Title: Light Up For Me
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through 1x11
Summary: Merlin's given himself away, but by this point Arthur doesn't really have much of a choice.
A/N: Today's advent prompt is 'light'. Also this was really a rush job (again) so apologies for any typos etc

 

Light Up For Me

The night is clear and quiet and sharp with frost. Arthur’s boots scuff quietly against the stone as he climbs alone to the very top of the walls, where he knows Merlin will be. His breath mists in the air, curling away pale and insubstantial into the darkness; there might be snow tomorrow, he thinks. By the time he gains the last step there’s a pleasurable burn in his thighs, counterpoint to the chill biting through his clothes. He pauses for a moment at the top to gather his breath, sweeping his gaze across the broad expanse of wall to look for Merlin.

He sees him, Merlin, leaning on the battlements, hand outstretched towards the tiny twinkling fires of the city spread out below. Merlin whispers something, and though it is too quite to hear, Arthur can feel the words, a growing pressure thrumming in his bones and squeezing the air from his lungs; he sees the light as it first blossoms into existence, born from nothing into the darkness, a legion of dancing embers swirling into being, twisting, resolving themselves finally into a shape. He sees a little dragon made of lights hovering in the air, a perfect match for the crest riding high on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur releases a breath he wasn’t aware of holding; magic, he thinks, and his heart wrenches.

He isn’t sure what it is that gives him away – he’s sure he doesn’t make a sound – but Merlin turns suddenly and sees him standing there. Arthur doesn’t miss the way he freezes, his eyes wide and horrified and burning gold.

‘Arthur,’ he says, somehow injecting that single word with a depth of fear and shock and resignation. Arthur moves towards him, slow and careful, expression carefully closed while his thoughts are whirling. It’s not that he’s surprised, he finds, though that is in itself surprising. Now that he’s seen it with his own eyes the realisation comes welling up from a corner of his mind he’s tried so hard to avoid looking; of course, he thinks, of course. He stops a cautious distance away.

Merlin’s shaking his head in denial, words tumbling chaotic from his mouth.

‘This shouldn’t have happened, you shouldn’t be here – the feast, you-’

‘Merlin.’ Arthur’s tone silences him at once.

Merlin swallows but lifts his head, defiant despite the glimmers of despair showing through the gold; the figure of the dragon remains hovering just beside him, illuminating his pale face half in light and half in shadow.

Arthur gives him a good long look, and it’s like meeting his eyes over that poisoned chalice again and knowing there are two ways that this can fall; he remembers that they’ve both been on either side of that line. It aches a little that Merlin hasn’t told him this, except for the one time he did, the time he declared it out loud for the court and Arthur laughed him down and turned all scrutiny away. It almost makes him want to laugh again, thinking about it now. Honestly he can’t say that he’s too upset about it though, the secrets and the lies – this is magic, and Merlin has good reason to be afraid. In his place, Arthur’s not sure he’d have told himself either, not with the shadow of Uther’s legacy looming constantly in his wake.

‘Merlin,’ he says again, and sighs heavily, comes to stand beside him leaning against the battlements. He watches the little lights dancing on the slight breeze, staying in constant motion to keep their form. Merlin’s so close their shoulders are almost touching, and Arthur can feel the tension almost buzzing in Merlin’s body. He doesn’t know what to say, afraid to push this in any direction lest it shatter beyond repair.

When it becomes apparent that Arthur won’t be forthcoming, Merlin takes the initiative.

‘What will you do?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Arthur replies, but he does, and he can tell from the way Merlin relaxes his posture just slightly that he knows it too; after all they’ve risked for each other he can’t throw Merlin to the wolves now. He snorts softly at the thought that Merlin’s the one who’s turned out to be the better bluffer.

‘I’m not sorry,’ Merlin says, and that earns him a raised eyebrow. ‘This is how I was born, and I’m not sorry for that.’

‘You shouldn’t be,’ Arthur says after a pause. ‘I guess that’s not something you can change.’ That sort of necessity, at least, Arthur understands well. ‘I’m not angry with you,’ he says, and he’s not, but Merlin understands what he means.

‘I’ll make it up to you.’ His voice is quiet and earnest, and it sounds like he’s treading on strange new ground that he’s not quite sure of, waiting for it to give way beneath his feet; Arthur knows the feeling.

He looks at Merlin. ‘I don’t know you at all, do I?’ he asks.

‘You could do; it’s not too late.’ Merlin gives him a crooked smile, eyes fading gradually back down to blue, though the dragon spell holds. In its flickering light Arthur thinks he catches something in Merlin’s face that ignites a spark of sudden realisation and makes his breath come fast and shallow, chasing away all other concerns.

Arthur steps in, lifts a hand to cup the side of Merlin’s neck, thumb gliding soft across his cheekbone. Merlin stares at him mutely, wary and determined and a little hopeful; despite his outward calm Arthur can feel his pulse jumping wildly in his throat. Arthur leans in slowly, his own heart racing just as fast as Merlin’s, though his mind is still. Merlin tilts his head and his eyes close as Arthur presses a kiss to his mouth, parting Merlin’s lips gently with his tongue.

