Fic drop
Here, have is a handful of ficlets. Most of them written recently for various challenges/kink memes in various different fandoms (fandom whore I am). Throwing off the cape of anonymity with some of these. All un-betaed (if you see any errors or typos, please let me know). Two for Merlin fandom, two tennis slash and one rather old Mighty Boosh RPS one which crosses a line I’d previously thought I wouldn’t cross: real person broyay. Oops. Save me a seat in special hell. I mean, it’s fiction for pete’s sake. It’s not like I think it’s real. (Though I’m pretty sure Mike and Dave are actually dating, but perhaps that's another discussion for another time.)
Remember, comments make me smile.
Title: Dark Fruit
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: M-15+ (implied sexual content)
Word Count: 790
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: The prompt was something about bruises, wound-tending and sex.
Merlin is removing Arthur's armour after the day's sword training with the knights, when he does something a little too quickly and Arthur hisses through his teeth, fast and sharp.
"Are you hurt?" asks Merlin, glancing at Arthur's face.
"It's nothing," says Arthur. "Continue." Arthur's eyes are elsewhere, held firm on a spot somewhere on the wall of the armory, not looking at Merlin. Merlin continues his job, more slowly and carefully than before. Under his hands, he can feel the tense way Arthur is holding his body. The way he is wound up, the way he can't relax.
Merlin follows Arthur to his chambers. He fills a bowl with water and though Arthur scowls at him, he stands passively and allows Merlin to strip him of his shirt and with a cloth, clean his body. Bruises are forming in Arthur's flesh, soft like shadows, colour where there shouldn't be colour. Merlin is surprised by how soft Arthur's skin is. He is careful with it, running the cloth slowly over his body, looking for breaks in the skin but finding only dark marks, red turning sick blue turning rich purple. Merlin thinks of fruit.
He runs the cloth over Arthur's neck, up to his hairline. Arthur has his eyes closed, allowing Merlin to move his body as is needed to clean it. Arthur rolls his head as Merlin runs the cloth down the side of his neck to his shoulder. Merlin examines Arthur's face. He looks tired, but he is holding his jaw just so, half-clenched as though willing his body to hold up for a moment longer. Merlin must have stopped his movements, because Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Merlin, his eyes clear and blue. Merlin looks away and continues running the cloth over Arthur's body, faster now that he is aware of Arthur watching him. He feels he has invaded some private moment and he wants to leave it, to remove himself before Arthur reprimands him.
He raises Arthur's arm to run the wet cloth down his flank. He must have pressed too hard, because Arthur hisses and when Merlin removes the cloth, he sees a bruise on Arthur's side, spreading in a line under his ribs, deep in colour. Merlin pauses, then reaches for it, his fingers hovering over Arthur's skin.
"That looks nasty, sire," he says.
"It's nothing," says Arthur.
"I could get Gaius to make a dressing, something to soothe it," Merlin offers, still not looking at Arthur's face but instead studying the bruise.
"No," says Arthur. "It's nothing."
When Merlin glances at Arthur's face, he finds Arthur staring at him, a strange unknown challenge in his eyes. Merlin stares back, Arthur's flesh still under his fingertips, he can feel the warmth though he doesn't quite make contact. But there is that challenge in Arthur's eyes and Merlin wants to meet it, whatever it is. He presses his fingers to Arthur's side, running them slowly down, feeling the bones of his lower ribs and then, pressing firmer still, the soft flesh where the dark bruise lies. He watches as Arthur winces, the pain flashing across his face. But it is only fleeting, replaced by a look of defiance.
Arthur opens his mouth, perhaps to say something, but Merlin doesn't want to hear it. He is already in that close familiar space around Arthur's body. It is nothing to close the gap and push his mouth against Arthur's. He is still surprised that they are of similar height, he doesn't have to reach anywhere to be doing this. And, more surprising still, Arthur's lips are moving against his, lips and then his teeth too, biting down on Merlin's lip. Merlin's hand is still on the bruise on Arthur's side, pressing into it and feeling Arthur twist under his hand. He reaches his other hand up to Arthur's hair. It is damp to touch.
