round two: team rarepear
Title: Room Service
Author: empresstria
Pairing: Arthur/Gerald
Summary: Black Arthur and Gerald spend the night in a cheap motel.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: Notes: Set pre-books, no spoilers. Britain’s age of consent is usually 16, but it ups to 18 if one person is in a position of authority over the other. Which Arthur is. I wrote this with the intent that Gerald is 17 in this story, but his age is never spelled out so you can up it a year if it makes you feel better.
Black Arthur flopped back onto one of the beds.
The bed was vile and sagging, green coverlet grown gray and freckled with stains. Its twin across the room looked no better, to Gerald’s dismay. He hadn’t expected the Ritz, but he hadn’t thought traveling with Arthur would be this classless.
The leader of the Obsidian Circle didn’t seem to care. “Damn I’m hungry. Find the room service menu.”
“Does this dump even have room service?” Gerald dropped the bags against the peeling wall and toed off his shoes.
Black Arthur chuckled. “Point. Find out.”
The blond magician moved to the bedside table to sort through the wrinkled motel literature. Arthur could have reached it without getting up, the lazy bastard.
The two magicians were en route to Avebury, a web of stones erected centuries before Stonehenge. Arthur said they needed to retrieve a box from the base of one of the stones, but refused to elaborate on the coffer’s contents. Gerald suspected that Arthur wasn’t exactly sure.
He didn’t care, though. Just being along for this venture was enough, an indication of Black Arthur’s growing trust in Gerald. Either that or Arthur just thought his chances of getting laid were far slimmer with Rufus along, but Gerald rather thought it was trust. And trust was the rarest currency of the Obsidian Circle.
Not as rare as convenient food, however. Gerald dropped the papers. “Merlin’s tits, there’s no room service.”
“Merlin’s tits?” Black Arthur snorted and sat up. “You’ve been reading those Harry Whatsit books, haven’t you?”
Gerald knew he wasn’t blushing because he had overcome that reflex two years ago.
Along with other reflexes.
Instead, he continued with the more pertinent topic. “Would it have killed you to find us just a rather crappy motel instead of a ridiculously crappy one?”
“You’re too young to patronize me like that. It’s not my fault those Neolithic blokes built Avebury in Celeste’s territory.” Arthur slid farther up the bed with a rustling of sheets and a creaking of springs. The faded lamps threw an orange glint into his black hair.
Gerald started to scowl, then realized that Arthur was trying to be funny. That meant he had to laugh instead. He slumped onto the other bed. “No, but it’s your fault we have to do this the sneaky way.”
“What other way is there?”
That was supposed to be funny too, so Gerald laughed again. “If you hadn’t pissed Celeste off last year, we could have just asked to enter her territory like civilized magicians.”
“Civilized?” The grin unfurled like a brilliant flag across Arthur’s face. He leaned forward to brace a hand on Gerald’s thigh. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
The younger magician tensed under the heavy hand. He was learning to read Arthur’s smirks-there were many-and right now he knew that Arthur enjoyed his discomfort.
Which meant he had to pretend discomfort. “The sandwiches--I’ve got those sandwiches in my bag still. Or we could go out and find something to eat.” Gerald kept his eyes unsteady, looking everywhere in the filthy motel room except at the man leaning still closer, his torso bridging the gap between the beds.
“How about we stay in?” murmured Black Arthur, and his hand slid up Gerald’s thigh and under his shirt. Blunt fingertips pressed his lowest rib.
Gerald may have been a magician, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t human. Wasn’t young. He didn’t have to fake the hitch in his breath, the quickening in-and-out of his ribcage.
Peering up through his eyelashes, he said, “Sounds dandy.”
Eyes like winter glittered their approval, but the lips that covered his had all the ruby heat of summer.
Black Arthur bit his lower lip, then licked his way past Gerald’s teeth, wasting no time in claiming his mouth. Gerald groaned his submission as Arthur’s hands locked around his waist and dragged him to the other bed.
Straddling Arthur’s lap, Gerald ran his hands up muscled biceps to tangle in the waves of black hair. A bit of grease at the roots, the indistinct floral scent of too much conditioner, but so soft, begging for his fingers to burrow deeper, to twist-
To twist too hard, said the growl rumbling into their kiss, and Arthur grabbed his wrists away hard enough to leave bracelets of bruises.
Gerald moaned and bucked up against Arthur’s belly.
“You like that?” hissed Black Arthur, tightening his grasp. “You like when I hurt you, Gerald?”
No shit, Sherlock, Gerald wanted to snap, but he just widened his gray eyes and panted, “Yes. I do. I like when you hurt me.”
