Merlin fic: Our Bitter Fate (R, Arthur/Merlin)
Title: Our Bitter Fate
Author: Zinnith
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/Gwen
Rating: R
Wordcount: ~1000
Warnings: There's no such thing as a happy ending.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: Written for babydracky's prompt of: Merlin/Arthur, one-night-stand. No beta, just angst, angst, angst and embarrassingly artsy porn.
"Stop," Arthur says. "Don't do that, you don't have to do that anymore."
Merlin looks up from where he's been brushing stray lint off the King's ceremonial robes. His face is passive, closed off. Arthur remembers when he used to be able to read Merlin's expressions like an open book. A lot of things have changed since then.
"Maybe I want to," Merlin says.
Arthur meets his eyes. Bright blue, except for when the light from the candle hits them at that special angle that brings out the gold. Merlin is taller now, even though he's still skinny enough for his ribs to show. "Nothing sticks to me," he jests sometimes after his third helping of food, when Arthur raises his eyebrow and jokingly asks where he puts it all. Arthur privately believes that the magic burns through Merlin's reserves far faster than he can replenish them.
"You're court sorcerer now, you shouldn't..." Arthur begins and then trails off, almost smiling at the irony of how he had to keep reminding Merlin to do his chores when he was Arthur's manservant, and now he has to be told not to do them.
Merlin says nothing. He turns his attention back to the rich fabric, smoothes out the creases, checks for stains where there are none. Everything has to be perfect for tomorrow and half an army of servants have already inspected the robe. Arthur studies him closely, searches his features for a hint of emotion there but finds nothing. Merlin has become very good at hiding his thoughts, just like Arthur has become good at hiding his insecurities. Time has made it necessary.
The silence is heavy between them and Arthur yearns for a fight, something, anything to release the tension. They have both known that this day would come, but now that it's here, Arthur isn't ready. There are still things undone, words unsaid, and they need to come out in the open. Otherwise they'll fester inside him until they turn rancid and poisonous.
"Merlin," he begins. "About tomorrow..."
"I don't want to talk about tomorrow," Merlin says, pressing his lips together. Arthur knows that expression of disapproval, has had it directed at himself often enough, and he can't bear it, not now, not tonight of all nights.
"So lets talk about something else then," he says. "Let's talk about tonight. Let's talk about now."
Merlin turns his head, face partly obscured by his hair. It's longer now, soft and silky where it falls and curls around his neck. "What's there to talk about?" he asks, almost sulking now, a glimpse of the old Merlin, childish and petulant.
"I'm not married yet," Arthur observes. "Not for another eight hours."
Merlin's glare is full of darkness and heat. It sends shivers down Arthur's spine, makes the small hairs on his arms stand up. There's no mistaking the power in that look, the raw emotion from which Merlin draws his magic. "Well done, sire. You have learned to count," he says, voice sharp enough to break the tension in the air between them, make it fall to the floor and shatter like stained glass, multi-coloured shards catching the candlelight.
The wine has been drunk to the last drop, the goblets are empty. Arthur's cheeks are warm and he wants to shout, wants to get up in Merlin's face and yell, Do I have to spell it out to you? Are you going to force me to say it?
It wouldn't surprise him if Merlin decided to persist in this charade, but Arthur is tired of dancing this dance. They have done it for years, moving in circles around each other. Drawn together like moths dancing around a flame, afraid to get too close from fear of getting burned and still unable to fly away to search for cooler, safer grounds.
Arthur searches for Merlin's gaze and finds it, holds it, wills him to understand, to hear the words that are so strong and clear in his mind yet too fragile to withstand the harsh reality of the world.
It's you, it's always been you, it will always be you.
Maybe Merlin can read Arthur's mind or maybe it's just that their thoughts right now are one and the same. He turns his back to the robe on the hanger, crosses the floor and faces Arthur, so close now that the air between them is burning and twisting and turning.
"This," Arthur says. "It can only be this. But I want..."
And Merlin says, "Yes," and takes Arthur's mouth in a hungry, greedy kiss, owning him like he's done since the first moment they met, claiming him like he's done over and over again with words and actions, in everything except for this one thing.
Arthur closes his eyes, lets his hands cup Merlin's face, allowing himself to be possessed, giving up everything he has. This night, this final night, this last chance, this fated moment. It's all he has to offer Merlin and it's all Merlin will take.
Clothes are peeled off to reveal bodies, familiar and new all mixed together. Merlin's fingers know Arthur's muscles so well, yet have never touched him quite like this. Arthur's eyes know Merlin's skin so well, yet have never seen him quite like this. It's candlelight and sheets getting damp from their sweat. It's lips and tongues and limbs and fingers, knitted together, wrapped up in each other. It's wet and slick and salt in Arthur's mouth and hands a little too rough and bruises on Merlin's pale skin. It's movement and friction and stillness and heat.
In this single moment they breathe each other, finally, beautifully whole.
Arthur will be faithful to Guinevere. He must, because a king who can't be faithful to his own queen can't be trusted to uphold his duty to his country.
But tomorrow he will go to the altar and be wed to his bride with Merlin's fingerprints branded into on his skin and he will go without shame.
