Fic: As a Prism Breaks Light (Merlin/Arthur)
Summary: Some things come easily to them. And some things don't.
AN: Many thanks to my completely awesome betas, bewarethesmirk and p_zeitgeist.
As a Prism Breaks Light
Red leaves swirl down, sunlit, aflame with colour, the forest floor covered with brilliant drifts, the earth at his back.
Arthur's hand slips under his shirt, the broken-in leather of his glove brushing against bare skin. The cool bite of the dying year makes him shiver. Arthur leans in until their mouths almost touch.
"Cold?" he asks, mockingly, and Merlin feels him push the edge of the shirt further up until he can place an open palm just above his wildly beating heart.
"No," he lies, because Arthur always makes him stubborn. He tugs Arthur down roughly, closing the gap.
His knees hit the thick rug, Merlin's hands curling around his shoulders, sliding up to cup the back of his neck, touching his face, restless and hesitant. The fire is a soft orange glow, dim and steady. He closes his eyes, wishing the room were wholly dark, and presses a kiss to Merlin's hip, rucking up the coarse shirt, unworking the belt, the lacings, hearing Merlin's low stunned groan, the sound of Merlin's head knocking against the wall.
The fire heats his face. He feels so strange. Merlin's thumb drags slowly across his lower lip, like a question, amazed, asking.
Morning sunlight spills in the window. Arthur leans back against the closed door, considering the lazy mess of clothes and books, the empty cupboard hanging open, a missing pair of his own boots.
Merlin's hands curl into loose fists against the sheets.
Arthur thinks of how Merlin's body moved under his, the press of impatient heels against his back, that strange hanging moment where it seemed everything he felt or wanted was defined by Merlin's response, praise and orders and deep stuttery moans.
He'd kicked Merlin out immediately afterwards.
In the courtyard skylarks begin to call, the sound muffled, distant.
All around them flow cultivated fields, the bright even green of young wheat. Arthur swings down from his horse with causal uncoiling grace. Merlin likes the feel of all that power under his hands.
Arthur makes an impatient gesture towards his horse, meaning deal with that, so Merlin dismounts, watching Arthur stare out at his future Kingdom, moodily withdrawn. He drops the reins.
The grass is soft against his knees. Arthur jerks back slightly in surprise. He doesn't let Arthur thrust into his mouth, controlling the depth and pace.
The line between giving and taking can be hard to draw.
The meadow ends in a field of sky blue forget-me-nots, the afternoon sun slipping lower in the sky, the year turning. He's supposed to be gathering pennywort and creeping heal-all, but he's tired and his body faintly aches.
Gentleness doesn't come easily to Arthur, only in rare moments, small wordless touches, flashes of generosity, scattered nights of slow deep sex. Merlin has no idea how to react.
He rests in the field, staring up at a clear open sky, the grass like a quiet murmur all around him, soft overlapping whispers.
Merlin closes his eyes and finally begins to listen.
Water freezes in the wash basin, short cold days. Holly torches are burning in the courtyard, bright flames under a huge twilit sky, an old folk homage to king winter that the Crown doesn't prevent.
Merlin draws the bed-curtains shut, kneeling on the mattress, and only then starts undressing Arthur, quickly, matter-of-fact, the lines all starting to blur. He catches Merlin's wrists.
Merlin's hands are raw from the cold, absentminded about gloves.
He kisses Merlin, waiting until Merlin's tongue traces along his closed lips before deliberately letting Merlin deepen the kiss, feeling both shame and relief the moment Merlin understands.
The treaty's script is almost illegibly ornate, faded to a watery purple. The flicker of firelight is giving him a dull headache so he leans against the windowsill, catching the last of the dusky light. He's aware vaguely of Merlin entering, quiet familiar noises.
The clause is truly ambiguous, a riddle with no answer. He stares out at the city that will one day be his, the sweep of land extending to the horizon, hoping none of his people will have to die over a few words.
Eventually Merlin takes the parchment and kisses him softly, the light spent.
(coda)
Colourless light floods the room. It's almost too much, the beautiful flush on Arthur's skin against white sheets, the tight slick heat of his body, how Arthur's eyes are dark with just the thinnest ring of blue, all Arthur's strength, the bruising grip of his hands.
He kisses Arthur lightly and pulls back enough to reach between their bodies, knowing what Arthur likes, how to make it good, wanting to please him with a kind of tearing intensity, to give Arthur anything, all the riches of the earth--somehow to offer up the confused and wordless contents of his heart.
