I need you like Ben Affleck needs acting school
To start: I've written a few ficlets this week that I was pretty satisfied with, so, for organizational purposes (because I'm actually brave enough to claim them this time, haha), I've decided to repost them here. Enjoy if you choose to read.
Wrote this in about fifteen minutes, and I don't know. I really sort of like it. Also, if you're interested, here's a bit of expansion between i_claudia and me, as we've apparently reached the stage in our relationship where neither of us can respond to a comment without making a partial!ficlet out of it.
Merlin's kisses never quite taste the same.
Arthur's heard of how kisses are supposed to be from his knights, who frequent barmaids and the whores everyone glosses over on the street-corners. Their talk is dirty, raunchy, littered with slick mouths and wet heat and oh, so fucking good, and it's sometimes more than Arthur really wants to know about these men he trains, the ones who actually embody chivalry far less than their titles demand. From the times he has stuck around, though, or hadn't left fast enough before he heard what they were saying, he knows that at the heart of every kiss, no matter how soft or passionate or filthy, is taste. Kissing is all about that, apparently, the taste of the person under the flavor of wine and smoke coating his or her mouth, laced through each individual breath. It's what makes each kiss unique, enjoyable, no matter how many times or how many ways it's been done before. The knights, jokingly, say that it's like magic, and when Arthur's in a good mood, he plays along, says, The only acceptable kind, before picking up his sword and moving back into a sparring stance.
And Arthur's by far no prude, so he's not totally ignorant on the matter of kisses. He's stolen a few for himself, quick and dirty with a chambermaid, or a seamstress, or, that one time when he was horribly drunk, a stable-boy. They're not really enough to give him the experience the knights have, mostly because he doesn't kiss any person long or often enough to learn them, to find their flavor under the residual traces of food and drink and city air in their mouths.
With Merlin, though, well. He's puzzling. Arthur has kissed Merlin more times than he thinks either of them can count (although Merlin, girl that he is, probably keeps a tally in his diary or something equally ridiculous, so he might be able to. Arthur wouldn't put it past him). They've kissed in so many variations: hot and lazy, the slow slide of lips against each other that leaves the skin around their mouths slick and sloppy; fast and aggressive, tongues pushing in like it's a struggle, something neither of them wants to lose; sweet and desperate, Merlin's fingers tangled in Arthur's hair and Arthur's hand cupping Merlin's jaw to hold him closer, even if Arthur already knows Merlin would never try to break away.
But what's baffling to Arthur about it, when Merlin is gone from the room or asleep next to him or anywhere not with his mouth pressed against Arthur's and Arthur actually has his wits about him, is that Merlin doesn't fit with what Arthur's heard; Merlin doesn't seem to have a taste.
Arthur's tasted all sorts of things on Merlin: sour ale and tart apples and sweet, clean water. From Merlin, from all the ways they've done this, Arthur's learned what desperation tastes like, and happiness, and anger and want and fierce, deep devotion. He's tasted things he never even knew had a taste, things intangible that shouldn't have a flavor but do all the same.
What he hasn't tasted is Merlin.
Arthur wants to, wants to find out if Merlin tastes of earth or wind or ashes, wants to look at Merlin's mouth when he talks and know the flavor of every word like it's being poured into his mouth as it rings through his ears, an audible feast.
But at the same time, he doesn't. And it's not that Arthur's afraid that he'd tire of Merlin once he found it, pressed his tongue deep enough to lick away the surface taste and finally, finally know. More and more, Arthur catches himself thinking that he won't ever tire of Merlin, especially in this.
Arthur knows it's not the mystery that keeps him kissing Merlin. He knows it's nothing to do with wanting to know, and he thinks it has more to do with already knowing. Despite himself and every sense of propriety he was raised to have, Arthur's always liked how Merlin is different, unique; he finds it only fitting that Merlin should break this expectation, too. Arthur likes the certainty of being unsure of what Merlin will do, and he likes knowing Merlin well enough to understand that he is not simple and expected and easily-identifiable, that he is something Arthur will have to discover piece by piece, every new bit as hard-won as the most difficult and rewarding of tourneys.
