have Merlin below him, familiar and different - sharp angles, lean muscles, breathlessness that comes from the ache of lifetimes. And he's not sure he's comfortable with the way his aggression morphs and evolves from almost nowhere, consumes him, drives him - and he drives into Merlin, clutches at Merlin, listens to Merlin’s breathless words that sound at once like nonsense and spell-casting.
Arthur shifts above him, pulls back, and Merlin is blinking up at him, glass-eyed and smiling as he whispers his name, and Arthur loses the pace of his hips as he halts, just staring down at him in turn, knowing that his expression is mirrored.
“Oh,” he says, softly. Between their bodies is an infinite space, an infinite heat, and all he wants is to close that distance, to hold him and never let go, to never leave him again, to never be without him again.
His body protests the slowness, even as he, himself, desires a means to be softer with Merlin, to treat him gently. But Merlin shakes his head - and Arthur knows there’s no sense in coddling. Merlin knows harshness - has grown up across this world for generations, lifetimes, eons. He understands angles and corners and rough hands, understands.
But he understands tenderness, too. His hands are touch, his face is soft even as his eyes hurt, and the sensation tears through Arthur even as he thrusts into him at his command, forming words that amount to nothing, swallowed up by a desperate kiss, and Merlin’s fingers ease through his hair as if comforting a child even as he whispers his name urgently, demanding - commanding him. His expression is too tender - too raw.
It might as well be the first time, for the way he fumbles and struggles to obey, struggles to set the pace and keep that pace, struggles to keep control over his desires and wants. And then Merlin laughs, and somehow it’s easier, somehow Arthur stutters out an embarrassed laugh and overshoots a kiss that settles on Merlin’s nose, which only makes Merlin giggle, helplessly, his breath hitching into a small sob that he quickly swallows back. It’s like the first time - apologizing in whispers between kisses, noses bumping, elbows bruising, shifting their weights to accommodate. It’s not perfect, but there is a certain calmness and delight in the breathlessness, wild-eyed uncharted territory - but Arthur is halfway terrified that Merlin will break beneath him, or disappear entirely - ephemeral. He knows that Merlin fears the same thing - he can see it in the impossible blue of his eyes.
For an instant, though, it’s perfect, their bodies fitting together sweetly, as if they had never been apart. Their thighs cling together, legs tangled without grace, and it’s only a few more thrusts before Arthur ducks his head and comes with a throaty moan that Merlin matches, rocking up against him until he’s spent, his hand shaking as he touches at himself for some relief, for some release - and Arthur remembers too late to touch him, to stroke him off quickly until he comes across his stomach. Arthur closes his eyes and Merlin turns his head, nuzzling against his cheek, feeling the burn and scratch and delighting in it.
“I didn’t mean…” Arthur blinks his eyes open to look at Merlin.
Merlin touches at a bruise blooming across his chest, frowning thoughtfully. A deep, heavy embarrassment and shame coils hot in Arthur’s chest and he shifts, as if to shift away - but Merlin clamps a hand down hard on his shoulder and holds him in place with a small shake of his head.
“Don’t,” he whispers, and leans in and kisses him sweetly. Arthur resists the urge to take full inventory, to try to fix Merlin - because he can’t, not like this. Not at once. Merlin kisses him as if giving him life again, and Arthur forgets to breathe until Merlin pulls back, bumping his nose with his. “Don’t,” he says again, his voice quiet, “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”
And Arthur closes his eyes against the hot wave of emotion that presses up into his throat and he ducks his head and presses it into the curve of Merlin’s neck, just breathing him in.
Merlin’s hands touch his back, soothing, and without judgment. He holds him. Arthur holds him in turn, arms curling around him and cradling him.
Whole again.
Series: (BBC) Merlin
Characters: Merlin, Arthur, one brief mention of Guinevere
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Warning: Sex, but more introspection so it's nothing too explicit
Summary: They are both too rough, too gentle. And they are both a little too broken, learning to be whole again.
Notes: Written for the prompt "rough sex"
Merlin’s back is arched, hips thrusting up towards Arthur, needy and imprecise and desperate, his mouth opened as he makes soft, keening sounds. Repeatedly, he shifts, surging against Arthur’s touch, into the flex and hold of Arthur’s hands. Arthur’s hands grip his hips tightly, hard enough to almost bruise. The words that stutter out of Merlin’s mouth in time to the movement of his hips aren’t quite words, but sounds that are deep with meaning, full of breath and air and curses. Arthur watches his mouth for a long moment, sees rather than hears those half-words, his hips shuddering at the way Merlin’s lips form around the sound of Arthur’s name. The noises are feral, deep, and he push down into Arthur’s skin and lodge there, and it isn’t loud but it rings in his ears all the same - he feels with equal force the swell of Merlin’s magic, the way it crackles underneath the surface, never breaching but so unspeakably there now that he knows to look for it.
