All The Memories From Before
Title: All The Memories From Before
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 1848
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Merlin has to leave Camelot to avoid being suspected of being a sorcerer. (Also, there's mind!sex.)
Merlin goes to the Druid Isle when the ending of spring becomes the beginning of summer. When the rains stop coming to spill over the rivers and fill the earth. When everything is alive and living and magic has once again seeped into the soil.
It does not quite reach Camelot. The King feels its presence now more than ever and is being twice as brutal, thrice as cruel in his search to destroy it. Anyone who so much as speaks the word magic is flogged or worse. Merlin has never feared the or worse more than he does now.
Since his coming of age, it's been harder and harder to conceal the magic. Where before it was a constant thrumming beneath the surface, natural but contained, now it runs through his fingertips, gives the life of the earth to anything he touches; it beats, escapes, chases, feels, begs to be released. Uncontrollable, it rages like a dragon inside him.
Merlin has to learn to command these forces, the ones that govern nature. He spends his nights huddled close with Arthur, thigh against thigh, whispering in inhuman tongues the words that make the fire blaze green and blue and gold. They study the magic book together until Merlin brings the magic out of himself with only thoughts, desires before he even knows he has them.
When he learns, he teaches Arthur how to stitch his skin back together, how to sharpen his mind by clearing it. He teaches Arthur how to feel with his eyes closed, how to listen to the earth and the trees and the air and soon they send messages to each other on the whispers carried under the beat of birds' wings from opposite ends of the castle.
Merlin knows it's dangerous; he has to leave before Uther suspects. It would only take a few more accidents, a few more slain beasts, some unexplained yet fortunate event that is considered evil just the same as if it didn't end well, for him to be thrown into the pyre without a second thought.
Arthur says he would never let that happen. He shakes Merlin's shoulders and makes him to look him in the eyes, makes it sound too much like an oath, too much like a promise. Merlin never signed up for this. Destiny and protection he can deal with; but not this. Never this.
They stand in the muted light of the coming dusk when Merlin runs his hands through Arthur's hair, grips him tight, and brings them flush together, the magic crackling against his skin so much that it hurts, that it forces tears out of his eyes. Some silent part of himself curses destiny and the dragon for not telling him how this would be, that he'd not only be part of one side of a coin, but of the same essence: all fierce pride and courage and magic and love.
Merlin grounds himself to the earth through Arthur as if Arthur is a medium into which all magic comes and goes. This is what he'll miss most: being connected to both the magical and the human at once. There are some days when he himself does not feel human, when the magic is too strong for his body to hold it in. He needs reassurance. He needs this as much as Arthur does, but there are choices that he has to make and he may not always like them.
He's in Arthur's chambers for the last time in he doesn't know how long, trying to take in every scent and sight, committing to memory the feel of the furs beneath his feet, the scrape of stone against his palm. He sends his magic out, touching, cataloguing every object in the room until it rests on Arthur: Arthur who, just like Merlin taught him, closes his eyes and extends his arms to the sides, grasping at the magic ever-present in the air around Merlin, hoping -- praying -- that it'll cling to his body after he has gone and everything goes still.
Merlin lets his magic play around the spaces between Arthur's fingers, over his eyelids, sweeping across his cheekbones, trailing along the slivers of exposed skin, skimming across his neck when Arthur tips his head back, caressing. He smiles a little at the reaction. It's more awe than anything; he rarely sees Arthur so stripped and vulnerable.
Merlin reigns his magic in, leaving only lingering traces of its touch. "I have to go Arthur- "
It's better if he leaves now, for both their sakes. Today, the King executed a fifteen year old girl for bewitching one of the stable hands. Just to be sure, he executed the stable hand too. Arthur pleaded with the King until his throat was raw and he was inches from drawing his sword. They were burned at the pyre; this time the people turned their heads, and none of them cheered. No one talks about it, but all of Camelot awaits for its Prince to become King.
"Not yet," Arthur says, his voice strained.
Merlin nods. He understands. Sometimes Merlin makes his own oaths, his own promises. "I'll give you everything I can."
Arthur reaches for Merlin and wraps his fingers around his wrist. He holds it at the pulse when he comes forward to touch his lips to Merlin's and his tongue slips into his mouth, other hand coming to rest at his hip, thumb sliding beneath the shirt to rub at his skin.
Merlin pushes his magic into Arthur and floods his veins with saturated light, heats his skin where they touch, presses with invisible hands where they don't. He marks Arthur with teeth along his collarbone, nips down, then up, behind his earlobe, till Arthur is gasping, sobbing into his hair.