Merlin is on the edge of the bed. He is about to be told to go, he can feel it. He is still hot, his body damp and his breathing irregular. He feels like they just had a fight, but it's like no fight he's ever known. No exchange of words or blows, but they are both tender to the touch, aching and full of rushing blood, conflict and hunger. He can feel Arthur's elbow against the spine of his back.
Merlin's eyes are closed. He is unwilling to look past the edge of the bed. He hears Arthur let out a breath of air. When he opens his eyes, he catches sight of something on his own wrist. A rising red mark, twin indentations with a space in between. Like his wrist was an apple and Arthur had to taste.
Title: A spell waiting to be conjured
Pairing/Fandom: Merlin/Morgana bodyswap (not exactly a pairing, read it and see)
Rating: N-17
Word Count: 759
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: The prompt was: Bodyswap! Masturbation while in the other person’s body.
Merlin was in his room, trying to work a spell, when suddenly he wasn’t in his room anymore. He appeared to be in Morgana’s chamber, lounging on her bed.
“Huh,” he said. An unexpected side effect of the magic.
“Huh,” he said, again. His voice sat in a different place in his chest. Higher and more melodic, vibrating through him. Except his chest wasn’t quite the chest he was used to. He’d never noticed that extraordinary bosom before.
He got up from the bed and moved to the mirror. Morgana was looking at him, her face curious and full of unfamiliar twitches. He looked around. He appeared to be alone. Morgana in the mirror looked back at him.
“Oh,” he said.
He touched his hand to one of his sumptuous breasts and watched as Morgana touched her hand to her breast. He squeezed. She squeezed. He felt it. He saw her mouth turn down, in thought. He moved his hand more gently. She touched her nipple, soft fingers around it, gently tweaking it. He felt it kick-start the place where his cock used to be. Instead, the feeling was heavy, pulsing with something sweet and strange. It made him itch, made him want to move, to touch.
He moved his hand. Morgana moved her hand. He saw her brow furrow down, her eyes examining him. He felt like he was spying, he felt uncomfortable. But he wanted to touch, he wanted to keep going. But not with her face in the mirror watching him.
He went back to the bed. He ran his hands down his body. He felt round hips, he felt full of substance. He moved his hands back to his breasts, touching them with amazement, feeling his body respond, rising to his touch like a spell waiting to be conjured.
He didn’t know how to get into his clothes. They were complicated, far too complicated. No wonder Morgana had Gwen as her maid. He’d always wondered what Gwen did. He managed to hitch up his skirts and feel his hand up his thighs. He’d never known his hands so soft.
And then his hand was on an ocean and his fingers were touching the core of him, a thing that jumped at his touch, a thing that was too small and wet and sensitive, and yet his hand knew where to go, how to find it, how to touch it. It was intense, relief and torment, both at once. He pulled his hand back and tried not to think about how he’d touch his cock. This was no cock between his legs. This was something different, something that would require more than a fist and a tug and the friction of his bed sheet at night and the thought of Arthur as he dismounted from his horse after a long ride.
He tried again, his fingers slow and as light and delicate as he knew how to make them. But the touch was a feather across electricity, the thing leaping to him, and he tried to keep it slow, but it was building, a spell, a storm inside him, and the ocean, but he had to keep contact, had to keep moving on the spot, because it was delicious, this torture, it was like nothing he had ever known.
And then it crashed in on him. He felt the magic backfire; he felt the walls fall in. He felt himself spasming, squeezing back through space, through blood vessels and pumping hearts and into a smaller body, a bony familiar frame.
He was back in his room. He was on his bed. His hand was wet, but not as wet as it had been. He held inside him the memory of touching a core of himself he hadn’t know existed. He’d think of it and his cock would twitch. But touching his cock was not enough, was not the same.
He met Morgana in the hallway and tried to stop the blush from rising in his cheeks.
“Merlin,” she said, nodding her head to him.
“Morgana,” he replied.
They paused in front of each other, awkward and without words. Merlin thought he saw her eyes flicker down his body. She moved her hands behind her back.
“Well,” she said, and gave him one of her smiles, close-lipped and sweet.
“Well,” he said.