The way Merlin arches under him, squirms and gasps and curses, there is a relief there - the feeling of finally, Arthur, the feeling of I’ve waited so long, that unspeakably breakable and unrepeatable need for relief, something he doesn’t quite understand so much as feels, as if the emotions themselves are palpable.
Merlin’s hand lifts, touches at Arthur’s cheek, touches at his hair, over his ear, and slides to rest at the back of his neck, fingernails threatening to cut into flesh. Arthur leans down, listening to the breathing, the way it quickens and flashes against his mouth as he kisses Merlin, swallows around the quiet gasp of his half-words, teeth scraping over the full bottom lip, then ducking down, laving his tongue and teeth over Merlin’s throat in a way that is not gentle.
He wants to ask - how long have you wanted this? How long have you known you wanted this? - but he is afraid of the answer, already knows that answer. Look what finally rose to the surface - look what finally crackled between them, snapping into place, this undeniable energy and recognition. Arthur almost wishes the moment had drawn out, only kisses to every inch of Merlin’s skin, to make Merlin feel how long he’d wanted it, how long it’d been since he’d allowed himself the thought of savoring it, of loving-
Eons is what Merlin would say. Ages and ages.
And Merlin wouldn’t lie about it - and Arthur cannot lie, not about this. Not to him. So he pushes, harder than he normally would have, perhaps, hard and fast, shaking out everything that he’s pent up - for thousands of years, so many it’s hard to fathom even if he hadn’t been on the other side of that waiting, caged and tamed and tucked away, waiting in a way different from Merlin’s waiting.
It felt like forever, anyway.
It felt as if forever had passed since he’d realized he wanted it - knew, in the moments too late, the depth of his thoughts. No need now, to be afraid - no need now, to be lost. And his hands tremble, even so, when he shifts them up over Merlin’s body - touching him. Touching him now. Just for the sake of touching.
He doesn’t want to rush, but he finds he can’t stop - as if too much time has been spent waiting and wanting. When he thought of the moment, he imagined something more choreographed, slower and gentler - not rushed like this, not furious and forceful. Even if there is a certain beauty to the way Merlin’s mouth goes slack and soft, the sounds still stuttering out with each snap of Arthur’s hips as he rocks his hips up into Merlin. He imagined cupping Merlin’s face gently, cupping that slack jaw, and kissing the breath back into him.
But most of the thoughts were half-vague, half-wanting, fantasy. Because part of Arthur’s mind always thought that being with Merlin was an impossibility, and the hows and whys weren’t important - or necessary to focus on.
Instead, he is done in by Merlin’s shaky smile and he squeezes the back of Arthur’s neck, and whispers out, “Keep going.”
And all Arthur can do is obey.
The readjustment of living has been something - and this is living. He rocks against Merlin, delights in the way Merlin’s breath hitches and then moans, louder, tilting his chin up so his lips bump messily against Arthur’s jaw and cheek, and he mouths his name against his ear, and Arthur can only shiver and shudder, his body aching and longing. Merlin’s smile, still overwhelming happy, as if he still can’t quite believe that Arthur is solid and above him, and there are tears in his eyes that have nothing to do with a physical pain and everything to do with the gnawing ache in his gut he’s still learning to let go of.
And there’s something to be said about seeing these smiles, or the way Merlin just looks at him, as if drinking in the sight of him, for long moments of the day - and Arthur is growing used to it, and growing used to not having to view his desire from a foggy distance.
Arthur likes the way Merlin hisses at the sensation of his nails digging down his sides as he scrambles for more purchase, to hold him in place as he rocks into him, shudders when Merlin’s legs shift up and wrap tight around Arthur’s hips to drag him in deeper, closer, keeping him there and clinging to him, the tears stinging his expression. So Arthur repeats the motion, dragging the blunt side of his nails down his chest, whispers Merlin’s name when fingers curl tight into his hair and hold face, tugging in his encouragement.
The friction is tight, drifting towards the side of pain, and sometimes the half-words from Merlin’s mouth are one of pain even as he encourages Arthur to keep going. He did not prepare him enough, perhaps, his hands shaking too badly, his mouth fumbling with the half-spoken confessions that are a thousand years in the making, and he can tell by the way Merlin gnaws on his lower lip he is trying to keep quiet, even as the half-words and full-noises filter out. Arthur pushes in deeper to him and Merlin cries out, and Arthur takes it as a victory that he could get him to speak when trying to be silent. Then again, Merlin never does shut up.
The trembling moan that Merlin lets out filters through both of them as Arthur ducks his head, pressing his forehead to his shoulder, shuddering as hands scramble down his back, trying to get him to move.