They clutch at each other, the magic, a current ebbing and flowing between their joined bodies. This is what destiny feels like, thinks Arthur. This is what magic is. He lets a moan escape his throat when Merlin palms his cock, wet and hard and warm. Something twists and Arthur arches into Merlin. Their lips are touching; they're breathing the same air, not even kissing anymore, just staring at each other across the span of centimeters, not really seeing, just feeling and touching and being.
Arthur pulls Merlin on top of him onto the bed. Their cocks rub together in the friction, Merlin settling warm and heavy against his thighs, torso, pressing him firm into the mattress. Their shirts come off with painful slowness. Arthur wants this to last, and however urgent it may seem now, he knows that it's never enough.
It'll never be enough until Merlin can stop hiding from Camelot and from Uther. Until then-
Arthur's breeches come off. He slides his hands down Merlin's back, following the dips and curves of his spine, fingers tracing the bones as Merlin goes down Arthur's body, flicking his tongue to taste the salty skin until his lips reach the base of Arthur's cock and he presses a kiss there.
His magic eases Arthur open and boneless, lost to sensation as he groans out MerlinMerlinMerlin, one hand fisting the bed sheets, the other, the dark curls. Merlin returns with a soft and fond Arthur, taking in the sight of the Prince golden in the nighttime, beautiful against the red covers bunched around his shoulders and beneath his back. Merlin rubs himself against the bed, trying desperately not to savor the sight for the sole reason that it might be the last time he gets a chance to.
"Do you trust me?" he asks impulsively, mouth a breath away from the head of Arthur's cock, and Arthur keens but he doesn't miss a beat as he looks down straight into Merlin's eyes and says, seriously, "Yes."
Merlin's throat is suddenly dry at the look in Arthur's eyes, the determination he finds, the edges of his irises ringed in the gold that Merlin put there. He surges forward to kiss him, all soft and slow, smiling all the time against each other's lips before Arthur rolls his hips upwards to remind him that there are other matters he should be attending to.
Merlin laughs and mumbles "Prat," against his lips before pushing himself in until he's fully sheathed.
Merlin opens his mind to Arthur, letting a connection form between their thoughts and their magic. Arthur gasps and Merlin can sense his fear at the intrusion, the battle he's having between the guarded Prince he's been taught to be and the lover he is.
"Merlin," he warns, but Merlin only says "Shh," and runs placating hands along his sides, "let me. It'll make it better." He begins to move slowly when Arthur nods his assent and gives the magic control, holding nothing back.
It pushes at the tendrils of thought twined and tangled in reds and golds and silvers inside Arthur's mind, plucking at his memories: the thrill of his first hunt, the taste of berries on his tongue, smell of ripe peaches from the garden, chill of ice and snow on the back of his neck from a well-aimed snowball.
Merlin strings his way along a hundred sensations, makes Arthur relive the feel of battle bruises and kisses, orgasms that come and fade, the flashes of smiles and happiness, tenuous moments that run into the one another until Arthur moans and Merlin, still moving inside him, penetrates him with his mind and his body and makes Arthur come.
The remembered touch of Merlin sucking and licking and loving, hot summer days and freedom and escape thrumming inside his body, pushes him even harder over the edge until all he can see is Merlin, pressing gentle kisses to his neck and his face.
Arthur pants and rubs absently at the space between Merlin's shoulder blades, sticky and wet with sweat. Merlin pulls out with a gasp, the come leaving a trail down Arthur's thighs that he won't bother to clean up till morning. Arthur closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Merlin's hair as he tries to grasp onto the retreating presence of the sorcerer and his magic.
He feels Merlin pull himself away from the bed to mutter some enchantments over his armour, over the doors, the window; the sky is lighter with the coming dawn that creeps uninvited into the room. The loss, the emptiness Arthur senses makes him feel more like a child than a Prince.
He somehow knows Merlin knows what he's thinking even though he doesn't say it; he says instead "Idiot, you'd better not get yourself killed."
Merlin finishes putting on his clothes, offers Arthur a smile, comes to the bed, and brushes a thumb across his cheek, mumbling affectionately "Prat. I won't if you won't."
He reaches his magic out to Arthur and kisses him, leaving only the spark of electricity beneath his skin before he's gone and Arthur is left clutching at the memory of his touch, watching the rising sun burst into the corners of his room, and wondering when, not if, he'll be back.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 1848
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Merlin has to leave Camelot to avoid being suspected of being a sorcerer. (Also, there's mind!sex.)