They passed each other and didn’t look back. Merlin’s breath was fast. He could feel his heart beating in his chest; he could hear in it his ears, rising like a rhythm he didn’t know.
Title: Like a punch in the gut
Pairing/Fandom: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal (tennis slash)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 367
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Note: Written for The Locker Room challenge over at fedal_slash, inspired by this picture:
Rafa was focused on taping up his racket handle. Roger wondered how long he could stare at him before he'd noticed. He almost wished he'd been timing it now; it seemed like minutes, tens of minutes even. Rafa’s mouth was pursed just so. Roger leant back against a locker, watching.
Eventually Rafa finished and turned to put the racket into his bag. He caught sight of Roger watching him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?” he asked.
Roger shrugged.
“No,” said Rafa. “What?”
Roger smiled. Rafa had another racket balanced across his knees and it began to slide off his lap. Rafa didn’t seem to notice. He narrowed his eyes at Roger. The racket hit the floor. Rafa broke his gaze with Roger to glance at it. Then he was up, clambering over the bench to stand in front Roger and look him square in the eyes. Rafa placed a hand on the locker and leant in towards Roger, breathing onto his face.
Roger tried to compose himself, to stop himself from laughing. Rafa’s face was a study of seriousness, and yet he looked so young: his skin perfect, his lips pink. He had his cap on backwards and his long hair was sticking out of the bottom of it, curling around the sides of his neck.
Roger met his eyes. Rafa’s face was calculating, his eyes narrowed, his brows lowered. Roger couldn’t keep a straight face. He laughed, one eyebrow raised, his hands skimming over Rafa’s sides. He thought Rafa was going to punch him, straight in the face. How would that look at practice? The new kid and the champion, already in a scuffle, already rivals. The thought made him laugh more.
Then Rafa smiled and his face filled with light. He stepped away from Roger, swatting at his chest with one hand as he did so. He turned back to the bench and resumed sorting out his stuff.
Roger found himself struggling for breath, grateful that the lockers were still behind him, propping him up. It was the first time he was dazzled by Rafa’s grin, the first time he felt the floor falling away and the landscape shifting and changing, churning around something new.
Title: Sea Legs (Or: “It’s not where I dump the bodies.”)
Pairing/Fandom: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal (tennis slash)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 713
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Note: Also written for The Locker Room challenge over at fedal_slash, inspired by this picture:
Rafa thinks he’s got his sea legs, but Roger isn’t sure. Rafa is lurching all over the place, talking and pointing and grinning, his long arms reaching out to grab hold of anything - the railing, the life buoy, Roger’s shoulder - as the boat sways gently. It’s not even rough; there’s hardly a wind. Roger leans against the side of the boat, his hands holding the side railing. He doesn’t need to walk around. It’s enough to watch Rafa from here.
For the first time, they’re in a boat without a photographer, a reporter, an entourage. They’re in a boat that belongs to someone Rafa knows, his uncle’s brother-in-law’s friend of a friend. They’re in some bit of sea that Rafa knows, the colour he woke up to every morning, that deep and brilliant blue-green (Roger thinks of the still and solid green of landlocked mountains). They’re floating off an island where everyone knows Rafa’s name and they hardly give Roger a second glance. Rafa’s the one they love, Rafa’s the one. Roger wonders if this is a feeling he’ll have to get used to. Rafa never makes him feel that way, it’s only ever other people.
“We go a bit further out, hey Roger,” Rafa says. He’s grinning at Roger and lurching towards the controls. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Sure,” says Roger. The waves are making him feel a bit drunk. Or maybe it’s Rafa.
Rafa’s steering is something else. It’s nothing like his tennis. The wake is jagged white, churning and frothy.
“I know how to do this thing,” Rafa calls to Roger. “I do, I do.” The boat lurches and he laughs. He says something in Catalan, muttering at the boat’s controls. He shoots Roger a look. “You don’t need to put on a life jacket. Don’t worry.” His eyes are bright, his hair everywhere in the breeze.
Roger smiles and nods. “Sure,” he says. He doesn’t let go of the railing.
