Title: Tactile
Author: Sweetestel
Genre: Slash Merlin/Arthur
Spoilers/Warning: Spoilers for the whole 1st series
Rating: R
Summary: Since the day they've met, Merlin remembers everything about Arthur, every single moment they've shared, and every touch that has built their relationship.
N/A: Many thanks to my beta-reader, the lovely kathkin who has, once more, done a wonderful work!
Tactile
What he remembers of their first encounter is a bruised wrist and a painful shoulder.
He remembers the texture of Arthur's cloak the first time he saves his life. He remembers digging his fingers into Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur falling against him in slow motion until they hit the ground, hard.
He can remember the soft fabric of Arthur's shirt, the way his armor feels under his palm and the accidental touches of his fingers against Arthur's neck when he's lacing up his coat as he helps him to prepare for training.
A few other touches happen that no-one even notices.
A hand comes to slap Merlin's shoulder when they are victorious; an arm loops around his neck when the Prince is in mood for mocking him.
When they're shoulder to shoulder before the battle, a hand presses on Merlin's forearm, ending lingering looks, and fingers are accidentally brushing, so accidentally that he can barely remember.
He remembers the weight of Arthur's tunic, soaked in the lake, and the coldness of his skin, so cold that he has to whisper a spell to bring the warmth back.
He remembers the pain of his fingertips against Arthur's chainmail, the bitterness of the blood eroding his skin.
Some weeks later, he remembers setting his hand on Arthur's painful shoulder, the idle feeling of his sleeve sliding up. He remembers Arthur leaning into his touch a little, and his thumb coming to rub Merlin's wrist as an acknowledgement.
A step closer and arms and elbows are moving experimentally, bodies brushing through the fabric of their clothes, chest against chest, building up a comfortable heat.
Shoulders finally hit and bodies come together perfectly, a forehead against Merlin's collarbone, a nose hidden against Arthur's neck. When the rhythm of their breathes isn't enough anymore, hands start moving and lips start trembling, looking for the best place to be, the best taste, the best touch.
When mouths find each other, Merlin forgets a lot of things, like the way Arthur's fingers are twisting into the hair at the back of his neck, or the way his arms are locked around Arthur's waist.
He feels like his clothes are burning his skin when their tongues meet, soothing and desperate, and needing and playful, but – he forgets that as well.
He tries to remember the shape of the small of Arthur's back against his hands, the friction of Arthur's tunic when he takes it off his head, each curve, each scar on the skin of his back and torso.
But he's distracted by the way their legs and hips are touching, so he forgets everything. He vaguely notices when his back hits the mattress, but only cares for Arthur's hands, shoulders, chest, Arthur under his fingers, Arthur's obtrusive clothing when he reaches a hand down to Arthur's ridiculously perfect butt.
His other hand finds its way to Arthur's breeches and unlaces them easily while Arthur is kissing his neck, following his jugular, licking, biting the skin with approving moans. Merlin gets rid of the last of their clothing.
He remembers the rest of it as a lot of rubbing and burning skin, short breathes and surprisingly agile hands on both sides.
He remembers that no word can describe the helpless need of touching Arthur, feeling the incredible warmth of their bodies and hearing the soft words and moans escaping from their mouths, giving away the control with desperate trust. He remembers which touch makes Arthur shiver, and which slow, teasing bites make him roll his head back into the pillow. He remembers the exact movement of his wrist that makes Arthur bite his lower lip and the way to roll his hips to make Arthur sigh and moan, and beg for again and more – And he knows Arthur remembers the same things.
He remembers the rushes of blood and the foaming heat under his skin, the way Arthur ducks his head when he can't hold on anymore, the strokes and whispers, the frenzy, and then nothing but, yes, Arthur, right here, right now, and just, nothing else, just the two of them.
He remembers the sweat, the soothing light of the afterglow, the way Arthur holds him close and whispers and kisses him sweetly with comforting strokes, the close contact of their bodies, and he wonders when touching started feeling so good.