Merlin goes to the Druid Isle when the ending of spring becomes the beginning of summer. When the rains stop coming to spill over the rivers and fill the earth. When everything is alive and living and magic has once again seeped into the soil.
It does not quite reach Camelot. The King feels its presence now more than ever and is being twice as brutal, thrice as cruel in his search to destroy it. Anyone who so much as speaks the word magic is flogged or worse. Merlin has never feared the or worse more than he does now.
Since his coming of age, it's been harder and harder to conceal the magic. Where before it was a constant thrumming beneath the surface, natural but contained, now it runs through his fingertips, gives the life of the earth to anything he touches; it beats, escapes, chases, feels, begs to be released. Uncontrollable, it rages like a dragon inside him.
Merlin has to learn to command these forces, the ones that govern nature. He spends his nights huddled close with Arthur, thigh against thigh, whispering in inhuman tongues the words that make the fire blaze green and blue and gold. They study the magic book together until Merlin brings the magic out of himself with only thoughts, desires before he even knows he has them.
When he learns, he teaches Arthur how to stitch his skin back together, how to sharpen his mind by clearing it. He teaches Arthur how to feel with his eyes closed, how to listen to the earth and the trees and the air and soon they send messages to each other on the whispers carried under the beat of birds' wings from opposite ends of the castle.
Merlin knows it's dangerous; he has to leave before Uther suspects. It would only take a few more accidents, a few more slain beasts, some unexplained yet fortunate event that is considered evil just the same as if it didn't end well, for him to be thrown into the pyre without a second thought.
Arthur says he would never let that happen. He shakes Merlin's shoulders and makes him to look him in the eyes, makes it sound too much like an oath, too much like a promise. Merlin never signed up for this. Destiny and protection he can deal with; but not this. Never this.
They stand in the muted light of the coming dusk when Merlin runs his hands through Arthur's hair, grips him tight, and brings them flush together, the magic crackling against his skin so much that it hurts, that it forces tears out of his eyes. Some silent part of himself curses destiny and the dragon for not telling him how this would be, that he'd not only be part of one side of a coin, but of the same essence: all fierce pride and courage and magic and love.
Merlin grounds himself to the earth through Arthur as if Arthur is a medium into which all magic comes and goes. This is what he'll miss most: being connected to both the magical and the human at once. There are some days when he himself does not feel human, when the magic is too strong for his body to hold it in. He needs reassurance. He needs this as much as Arthur does, but there are choices that he has to make and he may not always like them.
He's in Arthur's chambers for the last time in he doesn't know how long, trying to take in every scent and sight, committing to memory the feel of the furs beneath his feet, the scrape of stone against his palm. He sends his magic out, touching, cataloguing every object in the room until it rests on Arthur: Arthur who, just like Merlin taught him, closes his eyes and extends his arms to the sides, grasping at the magic ever-present in the air around Merlin, hoping -- praying -- that it'll cling to his body after he has gone and everything goes still.
Merlin lets his magic play around the spaces between Arthur's fingers, over his eyelids, sweeping across his cheekbones, trailing along the slivers of exposed skin, skimming across his neck when Arthur tips his head back, caressing. He smiles a little at the reaction. It's more awe than anything; he rarely sees Arthur so stripped and vulnerable.
Merlin reigns his magic in, leaving only lingering traces of its touch. "I have to go Arthur- "
It's better if he leaves now, for both their sakes. Today, the King executed a fifteen year old girl for bewitching one of the stable hands. Just to be sure, he executed the stable hand too. Arthur pleaded with the King until his throat was raw and he was inches from drawing his sword. They were burned at the pyre; this time the people turned their heads, and none of them cheered. No one talks about it, but all of Camelot awaits for its Prince to become King.
"Not yet," Arthur says, his voice strained.
Merlin nods. He understands. Sometimes Merlin makes his own oaths, his own promises. "I'll give you everything I can."
Arthur reaches for Merlin and wraps his fingers around his wrist. He holds it at the pulse when he comes forward to touch his lips to Merlin's and his tongue slips into his mouth, other hand coming to rest at his hip, thumb sliding beneath the shirt to rub at his skin.
Merlin pushes his magic into Arthur and floods his veins with saturated light, heats his skin where they touch, presses with invisible hands where they don't. He marks Arthur with teeth along his collarbone, nips down, then up, behind his earlobe, till Arthur is gasping, sobbing into his hair.