Eventually Rafa stops the boat and moves towards Roger. He grabs Roger’s shoulder and sways on the spot, looking at him and thinking. Roger’s hand goes out to steady him, grasping Rafa’s arm. Rafa nods and as he runs his hands over Roger’s shoulders, he turns him to face out, over the side of the boat. He stands beside Roger, one hand still clasped at the base of Roger’s neck, fingertips touching warm skin. He leans over the edge of the boat and looks down, into the water.
“Look,” he says.
Roger leans over the edge and looks. The water is deep, blue and moving, and when sunlight hits the waves a certain way, he can see shards of fragile turquoise light, sloping diagonally downwards and away. And beneath the light is endless sinking blue, a colour of with more depth than Roger thought it was possible for a colour to have. A blue almost black - but not quite. A moving blue, almost alive.
Roger glances at Rafa’s face. Rafa is enraptured. Roger would rather look at him than into the deep. Frankly, he’s a bit unsettled by the seeming bottomlessness of it. Not that he wants Rafa to know that. It is beautiful too. And peaceful, now the boat’s engine is off and it’s just the two of them, drifting.
Roger brings his hand up to Rafa’s face, pressing the back of his fingers to Rafa’s cheek. Rafa turns to him, a question on his face.
Roger smiles and shakes his head. Rafa looks at him for a long moment; his fingers, still at the collar of Roger’s t-shirt, moving just slightly, small caresses almost imperceptible.
Then he breaks into a smile and leans towards Roger, his lips ghosting over Roger’s cheek and jaw. Roger’s arms curl around his back, drawing him in.
“It’s not where I dump the bodies,” Rafa says breathily into Roger’s ear. “I mean, we- I don’t. We are.”
Roger can feel Rafa’s laughter against the skin of his neck. He pulls away to look at Rafa’s face. Rafa is biting his lip and smiling at the same time, looking at Roger as his eyebrows twitch.
Roger grins. “Sure,” he says, nodding and playful.
Rafa’s face softens. Roger looks at him for a moment longer before leaning in to kiss him.
Title: The Owl and The Pussycat
Pairing/Fandom: Noel Fielding/Mike Fielding/Dave Brown (The Mighty Boosh RPS)
Rating: R - for sexy threesome times (not overly explicit)
Warning: Contains real person incest between brothers.
Word Count: 944
Disclaimer: This is fiction. That means: not real. No slander intended.
Note: I forget what the prompt was for this one.
Mike was curled on his side, asleep, facing away from Noel. Noel was propped up with pillows, drawing in a sketchbook with a set of brightly coloured crayons. Electro-pop was going through Noel’s head. The house was silent.
When Noel looked up, Dave was leaning in the doorway. Noel wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. The music in his head had been so loud.
“Hiya Dave,” he said, brightly.
Dave looked from Noel to Mike and back again. “Alright?” he said.
“Alright,” replied Noel.
Dave moved across the room, shedding his t-shirt as he went. Noel watched him and almost chewed on a bright green crayon. Dave crawled up the bed and hovered, on his hands and knees, in the space between Noel and Mike. “Hi,” he said in a low voice and took the green crayon out of Noel’s hand.
He regarded Noel with level blue eyes. Noel slowly moved his sketchbook to one side and tried to keep his smile from being coy. When Dave kissed him, Noel’s hands were quickly all over Dave’s torso. Dave’s mouth tasted of toothpaste and, beneath that, faintly of pickled onions. Noel’s hands skirted over Dave’s nipples, over his shoulders, one hand clamping firmly to the back of his neck, pulling him down towards Noel. The other hand made its way into Dave’s hair, grasping it in a fist - not hard, but persistent. Noel arched upwards towards Dave, but Dave drew away, breaking away from Noel and sitting upright. Noel let his hands slip from Dave. He hurriedly shed his own t-shirt and undid his belt.
Dave was looking at Mike, who was still curled asleep on his side. Dave put a hand on Mike’s torso. Mike stirred and made a small murmur. Dave rubbed his hand up and down Mike’s back. Mike turned towards him. He blinked his eyes open, squinting from the light, and focussed blurrily on Dave’s face. He smiled. Noel watched at Dave leant down and tenderly kissed Mike’s mouth. He heard Mike make a hum.