Arthur grinned like a shark. He released one of Gerald’s wrists in favor of a gentle grip on his neck. “What a coincidence. So do I.” His thumb stroked against the blonde’s windpipe, then pressed down.
Gerald gasped, twisted his head, started to struggle away, but the next moment the pressure eased. He saw a flicker of uncertainty in Arthur’s eyes despite the smirk, like the man was afraid of pressing too hard.
Which was nonsense, Gerald thought. There was no reason Black Arthur would fear harming him.
Arthur let go his other hand and shoved him onto the bed. Standing, he ordered, “Take your clothes off.”
Gerald lifted his cheek from the dirty coverlet and sat up enough to tug his shirt over his head. As he popped open his trouser button, Arthur moved away to fumble through his bag.
Gerald had barely kicked his trousers to the carpet when Arthur sauntered back, lube in hand. He reached for the older magician’s belt, and soon Arthur’s clothes joined the pile on the floor.
They tumbled to the bed, their mouths touching again, briefly, with a scrape of teeth. Gerald reached for Arthur’s broad shoulders but Arthur intercepted one of his hands to squeeze a cold puddle of lube in the palm.
“Slick me up,” Black Arthur grated.
Arthur had poured out too much, so lube dripped all over Gerald’s stomach as he folded his hand around Arthur’s cock. The gel mixed with the pre-cum already leaking from the slit, all warming under the slide and twist of Gerald’s hand.
That first time, years ago, Arthur said he was clean. Gerald didn’t care enough to press the issue on principle. He didn’t know who else warmed Arthur’s bed, but the risk was worth this opportunity to manipulate Arthur-and anyway, he had found that one book on healing magic with an entire chapter on negating venereal diseases. Ancient wizards clearly had their priorities correct.
His own efforts distracted him enough that he gasped at the wet touch on his ass. The finger drove inside him before he could relax, and it burned.
The second finger burned more. Gerald whimpered.
“Does that hurt?” Arthur asked, lips tickling the shell of Gerald’s ear. His voice was congenial, more suited to a tea party than a motel shag. “Does that hurt, Gerald?”
“It hurts, yes, don’t stop.”
He could hear the twisting grin in Arthur’s voice. “It hurts? I can use more lube if you want, Gerald, make it hurt less.”
He opened his mouth to gasp an answer but the fingers curved to hit right there and Gerald arched up, couldn’t speak. His grip tightened on Arthur’s cock.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” whispered Arthur, withdrawing his fingers. “Is that all right? Do you want me to fuck you, Gerald?”
“Yes,” moaned Gerald, and he didn’t bother to figure out how much of that desperation was really feigned. Didn’t matter. All that mattered were his legs wrapping around Arthur’s hips, the slow slide of Arthur’s cock sinking deeper into him, the teeth chewing a bruise into his shoulder. The brush of dark hair against his forehead.
Arthur seized his wrists again and pinned them to the mattress.
The cheap bed creaked under the force of Arthur’s pounding. Every other thrust forced a thin whine from Gerald’s throat. A flush built under his freckles. Their hips moved together like a dance, like a violent, beautiful dance that only they two knew.
Thighs shaking, Arthur came with a moan, some word or words that Gerald couldn’t understand. His blue eyes shuttered. After one frozen moment, he collapsed on top of Gerald. Their sweat mingled.
Sated, Black Arthur pulled out and rolled to the side, leaving Gerald still breathless and achingly hard. “Finish yourself,” said Arthur absently, not even looking.
Panting, Gerald closed his eyes and dropped a bruised hand to his cock. He already hover at the edge, and he took only a few upward thrusts to spill all over his fingers. His eyelids flew open and his breath stumbled, then slowly steadied.
He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the semen from his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arthur watching.
Looking at Arthur’s pale profile, his sleek-muscled arms spread akimbo, Gerald had an idea.
“You look like you just had more fun than a barrel full of monkeys.” Waiting only earned him a grunt of agreement, so he ventured to continue, voice silky with suggestion. “Maybe I should try the other way next time.”
Arthur stretched out an arm to ruffle Gerald’s sandy hair. “Hah.”
“I’m serious!” Gerald scooted away.
There was a pause, Black Arthur’s cruel lips tightening. “I’m sure,” he drawled. “You can find someone else for that. I don’t bottom.”
“Why not?” He rolled onto his side.
Black Arthur quirked his strong eyebrows and chuckled. Like the answer was obvious. “I’m no pansy.”
At first Gerald didn’t understand. Then he did and it stung, like falling on the playground and nobody helping him back to his feet, like being picked last for teams, like his mother never-but Gerald wouldn’t say any of that, so he just laughed.