Merlin lets him in, meets Arthur’s tongue with his own, tentative and awkward. One hand comes up to cover Arthur’s at his neck, the other settling at Arthur’s hip. The kiss deepens, edges into something almost unexpected as they pull each other closer, hands wandering, unable to pull apart. Now that they’ve started, they’re caught up in the hopeless momentum of it all.

Merlin tastes of desire and trust and tenderness and all the things he’s ever denied himself, and Arthur holds him close and feels his warmth, feels the press of Merlin’s chest against his as he breathes and knows that this is right. The executioner’s square is waiting somewhere below them in the dark, but Arthur and Merlin are up here in the light, and such chill thoughts have no place in their minds; they throw themselves into the act of being alive, affirmation through touch and heat and desperate panting breaths. Arthur pushes Merlin up against the battlements, hands under his clothes, stroking and squeezing while Merlin moans into his neck and thrusts up into his hand. Over his shoulder Arthur watches the sparkling dragon unravel and come undone.

Arthur pulls back, kisses Merlin again and turns to leave, tossing a beckoning glance back over his shoulder. He strides to his chambers, Merlin a step behind. He doesn’t need to look back to know that he’s following; he knows that the leash of their secret draws him on, he can feel the knowledge coiling and sparking between them, a mix of want and fear and need raging just beneath the skin. He keeps his eyes determinedly ahead with rigid self control and doesn’t even look at Merlin until they’re safely behind locked doors.

They undress clumsily but unhurriedly at opposite sides of the room. Arthur feels uncharacteristically nervous, and he’s wearing more than Merlin to begin with, so Merlin finishes first, sets his boots neatly to one side and drops down onto Arthur’s bed, watching, breathing fast. Arthur skims out of the last of his clothes and stands over the bed. He has a moment of vertigo, standing on the cusp of something he can never take back; he kneels on the sheets and Merlin spreads his legs, opens up for him and pulls him down, hands running up his arms, nipping at his jaw. They explore each other with hands and lips and teeth, taking their time for as long as they can, until the urgency inside them is stoked too high to bear.

When Arthur enters Merlin it feels like drowning, the tight pleasure and heat overwhelming his senses. Merlin gasps and bites his lip until it bleeds, and the air crackles electric around them as his eyes glow gold. Arthur pauses, buried in Merlin, staring down into his eyes; flush with power Merlin looks oddly vulnerable staring back. There’s a tense moment, rich with so many implications that Arthur doesn’t want to think about, not tonight, but then Merlin says his name, voice rough with his need, and Arthur can’t hold himself still any longer.

They fall into a rhythm of desperation, a breathless give and take, bodies undulating together, the sounds of their pleasure muffled against necks and shoulders, teeth sinking into flesh and hands clutching tight. Every time Arthur kisses Merlin he tastes the iron tang of blood, Merlin’s and his own mixed together and indistinguishable. He thinks there must be something important in that, but he’s too lost to care, lost in the feeling of having Merlin right here with him, where he’s wanted him for months if he’s honest. He can’t stop looking into Merlin’s eyes – like light, like warmth, gold as the Pendragon crest – and he sees something wild there, something untamed and unbowed. He drives deep into Merlin’s body, wrings helpless groans from the warlock’s mouth.

‘I won’t tell,’ Arthur pants. ‘I swear to you, I’ll never tell.’

Merlin touches his face, pulls his him down for a kiss and whispers in his ear.

 ‘I’ll be at your side. I’ll protect you, I’ll serve you.’ His promises fall like rain against Arthur’s skin, fast and thick, and Arthur can feel something just beneath, a burgeoning power. This is a contract, he thinks, forged in blood and sweat and semen, sealed tight between their bodies. Merlin throws his head back, arches up against Arthur.

‘You have my loyalty,’ he moans, ‘you have it all.’ He keeps his eyes open, molten and smouldering, and Arthur feels Merlin’s magic stirring within him, the irrevocable bond that now holds them fast. It careens in his veins and sings in his ears, smothering him with the sensation of Merlin, the scent of him, the taste of him, the feel of his body under him. Arthur’s thrusts become frantic and unrestrained, Merlin urging him on, fingers digging into the muscles of his broad shoulders until they draw blood.  It doesn’t take much to push him over the edge, just the sight of Merlin, golden-eyed, dark hair plastered against his forehead, moaning Arthur’s name in the grip of ecstasy as he comes. Arthur buries his face in Merlin’s shoulder.

‘Merlin,’ he gasps, the name falling broken from his lips, pressed like a secret into Merlin’s skin; Merlin holds him close, hands all over him as though he still isn’t sure that this is real.

‘It’s fine,’ Arthur tells him, panting, ‘it’s fine.’ Even he doesn’t really know what he means.

Lying together in the aftermath, Merlin laces his fingers through Arthur’s and looks down at their joined hands, the gold fire dimming from his eyes. Arthur looks too, draped over Merlin, both of them damp with sweat and out of breath. He knows that neither one of them is sure of what they’ve done here, but of one thing at least he is certain: it can never be undone, not even at the end of existence. He feels their pact simmering in his skin, a tiny kernel of Merlin’s magic that is his and his alone. No matter what the coming years may bring, this alone will hold; he brushes his lips against Merlin’s temple and knows that this, at least, he can trust.