When they broke apart, Noel noticed that Dave’s hands stayed on Mike’s body, slowly moving down to his waist and under his top. Noel saw that there was a bulge in Mike’s pants.
Mike turned his face towards Noel and smiled. “Hi, Noel,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Noel said. “3PM still morning then, is it?”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “It is.”
Noel nodded. He watched as Dave worked Mike’s t-shirt up and kissed his nipples. Noel saw teeth. He heard Mike inhale through his teeth. The sound made Noel suddenly hard, but he was unable to move.
Dave was pushing his body down into Mike’s and Mike flung a leg over Dave’s back. Dave pulled Mike’s t-shirt off, over his head. “That’s better,” he said quietly. Their naked torsos brushed together and then their lips.
Noel was about to get up and leave. He could fuck Dee when she got home. He could give Julian head. He could jack off in the bathroom. Hell, he could even go looking for Simon and fuck him against a brick wall behind a pub. With the right persuasion, he could make Rich dressed up as Eleanor and talk dirty until they both came - in their hands, if they were lucky - but most likely in their pants, laughing and slightly repulsed but turned on in ways neither of them could recognise. All those things were possibilities. But Dave and Mike being tender and sweet made him want to throw something, or break something, or get rip-roaring drunk and then throw something or break something, maybe himself.
Then Mike looked at him. And Dave looked from Mike’s face to Noel. Mike gave Noel a little smile. Something in their eyes let him in. He thought the question and it must have showed on his face - Are you sure? - because Mike reached out his hand and touched Noel’s shoulder. It was enough. Noel didn’t leave.
He moved across the bed and kissed Mike’s neck. He felt Dave’s hands on him, and Mike’s too, and Dave was kissing Noel too, on the back of the shoulder. He moved his mouth to the top of Mike’s jaw and bit his earlobe. He stole a glance at Mike’s face - his eyes were closed, his mouth pink and closed. Noel took a breath and kissed him, and Mike kissed him back. He felt Dave pulling off his pants, and laughed, and helped him. Then Dave kissed him too, and Noel put one hand into Dave’s hair and the other on Mike’s face, his hand on Mike’s cheek and his thumb in Mike’s warm, wet mouth. Mike sucked on it and reached for Noel with his hands.
Before long, they were all without pants. At one point, Noel wondered if fucking his brother would be the closest he’d get to fucking himself. But then Mike was nothing like Noel - it was no mistake he played the creature from another world in their show. Noel found Dave exquisitely generous and adept at multi-tasking.
Noel’s head was on Dave’s shoulder, his hand playing in Dave’s chest-hair. Mike was panting on Dave’s other side. “Phew!” Mike said, and both Noel and Dave laughed. Noel saw Mike turn on his side and rest his head on Dave’s other shoulder, his arm curling around Dave’s body so that it came to rest between Noel and Dave. Noel looked into Mike’s face and Mike held his gaze, unblinking. Noel wanted to smile.
On the floor, Noel’s open sketchbook showed a great green ocean and on it, a small boat carrying the owl and the pussycat, the gorilla and the shaman.
Remember, comments make me smile.
Title: Dark Fruit
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: M-15+ (implied sexual content)
Word Count: 790
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: The prompt was something about bruises, wound-tending and sex.
Merlin is removing Arthur's armour after the day's sword training with the knights, when he does something a little too quickly and Arthur hisses through his teeth, fast and sharp.
"Are you hurt?" asks Merlin, glancing at Arthur's face.
"It's nothing," says Arthur. "Continue." Arthur's eyes are elsewhere, held firm on a spot somewhere on the wall of the armory, not looking at Merlin. Merlin continues his job, more slowly and carefully than before. Under his hands, he can feel the tense way Arthur is holding his body. The way he is wound up, the way he can't relax.
Merlin follows Arthur to his chambers. He fills a bowl with water and though Arthur scowls at him, he stands passively and allows Merlin to strip him of his shirt and with a cloth, clean his body. Bruises are forming in Arthur's flesh, soft like shadows, colour where there shouldn't be colour. Merlin is surprised by how soft Arthur's skin is. He is careful with it, running the cloth slowly over his body, looking for breaks in the skin but finding only dark marks, red turning sick blue turning rich purple. Merlin thinks of fruit.
