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They should write songs about Merlin’s mouth, Arthur thinks as their lips meet; maddening, insistent, trembling slightly, as pillow-soft as Arthur expected and more forceful than he could have dreamed. An ode, he thinks, would be suitable; perhaps a ballad or a sonnet. Paintings all along the citadel walls. Then, when Merlin’s teeth nearly sink into the flesh of Arthur’s bottom lip, he stops thinking altogether.
The light of the waning moon shines brightly above them, tinting the leaves and brambles around their little clearing blue where the flicker of the campfire doesn’t reach. Every noise, it seems, is amplified by the forest around them. Arthur’s groan joins the gasp that leaves Merlin when Arthur clutches at his waist, bunching up the age-soft fabric of a tunic he’d passed down years ago, one that had been slightly too big on Merlin then but now fits him remarkably, distractingly well. The tips of his fingers touch soft, bare skin speckled with gooseflesh.
"Arthur," Merlin pants into his mouth, and they both hold still with Merlin hovering on top, gasping for breath but unwilling to part any further, so they really just end up breathing into each other’s mouths for a little while. Merlin’s eyes half-lidded; his thighs bracketing Arthur's; Arthur has never been so content. Except maybe—
Earlier, when the sun was blazing dark orange on the horizon and the game they’d caught was roasting over the fire, Merlin stood barefoot in the little stream nearby, trousers rolled up to his knees and forearms glistening with water where he was washing away the blood. It was quiet save for the splash of water and the occasional crackle coming from the firewood. Arthur watched, unabashed, before joining Merlin and, for once, not ignoring the little jump of his heart when Merlin looked up and smiled.
It’s been a long time coming, and all it took in the end was the wiping of a bit of dirt off Merlin’s cheek before Arthur even knew what he was doing, the warmth of the fire making it all feel like a dream, and shared breaths where they were sitting next to each other, thighs aligned—and really, when had that happened—for their bowls to fall to the ground with a clatter that cut through the silence of the forest, for Merlin to close the last bit of distance, because of course it would always have to have been him who would put an end to it. Merlin has always been braver than Arthur.
He surges up at the same time that Merlin dips downward to nip at his neck, and they both huff quietly when their noses collide.
"Don’t laugh," Arthur tells him, but he’s only really looking at the way Merlin scrunches up his nose.
"You’re laughing, too," Merlin points out. His lips brush along the bared skin of Arthur’s jaw. His breath when he speaks tickles his ear. Arthur is so sensitive he wants to crawl out of his skin and only feel Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—
"I can laugh whenever I want to," he says, except it melts into a little moan at the end and undermines his authority completely, with Merlin entirely to blame, him and his teeth and his— "mouth," Arthur sighs, "yours. Your mouth. It’s infuriating."
"I can stop if you—" Merlin begins, leaning away, and Arthur catches a glimpse of that impudent little grin he loves and hates so much and tells him, "don’t you dare," with a hand at the back of his neck tugging him back down, lips to lips, open-mouthed, tongue licking into him until the skin along his spine prickles with desire, with the urge to roll his hips upwards.
They’re wearing too many layers. Arthur is, anyway—it takes Merlin’s restless hands a while to get to the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, but that could also be because Arthur can’t get enough of kissing him. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, and his anxious grabbing of wherever he can reach probably doesn’t help either. Merlin’s skin is so smooth, and there’s unexpected muscle hidden underneath the layers. Arthur can’t stop touching him until Merlin’s fingers tug at the laces of his trousers, knuckles brushing the hard line of his dick, and Arthur goes slack. Fallen leaves crunch where his fingers dig into the earth. He thinks he’d be making Merlin bleed with the blunt edges of his fingernails if he were still touching him.
Arthur looks up at the sky above their camp, traces imaginary lines between the stars, trying— something, anything to relieve that thrum in his blood. "Arthur?" he hears, Merlin’s face appearing from below. His smile has been wiped off his face. "I can stop," he says again, sincere this time in a way that makes Arthur’s heart jump in his chest. Merlin’s hands are burning through the fabric covering Arthur’s thighs, restraint all but tangible.
"No," Arthur tells him. Their hands brush. Arthur circles his fingers around Merlin’s wrist; takes his hand, pulls him up, slowly, and Merlin’s eyes are wide and so, so blue, enrapturing as their gazes hold in a silent conversation: touch me, it says, let me touch you, and then the palm of Merlin’s hand rests flat along where Arthur needs it most. He’s more in control of himself this time, even as Merlin holds him through his trousers, letting his thumb run along the ridges of his dick, slowly. Arthur can’t decide if he wants to close his eyes or hold them open, too greedy for every glimpse of Merlin bathed in the firelight he can get.
