Finally admitting to this one
I wrote this several months ago for the very first round of kinkme_merlin. It's not a pairing I think I'll ever write again, but I sort of liked the way this one came out (even if it's a huge mess of "holy anaphora, Batman!"). Plus, I'm starting to be really anal about rounding up the fic I've posted and keeping track of it here, even if only so I can look back easily and see how my writing's developed, should I ever wish to. And I probably will wish to one day; my not-so-secret narcissistic streak is a mile wide, especially when it comes to my writing. This should surprise no one, I think.
In any case, have about 590 words of Uther/Arthur fic written for the kinkmeme prompt of "AU where Uther doesn't raise Arthur and fucks him without realising who he is because he reminds him of Igraine." This one is going under the cut, and with a warning now that THERE ARE (then-unknown) INCEST AND DUB-CON SEX IN THIS STORY. You have been warned.
Replication To Test The Validity Of
It's easy for Uther to have the boy brought up to his rooms. He's king, after all, and no one (especially the lord of the small country manor where Uther and his hunting party are lodging tonight) would dare refuse him anything. So when Uther retires that night, he does so only after passing a message -- a few tersely-muttered words, a flicker of eyes to golden hair and pale, pale skin -- to his host, and when he reaches his quarters, the boy is waiting for him.
It's easy to strip him, to pull yards of coarse brown cloth from his shoulders and reveal white skin. The boy offers no resistance as Uther bruises his lips with kisses, nips at the newly-bared line of his throat, his well-muscled chest.
It's easy to push him back onto the bed, and it's easy to push his limbs into a mockery of an embrace, arms looped around Uther's neck and legs spread and open and gripping around his waist. And it's easy to push into him, to breach his body's resistance and slide into oil-slick heat in a move that robs them both of breath.
Most of all, it's easy to lose himself in this boy, this teenager who has from the first moment reminded Uther of Igraine. The boy cranes his neck back, and all Uther sees is the bend of Igraine's body, feels only the arch of it against his hands and chest. The boy's hair gleams in the firelight, flashes of gold that Uther buries his face into and loves for the way they blaze like his queen's once did. And the boy's skin is just as pale, just as pure-white as freshly-fallen snow, such that every bruise Uther leaves on his hips and arms and neck makes him less unknown servant and more Uther's, more Uther's lover, more her.
Between the way the boy looks and feels and smells around him, between his hitched moans and muffled gasps and sweetly-dampened whimpers, it's easy for Uther to find himself lost. He gives himself over to the memory of her, to the physical pleasure of this boy, and it feels like something forbidden. This is not the first time he's done this, fucked someone for their yellow hair and cornflower eyes and alabaster skin, but it's the first time it's felt this real, this potent, this mind-blowingly good, and when the boy comes with a high cry that sings of her, Uther is helpless to follow.
When it's over, it's surprisingly difficult to watch the boy dress himself again, bruised neck bowed and he jerks on his trousers and shirt and shoes. It's oddly hard for Uther to watch him bow his exit, to hear his hoarsely-murmured "Sire," to see the door pull closed behind the last flash of his golden hair.
Still, it's easy for Uther to sleep that night, body tangled in sheets that stink of men and sweat and sex, but face buried in a pillow that he swears smells only of Igraine, sweet and fleeting.
(It's only when he leaves the next morning that Uther realizes that the sharp cut of the boy's jaw, the glint in his eye at his master's teasing, the groans he made as Uther's hand stroked his cock -- they're his own, perfectly replicated next to Igraine's lips and hair and skin. It's only when Uther realizes that knowing that before would not have changed his actions, that knowing it now makes him feel no regret, that he knows -- this was the last time.)
Also: heeeeeeeeey, new layout! How you doin'?
In any case, have about 590 words of Uther/Arthur fic written for the kinkmeme prompt of "AU where Uther doesn't raise Arthur and fucks him without realising who he is because he reminds him of Igraine." This one is going under the cut, and with a warning now that THERE ARE (then-unknown) INCEST AND DUB-CON SEX IN THIS STORY. You have been warned.
Replication To Test The Validity Of
It's easy for Uther to have the boy brought up to his rooms. He's king, after all, and no one (especially the lord of the small country manor where Uther and his hunting party are lodging tonight) would dare refuse him anything. So when Uther retires that night, he does so only after passing a message -- a few tersely-muttered words, a flicker of eyes to golden hair and pale, pale skin -- to his host, and when he reaches his quarters, the boy is waiting for him.
It's easy to strip him, to pull yards of coarse brown cloth from his shoulders and reveal white skin. The boy offers no resistance as Uther bruises his lips with kisses, nips at the newly-bared line of his throat, his well-muscled chest.
It's easy to push him back onto the bed, and it's easy to push his limbs into a mockery of an embrace, arms looped around Uther's neck and legs spread and open and gripping around his waist. And it's easy to push into him, to breach his body's resistance and slide into oil-slick heat in a move that robs them both of breath.
Most of all, it's easy to lose himself in this boy, this teenager who has from the first moment reminded Uther of Igraine. The boy cranes his neck back, and all Uther sees is the bend of Igraine's body, feels only the arch of it against his hands and chest. The boy's hair gleams in the firelight, flashes of gold that Uther buries his face into and loves for the way they blaze like his queen's once did. And the boy's skin is just as pale, just as pure-white as freshly-fallen snow, such that every bruise Uther leaves on his hips and arms and neck makes him less unknown servant and more Uther's, more Uther's lover, more her.
Between the way the boy looks and feels and smells around him, between his hitched moans and muffled gasps and sweetly-dampened whimpers, it's easy for Uther to find himself lost. He gives himself over to the memory of her, to the physical pleasure of this boy, and it feels like something forbidden. This is not the first time he's done this, fucked someone for their yellow hair and cornflower eyes and alabaster skin, but it's the first time it's felt this real, this potent, this mind-blowingly good, and when the boy comes with a high cry that sings of her, Uther is helpless to follow.
When it's over, it's surprisingly difficult to watch the boy dress himself again, bruised neck bowed and he jerks on his trousers and shirt and shoes. It's oddly hard for Uther to watch him bow his exit, to hear his hoarsely-murmured "Sire," to see the door pull closed behind the last flash of his golden hair.
Still, it's easy for Uther to sleep that night, body tangled in sheets that stink of men and sweat and sex, but face buried in a pillow that he swears smells only of Igraine, sweet and fleeting.
(It's only when he leaves the next morning that Uther realizes that the sharp cut of the boy's jaw, the glint in his eye at his master's teasing, the groans he made as Uther's hand stroked his cock -- they're his own, perfectly replicated next to Igraine's lips and hair and skin. It's only when Uther realizes that knowing that before would not have changed his actions, that knowing it now makes him feel no regret, that he knows -- this was the last time.)
Also: heeeeeeeeey, new layout! How you doin'?