That thrill of the unexpected, the rush that comes every time Arthur thinks he's almost found it, somewhere in Merlin's moans and Merlin's mouth, only to have it slip away before he can pin it down -- they make Arthur think his knights were wrong. The magic isn't in the familiarity, lovely and reassuring as that may be. Rather, it's in the action of discovery, the little, unrelated things he learns from every kiss, each one showing him that there is more to find about Merlin than a thousand lifetimes would allow.
Written originally for the kinkme_merlin prompt of (roughly) bottom!Arthur and Arthur liking it rough. Proves that I really can't write anything that's not a character study anymore.
everything that hurts too much to say
Merlin's cock is thick where it pushes into him, hard and hot and just shy of slick enough, and Arthur loves it. There is something to it, the burn of friction in his arse, of want in his voice, of shame on his cheeks as he pushes back eagerly, needing more and needing now.
Arthur never asks for this, but that's only because he doesn't quite know how. Arthur never asks because a crown prince shouldn't, shouldn't want nothing more some nights than to be bent over a table, or shoved against a wall, or pressed ruthlessly into the mattress, splayed out and fucked like some whore in an alley, used and loving it.
Arthur never asks -- the real reason this time, or maybe just one of them, but certainly the most relevant -- he never asks because he never has to, because Merlin just looks at him and knows.
Merlin isn't good for much, servant-wise, and there are times when he's not that great a friend, either. He rarely finishes everything he's supposed to, and it's often half-arsed at best when he does, and he lectures far too often for anyone's good. But he is good at this, at knowing, at looking at Arthur and reading something in his posture or face or tired, burning eyes that screams of stress and somehow translates to that impossible want, the thing Arthur should never, ever ask for.
Arthur doesn't, though, he never has to, doesn't think he had to even the first time they did it this way, Merlin pushing into Arthur just enough to hurt and Arthur's fingers scrabbling at the wood of the door for purchase they never quite found. To be honest, Arthur's not even sure he could ask, not because he couldn't bring himself to, but because he's not sure he'd know how. This thing with Merlin -- be it him fucking Arthur or the other way around, fast and harsh or slow and sweet and lazy -- it's always been largely unspoken, a need and understanding that they both feel, can both satisfy easily without having to ask or tell how.
Arthur's glad of that, the fact that he doesn't have to voice anything, to put a name on this want he has that even he doesn't recognize. He's glad that he can avoid thinking about it more than he needs to (never, or only when Merlin looks at him and sees) because it's not something he wants to pull out and examine. A crown prince should be strong enough to bear it all, the pressures of his father and the kingdom and a world's, his own, expectations, and he should be able to do it privately. Arthur doesn't want to think about why he can't, why he sometimes finds he needs someone to help him forget when his father has ruled in solidarity for so long.
If he could, Arthur would rid himself of it, cut it loose and cauterize the wound so he knows to avoid it should it ever come back. But he's tried, and it hasn't worked so far, and still sometimes, after a battle or a few days surveying the countryside or a moment where his father looks suddenly, startlingly old and Arthur finds himself reminded of just how little time he has left before everything falls to him, Arthur looks at Merlin and needs. And Merlin gets it like Arthur can't explain, so Arthur spends the next hour with this thing he doesn't want and can't bring himself to let go of, a cock shoving deep into his arse and a wall scraping rough against his skin and a connection flowing between him and Merlin, his own voice desperately crying fuck me fuck me fuck me in all the ways it never should.
Reel fic is due up on Tuesday. Most likely, I'll put it up Tuesday morning, i.e. ~2:00-3:00am, if only because I will need something to come back to after astronomy drains me dry. And yes, I am that openly shameless.
And finally, related to reel, and especially directed to the Brits on my flist (i.e. IF YOU'RE BRITISH AND HAVEN'T BEEN READING THIS, PLEASE TUNE IN FOR THIS PART BECAUSE I DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP HERE. IT WILL MAKE MY REEL FIC SOMETHING THAT WON'T MAKE YOU WANT TO CLAW YOUR EYES OUT AS YOU READ IT, IF YOU EVEN CHOOSE TO. YAY FOR FORCING YOU ALL TO HELP ME CLARIFY MY BRITPICK?): A poll.