Gerald was getting good at laughing.
Author: empresstria
Pairing: Arthur/Gerald
Summary: Black Arthur and Gerald spend the night in a cheap motel.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: Notes: Set pre-books, no spoilers. Britain’s age of consent is usually 16, but it ups to 18 if one person is in a position of authority over the other. Which Arthur is. I wrote this with the intent that Gerald is 17 in this story, but his age is never spelled out so you can up it a year if it makes you feel better.
Black Arthur flopped back onto one of the beds.
The bed was vile and sagging, green coverlet grown gray and freckled with stains. Its twin across the room looked no better, to Gerald’s dismay. He hadn’t expected the Ritz, but he hadn’t thought traveling with Arthur would be this classless.
The leader of the Obsidian Circle didn’t seem to care. “Damn I’m hungry. Find the room service menu.”
“Does this dump even have room service?” Gerald dropped the bags against the peeling wall and toed off his shoes.
Black Arthur chuckled. “Point. Find out.”
The blond magician moved to the bedside table to sort through the wrinkled motel literature. Arthur could have reached it without getting up, the lazy bastard.
The two magicians were en route to Avebury, a web of stones erected centuries before Stonehenge. Arthur said they needed to retrieve a box from the base of one of the stones, but refused to elaborate on the coffer’s contents. Gerald suspected that Arthur wasn’t exactly sure.
He didn’t care, though. Just being along for this venture was enough, an indication of Black Arthur’s growing trust in Gerald. Either that or Arthur just thought his chances of getting laid were far slimmer with Rufus along, but Gerald rather thought it was trust. And trust was the rarest currency of the Obsidian Circle.
Not as rare as convenient food, however. Gerald dropped the papers. “Merlin’s tits, there’s no room service.”
“Merlin’s tits?” Black Arthur snorted and sat up. “You’ve been reading those Harry Whatsit books, haven’t you?”
Gerald knew he wasn’t blushing because he had overcome that reflex two years ago.
Along with other reflexes.
Instead, he continued with the more pertinent topic. “Would it have killed you to find us just a rather crappy motel instead of a ridiculously crappy one?”
“You’re too young to patronize me like that. It’s not my fault those Neolithic blokes built Avebury in Celeste’s territory.” Arthur slid farther up the bed with a rustling of sheets and a creaking of springs. The faded lamps threw an orange glint into his black hair.
Gerald started to scowl, then realized that Arthur was trying to be funny. That meant he had to laugh instead. He slumped onto the other bed. “No, but it’s your fault we have to do this the sneaky way.”
“What other way is there?”
That was supposed to be funny too, so Gerald laughed again. “If you hadn’t pissed Celeste off last year, we could have just asked to enter her territory like civilized magicians.”
“Civilized?” The grin unfurled like a brilliant flag across Arthur’s face. He leaned forward to brace a hand on Gerald’s thigh. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
The younger magician tensed under the heavy hand. He was learning to read Arthur’s smirks-there were many-and right now he knew that Arthur enjoyed his discomfort.
Which meant he had to pretend discomfort. “The sandwiches--I’ve got those sandwiches in my bag still. Or we could go out and find something to eat.” Gerald kept his eyes unsteady, looking everywhere in the filthy motel room except at the man leaning still closer, his torso bridging the gap between the beds.
“How about we stay in?” murmured Black Arthur, and his hand slid up Gerald’s thigh and under his shirt. Blunt fingertips pressed his lowest rib.
Gerald may have been a magician, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t human. Wasn’t young. He didn’t have to fake the hitch in his breath, the quickening in-and-out of his ribcage.
Peering up through his eyelashes, he said, “Sounds dandy.”
Eyes like winter glittered their approval, but the lips that covered his had all the ruby heat of summer.
Black Arthur bit his lower lip, then licked his way past Gerald’s teeth, wasting no time in claiming his mouth. Gerald groaned his submission as Arthur’s hands locked around his waist and dragged him to the other bed.
Straddling Arthur’s lap, Gerald ran his hands up muscled biceps to tangle in the waves of black hair. A bit of grease at the roots, the indistinct floral scent of too much conditioner, but so soft, begging for his fingers to burrow deeper, to twist-
To twist too hard, said the growl rumbling into their kiss, and Arthur grabbed his wrists away hard enough to leave bracelets of bruises.
Gerald moaned and bucked up against Arthur’s belly.
“You like that?” hissed Black Arthur, tightening his grasp. “You like when I hurt you, Gerald?”
No shit, Sherlock, Gerald wanted to snap, but he just widened his gray eyes and panted, “Yes. I do. I like when you hurt me.”