They clutch at each other, the magic, a current ebbing and flowing between their joined bodies. This is what destiny feels like, thinks Arthur. This is what magic is. He lets a moan escape his throat when Merlin palms his cock, wet and hard and warm. Something twists and Arthur arches into Merlin. Their lips are touching; they're breathing the same air, not even kissing anymore, just staring at each other across the span of centimeters, not really seeing, just feeling and touching and being.
Arthur pulls Merlin on top of him onto the bed. Their cocks rub together in the friction, Merlin settling warm and heavy against his thighs, torso, pressing him firm into the mattress. Their shirts come off with painful slowness. Arthur wants this to last, and however urgent it may seem now, he knows that it's never enough.
It'll never be enough until Merlin can stop hiding from Camelot and from Uther. Until then-
Arthur's breeches come off. He slides his hands down Merlin's back, following the dips and curves of his spine, fingers tracing the bones as Merlin goes down Arthur's body, flicking his tongue to taste the salty skin until his lips reach the base of Arthur's cock and he presses a kiss there.
His magic eases Arthur open and boneless, lost to sensation as he groans out MerlinMerlinMerlin, one hand fisting the bed sheets, the other, the dark curls. Merlin returns with a soft and fond Arthur, taking in the sight of the Prince golden in the nighttime, beautiful against the red covers bunched around his shoulders and beneath his back. Merlin rubs himself against the bed, trying desperately not to savor the sight for the sole reason that it might be the last time he gets a chance to.
"Do you trust me?" he asks impulsively, mouth a breath away from the head of Arthur's cock, and Arthur keens but he doesn't miss a beat as he looks down straight into Merlin's eyes and says, seriously, "Yes."
Merlin's throat is suddenly dry at the look in Arthur's eyes, the determination he finds, the edges of his irises ringed in the gold that Merlin put there. He surges forward to kiss him, all soft and slow, smiling all the time against each other's lips before Arthur rolls his hips upwards to remind him that there are other matters he should be attending to.
Merlin laughs and mumbles "Prat," against his lips before pushing himself in until he's fully sheathed.
Merlin opens his mind to Arthur, letting a connection form between their thoughts and their magic. Arthur gasps and Merlin can sense his fear at the intrusion, the battle he's having between the guarded Prince he's been taught to be and the lover he is.
"Merlin," he warns, but Merlin only says "Shh," and runs placating hands along his sides, "let me. It'll make it better." He begins to move slowly when Arthur nods his assent and gives the magic control, holding nothing back.
It pushes at the tendrils of thought twined and tangled in reds and golds and silvers inside Arthur's mind, plucking at his memories: the thrill of his first hunt, the taste of berries on his tongue, smell of ripe peaches from the garden, chill of ice and snow on the back of his neck from a well-aimed snowball.
Merlin strings his way along a hundred sensations, makes Arthur relive the feel of battle bruises and kisses, orgasms that come and fade, the flashes of smiles and happiness, tenuous moments that run into the one another until Arthur moans and Merlin, still moving inside him, penetrates him with his mind and his body and makes Arthur come.
The remembered touch of Merlin sucking and licking and loving, hot summer days and freedom and escape thrumming inside his body, pushes him even harder over the edge until all he can see is Merlin, pressing gentle kisses to his neck and his face.
Arthur pants and rubs absently at the space between Merlin's shoulder blades, sticky and wet with sweat. Merlin pulls out with a gasp, the come leaving a trail down Arthur's thighs that he won't bother to clean up till morning. Arthur closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Merlin's hair as he tries to grasp onto the retreating presence of the sorcerer and his magic.
He feels Merlin pull himself away from the bed to mutter some enchantments over his armour, over the doors, the window; the sky is lighter with the coming dawn that creeps uninvited into the room. The loss, the emptiness Arthur senses makes him feel more like a child than a Prince.
He somehow knows Merlin knows what he's thinking even though he doesn't say it; he says instead "Idiot, you'd better not get yourself killed."
Merlin finishes putting on his clothes, offers Arthur a smile, comes to the bed, and brushes a thumb across his cheek, mumbling affectionately "Prat. I won't if you won't."
He reaches his magic out to Arthur and kisses him, leaving only the spark of electricity beneath his skin before he's gone and Arthur is left clutching at the memory of his touch, watching the rising sun burst into the corners of his room, and wondering when, not if, he'll be back.