Merlin shifts his hips, and there’s the hardness of him dragging against Arthur’s thigh that fills him with a sudden sensation of hunger he doesn’t even know what to do with; he’s petrified for a moment, euphoric with the hand on his cock, by Merlin’s fingers pulling down his trousers. He made Merlin hard. Cool night air hits his skin, and before he knows it Merlin’s hand is on him, almost cradling him, reverent, calloused and rough but gentle in a way Arthur wishes he wouldn’t be. He needs—
No longer frozen, he scrambles for the waistband of Merlin’s trousers. "Merlin," he begins without knowing what to say next, so the name hangs between them like a promise, like a question, "need—" and who is Merlin to reduce him to this spluttering, stuttering mess? Arthur has half a mind—less than that, if he’s honest—to ask Merlin how he’s able to remain so composed, except. Arthur doesn’t bother pulling down anything, impatient and eager, just shoves his hand inside until he finds—
"Fuck," Merlin gasps, and maybe he’s not as calm about this as Arthur thought. Hearing him swear has Arthur snapping his hips up, something he can’t suppress. He wraps his hand around Merlin, thinks about wanting to see it but unwilling to part for a second, so he explores him with his hand instead: the heat of his silky skin, the weight of him, the scattering of curls at the base. It feels almost the same as his own but the angle is all wrong, and the first few tugs are awkward until he bends his wrist the right way and Merlin’s moans echo through the air. It’s exhilarating.
Arthur comes first. And quickly; embarrassingly so, had he any care in the world left for anything that’s not the hand on him. "Merlin—" he manages to say before losing it, seizing, watching Merlin’s lips spread into a smile, pleased. A little nod, not quite the usual cocky but confident in a way Arthur hasn’t seen from Merlin before. Like he’s giving permission. It leaves him gasping, digging his boots into the earth below his feet as he comes, trying not to buck like a frightened horse and topple Merlin to the ground.
He’s dimly aware of a hand on his cheek, thumb skipping along his temple, as if—but before Arthur is made to decide if there are tears there or not, or whether he cares at all, Merlin bears down, an aborted little motion like he hadn’t meant to do it; driving into the ring of Arthur’s fingers, seeking friction. So Arthur looks up. Merlin is very close; he wants to kiss him, so he does, because he’s allowed now, and as their lips meet he starts jerking Merlin off again, with purpose this time. Merlin’s moan vibrates against his lips.
"Come on, Merlin," Arthur whispers into the non-space between them, watching for Merlin to open his eyes again, because he wants to see—what it looks like when he loses control, when Arthur makes him come, gods—
"I’m—" Merlin chokes, and maybe Arthur could come again, right now, almost untouched. His dick twitches where it rests still half-hard against his stomach. He feels the shudder go through Merlin, through them both, breathless, and then—two rings of gold, glowing bright. A flash and it’s over; back to blue, almost black now in the darkness, in the haze of pleasure.
Arthur blinks, frozen. Merlin’s lips, bitten red; his cheeks, flushed. Eyes wide and—blue. Skin tinted yellow from the light of the fire; that must have been it, Arthur thinks, surely, a reflection—
A kiss, urgent, hungry like they didn’t both just come. Arthur’s heart is beating out of his chest, into his throat. He wants to—something, to hold Merlin in his arms for the rest of his life, to taste the salt of his skin, so he sits up and licks at the hollow of Merlin’s throat where he glistens with sweat. With the weight of Merlin’s body in his lap he almost forgets about that flash of gold.
They ride back at first light. There’s a heavy fog sticking to the earth, and it still doesn’t feel real, the memory of Merlin’s hands on his skin like a dream. Except when Arthur turns to look he keeps catching Merlin already staring, with his face serene and as delicate as ever—satisfaction lining his features, a blush high on his cheeks. Arthur feels like he’s fifteen again, meeting the eyes of a visiting lord’s daughter he thought was pretty from across the room and glancing away immediately. It’s almost embarrassing. A sip of water leaves a wet sheen on Merlin’s upper lip that almost drives Arthur insane for a little while until it dries.
They don’t talk; there’s nothing to say, except for all the things they probably should. Arthur’s scared. By the time they reach the edge of the forest he’s gone over every single moment from last night twice; had to keep his dick from getting hard through sheer willpower and failed; thought about what it means for them now. If Merlin wants to do it again. Worries that he doesn’t, that it was just—the woods, the fire, the strange, dreamlike air of the clearing that made them break a mutual agreement they’d never put into words. A fluke. Arthur very badly wants to do it again. Considers, briefly, stopping by a creek, for the horses to rest, and pushing Merlin up against a tree, getting down on his knees and looking his fill. Tasting. His fingers itch where he’s holding the reins.