Arthur grinned like a shark. He released one of Gerald’s wrists in favor of a gentle grip on his neck. “What a coincidence. So do I.” His thumb stroked against the blonde’s windpipe, then pressed down.
Gerald gasped, twisted his head, started to struggle away, but the next moment the pressure eased. He saw a flicker of uncertainty in Arthur’s eyes despite the smirk, like the man was afraid of pressing too hard.
Which was nonsense, Gerald thought. There was no reason Black Arthur would fear harming him.
Arthur let go his other hand and shoved him onto the bed. Standing, he ordered, “Take your clothes off.”
Gerald lifted his cheek from the dirty coverlet and sat up enough to tug his shirt over his head. As he popped open his trouser button, Arthur moved away to fumble through his bag.
Gerald had barely kicked his trousers to the carpet when Arthur sauntered back, lube in hand. He reached for the older magician’s belt, and soon Arthur’s clothes joined the pile on the floor.
They tumbled to the bed, their mouths touching again, briefly, with a scrape of teeth. Gerald reached for Arthur’s broad shoulders but Arthur intercepted one of his hands to squeeze a cold puddle of lube in the palm.
“Slick me up,” Black Arthur grated.
Arthur had poured out too much, so lube dripped all over Gerald’s stomach as he folded his hand around Arthur’s cock. The gel mixed with the pre-cum already leaking from the slit, all warming under the slide and twist of Gerald’s hand.
That first time, years ago, Arthur said he was clean. Gerald didn’t care enough to press the issue on principle. He didn’t know who else warmed Arthur’s bed, but the risk was worth this opportunity to manipulate Arthur-and anyway, he had found that one book on healing magic with an entire chapter on negating venereal diseases. Ancient wizards clearly had their priorities correct.
His own efforts distracted him enough that he gasped at the wet touch on his ass. The finger drove inside him before he could relax, and it burned.
The second finger burned more. Gerald whimpered.
“Does that hurt?” Arthur asked, lips tickling the shell of Gerald’s ear. His voice was congenial, more suited to a tea party than a motel shag. “Does that hurt, Gerald?”
“It hurts, yes, don’t stop.”
He could hear the twisting grin in Arthur’s voice. “It hurts? I can use more lube if you want, Gerald, make it hurt less.”
He opened his mouth to gasp an answer but the fingers curved to hit right there and Gerald arched up, couldn’t speak. His grip tightened on Arthur’s cock.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” whispered Arthur, withdrawing his fingers. “Is that all right? Do you want me to fuck you, Gerald?”
“Yes,” moaned Gerald, and he didn’t bother to figure out how much of that desperation was really feigned. Didn’t matter. All that mattered were his legs wrapping around Arthur’s hips, the slow slide of Arthur’s cock sinking deeper into him, the teeth chewing a bruise into his shoulder. The brush of dark hair against his forehead.
Arthur seized his wrists again and pinned them to the mattress.
The cheap bed creaked under the force of Arthur’s pounding. Every other thrust forced a thin whine from Gerald’s throat. A flush built under his freckles. Their hips moved together like a dance, like a violent, beautiful dance that only they two knew.
Thighs shaking, Arthur came with a moan, some word or words that Gerald couldn’t understand. His blue eyes shuttered. After one frozen moment, he collapsed on top of Gerald. Their sweat mingled.
Sated, Black Arthur pulled out and rolled to the side, leaving Gerald still breathless and achingly hard. “Finish yourself,” said Arthur absently, not even looking.
Panting, Gerald closed his eyes and dropped a bruised hand to his cock. He already hover at the edge, and he took only a few upward thrusts to spill all over his fingers. His eyelids flew open and his breath stumbled, then slowly steadied.
He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the semen from his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arthur watching.
Looking at Arthur’s pale profile, his sleek-muscled arms spread akimbo, Gerald had an idea.
“You look like you just had more fun than a barrel full of monkeys.” Waiting only earned him a grunt of agreement, so he ventured to continue, voice silky with suggestion. “Maybe I should try the other way next time.”
Arthur stretched out an arm to ruffle Gerald’s sandy hair. “Hah.”
“I’m serious!” Gerald scooted away.
There was a pause, Black Arthur’s cruel lips tightening. “I’m sure,” he drawled. “You can find someone else for that. I don’t bottom.”
“Why not?” He rolled onto his side.
Black Arthur quirked his strong eyebrows and chuckled. Like the answer was obvious. “I’m no pansy.”
At first Gerald didn’t understand. Then he did and it stung, like falling on the playground and nobody helping him back to his feet, like being picked last for teams, like his mother never-but Gerald wouldn’t say any of that, so he just laughed.
Gerald was getting good at laughing.