Fic: Doors
Title: Doors
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Merlin stands outside the door for a long time.
AN: Written for comment_fic
Merlin stands outside the door for a long time.
Unseen in the darkness of the corridor, and unsure whether an unspoken request is a request at all. Whether there are some things you're supposed to ignore. No matter what Arthur normally protests otherwise.
But there are some things he can't ignore. So he pushes the door open, slides into Arthur's chambers, pushes it shut behind him.
It's late enough for everyone to be sleeping, but the smell of wax is still there, the glow of bare candlelight flickering through the shadows on the far wall.
Arthur just looks at him, half balanced up on one arm, as if Merlin has literally pulled him from sleep. He doesn't say a word, though there's uncertainty, in the loose set of his mouth, the way he blinks, and looks caught between rising, and waiting for Merlin to speak.
Arthur has always hated waiting.
Merlin takes two steps, throat still too dry, and too tight, stands next to the bed, until Arthur's hand slides out to catch his wrist, warm fingers, curling and then pulling. Just a little, just enough to give Merlin the courage to slide up, where the sheets have slipped down in a tangle, to set his knees on the bright white surface of the bed.
And Merlin knows he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be knelt on Arthur's warm sheets, knees brushing the long outstretched length of Arthur's leg. The room isn't cold but Merlin is shivering anyway, in a way that, as hard as he tries, he can't stop.
He breathes out, one long shaky noise that has, in some way, given Arthur permission to move, to catch Merlin's shirt, his neck, pulling him forward under a soft noise of his own.
Then both of Arthur's hands are on his face, holding it still while he kisses him. Thumbs moving on his skin, while he tips it back far enough that he can push at his mouth, at the curve of his lower lip. Like Arthur can't decide where, and how, to kiss him next, leaving him always a breath away from kissing him back, really kissing him back.
He's left to swallow through a dry throat, feeling Arthur's fingertips moving in his hair, quick mindless little touches that he doesn't want to stop. He thinks he'd lean into them if Arthur wasn't holding him so tightly. Push into them because he wants it, and Arthur has to know that because he's not hiding it, not doing anything to hide it.
But Arthur's still holding him at that careful distance, like he might break somehow, if he pushes too hard, that he might run if Arthur dares too much, if he wants to much.
Maybe that's one of the things Arthur can't demand, that he won't demand.
So Merlin puts his hands on the thin white cloth of Arthur's nightshirt and pulls it up, catching each fold of fabric between his fingers while his knuckles brush the long, bare lines of Arthur's thighs, and hips, and waist. He can't stop the noise that shivers out across Arthur's mouth.
Then Arthur is leaning away and raising his arms, and Merlin is lifting it all the way over his head, and letting it fall behind him, hands unable to leave, once they're high enough to reach into the fine weight of Arthur's hair. his fingers slide in and hold while they can, while Arthur will let him.
Merlin thinks he will push Arthur until he says stop.
And there's some dark little thrill inside him, at the thought that Arthur will say nothing at all.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Merlin stands outside the door for a long time.
AN: Written for comment_fic
Merlin stands outside the door for a long time.
Unseen in the darkness of the corridor, and unsure whether an unspoken request is a request at all. Whether there are some things you're supposed to ignore. No matter what Arthur normally protests otherwise.
But there are some things he can't ignore. So he pushes the door open, slides into Arthur's chambers, pushes it shut behind him.
It's late enough for everyone to be sleeping, but the smell of wax is still there, the glow of bare candlelight flickering through the shadows on the far wall.
Arthur just looks at him, half balanced up on one arm, as if Merlin has literally pulled him from sleep. He doesn't say a word, though there's uncertainty, in the loose set of his mouth, the way he blinks, and looks caught between rising, and waiting for Merlin to speak.
Arthur has always hated waiting.
Merlin takes two steps, throat still too dry, and too tight, stands next to the bed, until Arthur's hand slides out to catch his wrist, warm fingers, curling and then pulling. Just a little, just enough to give Merlin the courage to slide up, where the sheets have slipped down in a tangle, to set his knees on the bright white surface of the bed.
And Merlin knows he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be knelt on Arthur's warm sheets, knees brushing the long outstretched length of Arthur's leg. The room isn't cold but Merlin is shivering anyway, in a way that, as hard as he tries, he can't stop.
He breathes out, one long shaky noise that has, in some way, given Arthur permission to move, to catch Merlin's shirt, his neck, pulling him forward under a soft noise of his own.
Then both of Arthur's hands are on his face, holding it still while he kisses him. Thumbs moving on his skin, while he tips it back far enough that he can push at his mouth, at the curve of his lower lip. Like Arthur can't decide where, and how, to kiss him next, leaving him always a breath away from kissing him back, really kissing him back.
He's left to swallow through a dry throat, feeling Arthur's fingertips moving in his hair, quick mindless little touches that he doesn't want to stop. He thinks he'd lean into them if Arthur wasn't holding him so tightly. Push into them because he wants it, and Arthur has to know that because he's not hiding it, not doing anything to hide it.
But Arthur's still holding him at that careful distance, like he might break somehow, if he pushes too hard, that he might run if Arthur dares too much, if he wants to much.
Maybe that's one of the things Arthur can't demand, that he won't demand.
So Merlin puts his hands on the thin white cloth of Arthur's nightshirt and pulls it up, catching each fold of fabric between his fingers while his knuckles brush the long, bare lines of Arthur's thighs, and hips, and waist. He can't stop the noise that shivers out across Arthur's mouth.
Then Arthur is leaning away and raising his arms, and Merlin is lifting it all the way over his head, and letting it fall behind him, hands unable to leave, once they're high enough to reach into the fine weight of Arthur's hair. his fingers slide in and hold while they can, while Arthur will let him.
Merlin thinks he will push Arthur until he says stop.
And there's some dark little thrill inside him, at the thought that Arthur will say nothing at all.