“I’m hurting you,” he whispers, his body aching to keep moving, desperate to keep moving, desperate for Merlin.
Merlin shakes his head, but his voice is hitched and light and breathy. “No - keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
And, again, Arthur has to obey.
Sweaty hands touch at the back of his thighs and drag him in closer, setting the pace for him, forcing him to keep moving in deeper and harder, long, full strokes, pulling their bodies together closer, closer, all the more closer-
Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing. Merlin’s words are bleeding into his hair where he nuzzles absently, quiet yes and feels good and Arthur. His moans tremble out of him and his body arches and arcs below him, pressing up closer and pulling him insistently, commanding him. And Arthur doesn’t know what he’s doing - thousands of years of waiting and never knowing this, this desire for another man, familiar while different (but don’t think of Guinevere, he reminds himself, because that is a dull, painful ache he isn’t ready to think about fully yet - not here; not when she’s gone and buried without the opportunity to mourn). But it’s strange, to have Merlin below him, familiar and different - sharp angles, lean muscles, breathlessness that comes from the ache of lifetimes. And he's not sure he's comfortable with the way his aggression morphs and evolves from almost nowhere, consumes him, drives him - and he drives into Merlin, clutches at Merlin, listens to Merlin’s breathless words that sound at once like nonsense and spell-casting.
Arthur shifts above him, pulls back, and Merlin is blinking up at him, glass-eyed and smiling as he whispers his name, and Arthur loses the pace of his hips as he halts, just staring down at him in turn, knowing that his expression is mirrored.
“Oh,” he says, softly. Between their bodies is an infinite space, an infinite heat, and all he wants is to close that distance, to hold him and never let go, to never leave him again, to never be without him again.
His body protests the slowness, even as he, himself, desires a means to be softer with Merlin, to treat him gently. But Merlin shakes his head - and Arthur knows there’s no sense in coddling. Merlin knows harshness - has grown up across this world for generations, lifetimes, eons. He understands angles and corners and rough hands, understands.
But he understands tenderness, too. His hands are touch, his face is soft even as his eyes hurt, and the sensation tears through Arthur even as he thrusts into him at his command, forming words that amount to nothing, swallowed up by a desperate kiss, and Merlin’s fingers ease through his hair as if comforting a child even as he whispers his name urgently, demanding - commanding him. His expression is too tender - too raw.
It might as well be the first time, for the way he fumbles and struggles to obey, struggles to set the pace and keep that pace, struggles to keep control over his desires and wants. And then Merlin laughs, and somehow it’s easier, somehow Arthur stutters out an embarrassed laugh and overshoots a kiss that settles on Merlin’s nose, which only makes Merlin giggle, helplessly, his breath hitching into a small sob that he quickly swallows back. It’s like the first time - apologizing in whispers between kisses, noses bumping, elbows bruising, shifting their weights to accommodate. It’s not perfect, but there is a certain calmness and delight in the breathlessness, wild-eyed uncharted territory - but Arthur is halfway terrified that Merlin will break beneath him, or disappear entirely - ephemeral. He knows that Merlin fears the same thing - he can see it in the impossible blue of his eyes.
For an instant, though, it’s perfect, their bodies fitting together sweetly, as if they had never been apart. Their thighs cling together, legs tangled without grace, and it’s only a few more thrusts before Arthur ducks his head and comes with a throaty moan that Merlin matches, rocking up against him until he’s spent, his hand shaking as he touches at himself for some relief, for some release - and Arthur remembers too late to touch him, to stroke him off quickly until he comes across his stomach. Arthur closes his eyes and Merlin turns his head, nuzzling against his cheek, feeling the burn and scratch and delighting in it.
“I didn’t mean…” Arthur blinks his eyes open to look at Merlin.
Merlin touches at a bruise blooming across his chest, frowning thoughtfully. A deep, heavy embarrassment and shame coils hot in Arthur’s chest and he shifts, as if to shift away - but Merlin clamps a hand down hard on his shoulder and holds him in place with a small shake of his head.
“Don’t,” he whispers, and leans in and kisses him sweetly. Arthur resists the urge to take full inventory, to try to fix Merlin - because he can’t, not like this. Not at once. Merlin kisses him as if giving him life again, and Arthur forgets to breathe until Merlin pulls back, bumping his nose with his. “Don’t,” he says again, his voice quiet, “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”
And Arthur closes his eyes against the hot wave of emotion that presses up into his throat and he ducks his head and presses it into the curve of Merlin’s neck, just breathing him in.
Merlin’s hands touch his back, soothing, and without judgment. He holds him. Arthur holds him in turn, arms curling around him and cradling him.
Whole again.