He runs the cloth over Arthur's neck, up to his hairline. Arthur has his eyes closed, allowing Merlin to move his body as is needed to clean it. Arthur rolls his head as Merlin runs the cloth down the side of his neck to his shoulder. Merlin examines Arthur's face. He looks tired, but he is holding his jaw just so, half-clenched as though willing his body to hold up for a moment longer. Merlin must have stopped his movements, because Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Merlin, his eyes clear and blue. Merlin looks away and continues running the cloth over Arthur's body, faster now that he is aware of Arthur watching him. He feels he has invaded some private moment and he wants to leave it, to remove himself before Arthur reprimands him.
He raises Arthur's arm to run the wet cloth down his flank. He must have pressed too hard, because Arthur hisses and when Merlin removes the cloth, he sees a bruise on Arthur's side, spreading in a line under his ribs, deep in colour. Merlin pauses, then reaches for it, his fingers hovering over Arthur's skin.
"That looks nasty, sire," he says.
"It's nothing," says Arthur.
"I could get Gaius to make a dressing, something to soothe it," Merlin offers, still not looking at Arthur's face but instead studying the bruise.
"No," says Arthur. "It's nothing."
When Merlin glances at Arthur's face, he finds Arthur staring at him, a strange unknown challenge in his eyes. Merlin stares back, Arthur's flesh still under his fingertips, he can feel the warmth though he doesn't quite make contact. But there is that challenge in Arthur's eyes and Merlin wants to meet it, whatever it is. He presses his fingers to Arthur's side, running them slowly down, feeling the bones of his lower ribs and then, pressing firmer still, the soft flesh where the dark bruise lies. He watches as Arthur winces, the pain flashing across his face. But it is only fleeting, replaced by a look of defiance.
Arthur opens his mouth, perhaps to say something, but Merlin doesn't want to hear it. He is already in that close familiar space around Arthur's body. It is nothing to close the gap and push his mouth against Arthur's. He is still surprised that they are of similar height, he doesn't have to reach anywhere to be doing this. And, more surprising still, Arthur's lips are moving against his, lips and then his teeth too, biting down on Merlin's lip. Merlin's hand is still on the bruise on Arthur's side, pressing into it and feeling Arthur twist under his hand. He reaches his other hand up to Arthur's hair. It is damp to touch.
Merlin is on the edge of the bed. He is about to be told to go, he can feel it. He is still hot, his body damp and his breathing irregular. He feels like they just had a fight, but it's like no fight he's ever known. No exchange of words or blows, but they are both tender to the touch, aching and full of rushing blood, conflict and hunger. He can feel Arthur's elbow against the spine of his back.
Merlin's eyes are closed. He is unwilling to look past the edge of the bed. He hears Arthur let out a breath of air. When he opens his eyes, he catches sight of something on his own wrist. A rising red mark, twin indentations with a space in between. Like his wrist was an apple and Arthur had to taste.
Title: A spell waiting to be conjured
Pairing/Fandom: Merlin/Morgana bodyswap (not exactly a pairing, read it and see)
Rating: N-17
Word Count: 759
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: The prompt was: Bodyswap! Masturbation while in the other person’s body.
Merlin was in his room, trying to work a spell, when suddenly he wasn’t in his room anymore. He appeared to be in Morgana’s chamber, lounging on her bed.
“Huh,” he said. An unexpected side effect of the magic.
“Huh,” he said, again. His voice sat in a different place in his chest. Higher and more melodic, vibrating through him. Except his chest wasn’t quite the chest he was used to. He’d never noticed that extraordinary bosom before.
He got up from the bed and moved to the mirror. Morgana was looking at him, her face curious and full of unfamiliar twitches. He looked around. He appeared to be alone. Morgana in the mirror looked back at him.
“Oh,” he said.
He touched his hand to one of his sumptuous breasts and watched as Morgana touched her hand to her breast. He squeezed. She squeezed. He felt it. He saw her mouth turn down, in thought. He moved his hand more gently. She touched her nipple, soft fingers around it, gently tweaking it. He felt it kick-start the place where his cock used to be. Instead, the feeling was heavy, pulsing with something sweet and strange. It made him itch, made him want to move, to touch.