- fin -
Author: Zinnith
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/Gwen
Rating: R
Wordcount: ~1000
Warnings: There's no such thing as a happy ending.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: Written for babydracky's prompt of: Merlin/Arthur, one-night-stand. No beta, just angst, angst, angst and embarrassingly artsy porn.
"Stop," Arthur says. "Don't do that, you don't have to do that anymore."
Merlin looks up from where he's been brushing stray lint off the King's ceremonial robes. His face is passive, closed off. Arthur remembers when he used to be able to read Merlin's expressions like an open book. A lot of things have changed since then.
"Maybe I want to," Merlin says.
Arthur meets his eyes. Bright blue, except for when the light from the candle hits them at that special angle that brings out the gold. Merlin is taller now, even though he's still skinny enough for his ribs to show. "Nothing sticks to me," he jests sometimes after his third helping of food, when Arthur raises his eyebrow and jokingly asks where he puts it all. Arthur privately believes that the magic burns through Merlin's reserves far faster than he can replenish them.
"You're court sorcerer now, you shouldn't..." Arthur begins and then trails off, almost smiling at the irony of how he had to keep reminding Merlin to do his chores when he was Arthur's manservant, and now he has to be told not to do them.
Merlin says nothing. He turns his attention back to the rich fabric, smoothes out the creases, checks for stains where there are none. Everything has to be perfect for tomorrow and half an army of servants have already inspected the robe. Arthur studies him closely, searches his features for a hint of emotion there but finds nothing. Merlin has become very good at hiding his thoughts, just like Arthur has become good at hiding his insecurities. Time has made it necessary.
The silence is heavy between them and Arthur yearns for a fight, something, anything to release the tension. They have both known that this day would come, but now that it's here, Arthur isn't ready. There are still things undone, words unsaid, and they need to come out in the open. Otherwise they'll fester inside him until they turn rancid and poisonous.
"Merlin," he begins. "About tomorrow..."
"I don't want to talk about tomorrow," Merlin says, pressing his lips together. Arthur knows that expression of disapproval, has had it directed at himself often enough, and he can't bear it, not now, not tonight of all nights.
"So lets talk about something else then," he says. "Let's talk about tonight. Let's talk about now."
Merlin turns his head, face partly obscured by his hair. It's longer now, soft and silky where it falls and curls around his neck. "What's there to talk about?" he asks, almost sulking now, a glimpse of the old Merlin, childish and petulant.
"I'm not married yet," Arthur observes. "Not for another eight hours."
Merlin's glare is full of darkness and heat. It sends shivers down Arthur's spine, makes the small hairs on his arms stand up. There's no mistaking the power in that look, the raw emotion from which Merlin draws his magic. "Well done, sire. You have learned to count," he says, voice sharp enough to break the tension in the air between them, make it fall to the floor and shatter like stained glass, multi-coloured shards catching the candlelight.
The wine has been drunk to the last drop, the goblets are empty. Arthur's cheeks are warm and he wants to shout, wants to get up in Merlin's face and yell, Do I have to spell it out to you? Are you going to force me to say it?
It wouldn't surprise him if Merlin decided to persist in this charade, but Arthur is tired of dancing this dance. They have done it for years, moving in circles around each other. Drawn together like moths dancing around a flame, afraid to get too close from fear of getting burned and still unable to fly away to search for cooler, safer grounds.
Arthur searches for Merlin's gaze and finds it, holds it, wills him to understand, to hear the words that are so strong and clear in his mind yet too fragile to withstand the harsh reality of the world.
It's you, it's always been you, it will always be you.
Maybe Merlin can read Arthur's mind or maybe it's just that their thoughts right now are one and the same. He turns his back to the robe on the hanger, crosses the floor and faces Arthur, so close now that the air between them is burning and twisting and turning.
"This," Arthur says. "It can only be this. But I want..."
And Merlin says, "Yes," and takes Arthur's mouth in a hungry, greedy kiss, owning him like he's done since the first moment they met, claiming him like he's done over and over again with words and actions, in everything except for this one thing.
Arthur closes his eyes, lets his hands cup Merlin's face, allowing himself to be possessed, giving up everything he has. This night, this final night, this last chance, this fated moment. It's all he has to offer Merlin and it's all Merlin will take.
Clothes are peeled off to reveal bodies, familiar and new all mixed together. Merlin's fingers know Arthur's muscles so well, yet have never touched him quite like this. Arthur's eyes know Merlin's skin so well, yet have never seen him quite like this. It's candlelight and sheets getting damp from their sweat. It's lips and tongues and limbs and fingers, knitted together, wrapped up in each other. It's wet and slick and salt in Arthur's mouth and hands a little too rough and bruises on Merlin's pale skin. It's movement and friction and stillness and heat.
In this single moment they breathe each other, finally, beautifully whole.
Arthur will be faithful to Guinevere. He must, because a king who can't be faithful to his own queen can't be trusted to uphold his duty to his country.
But tomorrow he will go to the altar and be wed to his bride with Merlin's fingerprints branded into on his skin and he will go without shame.
- fin -