AN: Many thanks to my completely awesome betas, bewarethesmirk and p_zeitgeist.
As a Prism Breaks Light
Red leaves swirl down, sunlit, aflame with colour, the forest floor covered with brilliant drifts, the earth at his back.
Arthur's hand slips under his shirt, the broken-in leather of his glove brushing against bare skin. The cool bite of the dying year makes him shiver. Arthur leans in until their mouths almost touch.
"Cold?" he asks, mockingly, and Merlin feels him push the edge of the shirt further up until he can place an open palm just above his wildly beating heart.
"No," he lies, because Arthur always makes him stubborn. He tugs Arthur down roughly, closing the gap.
His knees hit the thick rug, Merlin's hands curling around his shoulders, sliding up to cup the back of his neck, touching his face, restless and hesitant. The fire is a soft orange glow, dim and steady. He closes his eyes, wishing the room were wholly dark, and presses a kiss to Merlin's hip, rucking up the coarse shirt, unworking the belt, the lacings, hearing Merlin's low stunned groan, the sound of Merlin's head knocking against the wall.
The fire heats his face. He feels so strange. Merlin's thumb drags slowly across his lower lip, like a question, amazed, asking.
Morning sunlight spills in the window. Arthur leans back against the closed door, considering the lazy mess of clothes and books, the empty cupboard hanging open, a missing pair of his own boots.
Merlin's hands curl into loose fists against the sheets.
Arthur thinks of how Merlin's body moved under his, the press of impatient heels against his back, that strange hanging moment where it seemed everything he felt or wanted was defined by Merlin's response, praise and orders and deep stuttery moans.
He'd kicked Merlin out immediately afterwards.
In the courtyard skylarks begin to call, the sound muffled, distant.
All around them flow cultivated fields, the bright even green of young wheat. Arthur swings down from his horse with causal uncoiling grace. Merlin likes the feel of all that power under his hands.
Arthur makes an impatient gesture towards his horse, meaning deal with that, so Merlin dismounts, watching Arthur stare out at his future Kingdom, moodily withdrawn. He drops the reins.
The grass is soft against his knees. Arthur jerks back slightly in surprise. He doesn't let Arthur thrust into his mouth, controlling the depth and pace.
The line between giving and taking can be hard to draw.
The meadow ends in a field of sky blue forget-me-nots, the afternoon sun slipping lower in the sky, the year turning. He's supposed to be gathering pennywort and creeping heal-all, but he's tired and his body faintly aches.
Gentleness doesn't come easily to Arthur, only in rare moments, small wordless touches, flashes of generosity, scattered nights of slow deep sex. Merlin has no idea how to react.
He rests in the field, staring up at a clear open sky, the grass like a quiet murmur all around him, soft overlapping whispers.
Merlin closes his eyes and finally begins to listen.
Water freezes in the wash basin, short cold days. Holly torches are burning in the courtyard, bright flames under a huge twilit sky, an old folk homage to king winter that the Crown doesn't prevent.
Merlin draws the bed-curtains shut, kneeling on the mattress, and only then starts undressing Arthur, quickly, matter-of-fact, the lines all starting to blur. He catches Merlin's wrists.
Merlin's hands are raw from the cold, absentminded about gloves.
He kisses Merlin, waiting until Merlin's tongue traces along his closed lips before deliberately letting Merlin deepen the kiss, feeling both shame and relief the moment Merlin understands.
The treaty's script is almost illegibly ornate, faded to a watery purple. The flicker of firelight is giving him a dull headache so he leans against the windowsill, catching the last of the dusky light. He's aware vaguely of Merlin entering, quiet familiar noises.
The clause is truly ambiguous, a riddle with no answer. He stares out at the city that will one day be his, the sweep of land extending to the horizon, hoping none of his people will have to die over a few words.
Eventually Merlin takes the parchment and kisses him softly, the light spent.
(coda)
Colourless light floods the room. It's almost too much, the beautiful flush on Arthur's skin against white sheets, the tight slick heat of his body, how Arthur's eyes are dark with just the thinnest ring of blue, all Arthur's strength, the bruising grip of his hands.
He kisses Arthur lightly and pulls back enough to reach between their bodies, knowing what Arthur likes, how to make it good, wanting to please him with a kind of tearing intensity, to give Arthur anything, all the riches of the earth--somehow to offer up the confused and wordless contents of his heart.