He moved his hand. Morgana moved her hand. He saw her brow furrow down, her eyes examining him. He felt like he was spying, he felt uncomfortable. But he wanted to touch, he wanted to keep going. But not with her face in the mirror watching him.
He went back to the bed. He ran his hands down his body. He felt round hips, he felt full of substance. He moved his hands back to his breasts, touching them with amazement, feeling his body respond, rising to his touch like a spell waiting to be conjured.
He didn’t know how to get into his clothes. They were complicated, far too complicated. No wonder Morgana had Gwen as her maid. He’d always wondered what Gwen did. He managed to hitch up his skirts and feel his hand up his thighs. He’d never known his hands so soft.
And then his hand was on an ocean and his fingers were touching the core of him, a thing that jumped at his touch, a thing that was too small and wet and sensitive, and yet his hand knew where to go, how to find it, how to touch it. It was intense, relief and torment, both at once. He pulled his hand back and tried not to think about how he’d touch his cock. This was no cock between his legs. This was something different, something that would require more than a fist and a tug and the friction of his bed sheet at night and the thought of Arthur as he dismounted from his horse after a long ride.
He tried again, his fingers slow and as light and delicate as he knew how to make them. But the touch was a feather across electricity, the thing leaping to him, and he tried to keep it slow, but it was building, a spell, a storm inside him, and the ocean, but he had to keep contact, had to keep moving on the spot, because it was delicious, this torture, it was like nothing he had ever known.
And then it crashed in on him. He felt the magic backfire; he felt the walls fall in. He felt himself spasming, squeezing back through space, through blood vessels and pumping hearts and into a smaller body, a bony familiar frame.
He was back in his room. He was on his bed. His hand was wet, but not as wet as it had been. He held inside him the memory of touching a core of himself he hadn’t know existed. He’d think of it and his cock would twitch. But touching his cock was not enough, was not the same.
He met Morgana in the hallway and tried to stop the blush from rising in his cheeks.
“Merlin,” she said, nodding her head to him.
“Morgana,” he replied.
They paused in front of each other, awkward and without words. Merlin thought he saw her eyes flicker down his body. She moved her hands behind her back.
“Well,” she said, and gave him one of her smiles, close-lipped and sweet.
“Well,” he said.
They passed each other and didn’t look back. Merlin’s breath was fast. He could feel his heart beating in his chest; he could hear in it his ears, rising like a rhythm he didn’t know.
Title: Like a punch in the gut
Pairing/Fandom: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal (tennis slash)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 367
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Note: Written for The Locker Room challenge over at fedal_slash, inspired by this picture:
Rafa was focused on taping up his racket handle. Roger wondered how long he could stare at him before he'd noticed. He almost wished he'd been timing it now; it seemed like minutes, tens of minutes even. Rafa’s mouth was pursed just so. Roger leant back against a locker, watching.
Eventually Rafa finished and turned to put the racket into his bag. He caught sight of Roger watching him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?” he asked.
Roger shrugged.
“No,” said Rafa. “What?”
Roger smiled. Rafa had another racket balanced across his knees and it began to slide off his lap. Rafa didn’t seem to notice. He narrowed his eyes at Roger. The racket hit the floor. Rafa broke his gaze with Roger to glance at it. Then he was up, clambering over the bench to stand in front Roger and look him square in the eyes. Rafa placed a hand on the locker and leant in towards Roger, breathing onto his face.
Roger tried to compose himself, to stop himself from laughing. Rafa’s face was a study of seriousness, and yet he looked so young: his skin perfect, his lips pink. He had his cap on backwards and his long hair was sticking out of the bottom of it, curling around the sides of his neck.
Roger met his eyes. Rafa’s face was calculating, his eyes narrowed, his brows lowered. Roger couldn’t keep a straight face. He laughed, one eyebrow raised, his hands skimming over Rafa’s sides. He thought Rafa was going to punch him, straight in the face. How would that look at practice? The new kid and the champion, already in a scuffle, already rivals. The thought made him laugh more.