Poll OPERATION: HELP ME FINALIZE MY BRITPICK
Wrote this in about fifteen minutes, and I don't know. I really sort of like it. Also, if you're interested, here's a bit of expansion between i_claudia and me, as we've apparently reached the stage in our relationship where neither of us can respond to a comment without making a partial!ficlet out of it.
Merlin's kisses never quite taste the same.
Arthur's heard of how kisses are supposed to be from his knights, who frequent barmaids and the whores everyone glosses over on the street-corners. Their talk is dirty, raunchy, littered with slick mouths and wet heat and oh, so fucking good, and it's sometimes more than Arthur really wants to know about these men he trains, the ones who actually embody chivalry far less than their titles demand. From the times he has stuck around, though, or hadn't left fast enough before he heard what they were saying, he knows that at the heart of every kiss, no matter how soft or passionate or filthy, is taste. Kissing is all about that, apparently, the taste of the person under the flavor of wine and smoke coating his or her mouth, laced through each individual breath. It's what makes each kiss unique, enjoyable, no matter how many times or how many ways it's been done before. The knights, jokingly, say that it's like magic, and when Arthur's in a good mood, he plays along, says, The only acceptable kind, before picking up his sword and moving back into a sparring stance.
And Arthur's by far no prude, so he's not totally ignorant on the matter of kisses. He's stolen a few for himself, quick and dirty with a chambermaid, or a seamstress, or, that one time when he was horribly drunk, a stable-boy. They're not really enough to give him the experience the knights have, mostly because he doesn't kiss any person long or often enough to learn them, to find their flavor under the residual traces of food and drink and city air in their mouths.
With Merlin, though, well. He's puzzling. Arthur has kissed Merlin more times than he thinks either of them can count (although Merlin, girl that he is, probably keeps a tally in his diary or something equally ridiculous, so he might be able to. Arthur wouldn't put it past him). They've kissed in so many variations: hot and lazy, the slow slide of lips against each other that leaves the skin around their mouths slick and sloppy; fast and aggressive, tongues pushing in like it's a struggle, something neither of them wants to lose; sweet and desperate, Merlin's fingers tangled in Arthur's hair and Arthur's hand cupping Merlin's jaw to hold him closer, even if Arthur already knows Merlin would never try to break away.
But what's baffling to Arthur about it, when Merlin is gone from the room or asleep next to him or anywhere not with his mouth pressed against Arthur's and Arthur actually has his wits about him, is that Merlin doesn't fit with what Arthur's heard; Merlin doesn't seem to have a taste.
Arthur's tasted all sorts of things on Merlin: sour ale and tart apples and sweet, clean water. From Merlin, from all the ways they've done this, Arthur's learned what desperation tastes like, and happiness, and anger and want and fierce, deep devotion. He's tasted things he never even knew had a taste, things intangible that shouldn't have a flavor but do all the same.
What he hasn't tasted is Merlin.
Arthur wants to, wants to find out if Merlin tastes of earth or wind or ashes, wants to look at Merlin's mouth when he talks and know the flavor of every word like it's being poured into his mouth as it rings through his ears, an audible feast.
But at the same time, he doesn't. And it's not that Arthur's afraid that he'd tire of Merlin once he found it, pressed his tongue deep enough to lick away the surface taste and finally, finally know. More and more, Arthur catches himself thinking that he won't ever tire of Merlin, especially in this.
Arthur knows it's not the mystery that keeps him kissing Merlin. He knows it's nothing to do with wanting to know, and he thinks it has more to do with already knowing. Despite himself and every sense of propriety he was raised to have, Arthur's always liked how Merlin is different, unique; he finds it only fitting that Merlin should break this expectation, too. Arthur likes the certainty of being unsure of what Merlin will do, and he likes knowing Merlin well enough to understand that he is not simple and expected and easily-identifiable, that he is something Arthur will have to discover piece by piece, every new bit as hard-won as the most difficult and rewarding of tourneys.
That thrill of the unexpected, the rush that comes every time Arthur thinks he's almost found it, somewhere in Merlin's moans and Merlin's mouth, only to have it slip away before he can pin it down -- they make Arthur think his knights were wrong. The magic isn't in the familiarity, lovely and reassuring as that may be. Rather, it's in the action of discovery, the little, unrelated things he learns from every kiss, each one showing him that there is more to find about Merlin than a thousand lifetimes would allow.
Written originally for the kinkme_merlin prompt of (roughly) bottom!Arthur and Arthur liking it rough. Proves that I really can't write anything that's not a character study anymore.
everything that hurts too much to say
Merlin's cock is thick where it pushes into him, hard and hot and just shy of slick enough, and Arthur loves it. There is something to it, the burn of friction in his arse, of want in his voice, of shame on his cheeks as he pushes back eagerly, needing more and needing now.
Arthur never asks for this, but that's only because he doesn't quite know how. Arthur never asks because a crown prince shouldn't, shouldn't want nothing more some nights than to be bent over a table, or shoved against a wall, or pressed ruthlessly into the mattress, splayed out and fucked like some whore in an alley, used and loving it.
Arthur never asks -- the real reason this time, or maybe just one of them, but certainly the most relevant -- he never asks because he never has to, because Merlin just looks at him and knows.
Merlin isn't good for much, servant-wise, and there are times when he's not that great a friend, either. He rarely finishes everything he's supposed to, and it's often half-arsed at best when he does, and he lectures far too often for anyone's good. But he is good at this, at knowing, at looking at Arthur and reading something in his posture or face or tired, burning eyes that screams of stress and somehow translates to that impossible want, the thing Arthur should never, ever ask for.
Arthur doesn't, though, he never has to, doesn't think he had to even the first time they did it this way, Merlin pushing into Arthur just enough to hurt and Arthur's fingers scrabbling at the wood of the door for purchase they never quite found. To be honest, Arthur's not even sure he could ask, not because he couldn't bring himself to, but because he's not sure he'd know how. This thing with Merlin -- be it him fucking Arthur or the other way around, fast and harsh or slow and sweet and lazy -- it's always been largely unspoken, a need and understanding that they both feel, can both satisfy easily without having to ask or tell how.
Arthur's glad of that, the fact that he doesn't have to voice anything, to put a name on this want he has that even he doesn't recognize. He's glad that he can avoid thinking about it more than he needs to (never, or only when Merlin looks at him and sees) because it's not something he wants to pull out and examine. A crown prince should be strong enough to bear it all, the pressures of his father and the kingdom and a world's, his own, expectations, and he should be able to do it privately. Arthur doesn't want to think about why he can't, why he sometimes finds he needs someone to help him forget when his father has ruled in solidarity for so long.
If he could, Arthur would rid himself of it, cut it loose and cauterize the wound so he knows to avoid it should it ever come back. But he's tried, and it hasn't worked so far, and still sometimes, after a battle or a few days surveying the countryside or a moment where his father looks suddenly, startlingly old and Arthur finds himself reminded of just how little time he has left before everything falls to him, Arthur looks at Merlin and needs. And Merlin gets it like Arthur can't explain, so Arthur spends the next hour with this thing he doesn't want and can't bring himself to let go of, a cock shoving deep into his arse and a wall scraping rough against his skin and a connection flowing between him and Merlin, his own voice desperately crying fuck me fuck me fuck me in all the ways it never should.
Reel fic is due up on Tuesday. Most likely, I'll put it up Tuesday morning, i.e. ~2:00-3:00am, if only because I will need something to come back to after astronomy drains me dry. And yes, I am that openly shameless.
And finally, related to reel, and especially directed to the Brits on my flist (i.e. IF YOU'RE BRITISH AND HAVEN'T BEEN READING THIS, PLEASE TUNE IN FOR THIS PART BECAUSE I DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP HERE. IT WILL MAKE MY REEL FIC SOMETHING THAT WON'T MAKE YOU WANT TO CLAW YOUR EYES OUT AS YOU READ IT, IF YOU EVEN CHOOSE TO. YAY FOR FORCING YOU ALL TO HELP ME CLARIFY MY BRITPICK?): A poll.
Poll OPERATION: HELP ME FINALIZE MY BRITPICK