Then Rafa smiled and his face filled with light. He stepped away from Roger, swatting at his chest with one hand as he did so. He turned back to the bench and resumed sorting out his stuff.
Roger found himself struggling for breath, grateful that the lockers were still behind him, propping him up. It was the first time he was dazzled by Rafa’s grin, the first time he felt the floor falling away and the landscape shifting and changing, churning around something new.
Title: Sea Legs (Or: “It’s not where I dump the bodies.”)
Pairing/Fandom: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal (tennis slash)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 713
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Note: Also written for The Locker Room challenge over at fedal_slash, inspired by this picture:
Rafa thinks he’s got his sea legs, but Roger isn’t sure. Rafa is lurching all over the place, talking and pointing and grinning, his long arms reaching out to grab hold of anything - the railing, the life buoy, Roger’s shoulder - as the boat sways gently. It’s not even rough; there’s hardly a wind. Roger leans against the side of the boat, his hands holding the side railing. He doesn’t need to walk around. It’s enough to watch Rafa from here.
For the first time, they’re in a boat without a photographer, a reporter, an entourage. They’re in a boat that belongs to someone Rafa knows, his uncle’s brother-in-law’s friend of a friend. They’re in some bit of sea that Rafa knows, the colour he woke up to every morning, that deep and brilliant blue-green (Roger thinks of the still and solid green of landlocked mountains). They’re floating off an island where everyone knows Rafa’s name and they hardly give Roger a second glance. Rafa’s the one they love, Rafa’s the one. Roger wonders if this is a feeling he’ll have to get used to. Rafa never makes him feel that way, it’s only ever other people.
“We go a bit further out, hey Roger,” Rafa says. He’s grinning at Roger and lurching towards the controls. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Sure,” says Roger. The waves are making him feel a bit drunk. Or maybe it’s Rafa.
Rafa’s steering is something else. It’s nothing like his tennis. The wake is jagged white, churning and frothy.
“I know how to do this thing,” Rafa calls to Roger. “I do, I do.” The boat lurches and he laughs. He says something in Catalan, muttering at the boat’s controls. He shoots Roger a look. “You don’t need to put on a life jacket. Don’t worry.” His eyes are bright, his hair everywhere in the breeze.
Roger smiles and nods. “Sure,” he says. He doesn’t let go of the railing.
Eventually Rafa stops the boat and moves towards Roger. He grabs Roger’s shoulder and sways on the spot, looking at him and thinking. Roger’s hand goes out to steady him, grasping Rafa’s arm. Rafa nods and as he runs his hands over Roger’s shoulders, he turns him to face out, over the side of the boat. He stands beside Roger, one hand still clasped at the base of Roger’s neck, fingertips touching warm skin. He leans over the edge of the boat and looks down, into the water.
“Look,” he says.
Roger leans over the edge and looks. The water is deep, blue and moving, and when sunlight hits the waves a certain way, he can see shards of fragile turquoise light, sloping diagonally downwards and away. And beneath the light is endless sinking blue, a colour of with more depth than Roger thought it was possible for a colour to have. A blue almost black - but not quite. A moving blue, almost alive.
Roger glances at Rafa’s face. Rafa is enraptured. Roger would rather look at him than into the deep. Frankly, he’s a bit unsettled by the seeming bottomlessness of it. Not that he wants Rafa to know that. It is beautiful too. And peaceful, now the boat’s engine is off and it’s just the two of them, drifting.
Roger brings his hand up to Rafa’s face, pressing the back of his fingers to Rafa’s cheek. Rafa turns to him, a question on his face.
Roger smiles and shakes his head. Rafa looks at him for a long moment; his fingers, still at the collar of Roger’s t-shirt, moving just slightly, small caresses almost imperceptible.
Then he breaks into a smile and leans towards Roger, his lips ghosting over Roger’s cheek and jaw. Roger’s arms curl around his back, drawing him in.
“It’s not where I dump the bodies,” Rafa says breathily into Roger’s ear. “I mean, we- I don’t. We are.”
Roger can feel Rafa’s laughter against the skin of his neck. He pulls away to look at Rafa’s face. Rafa is biting his lip and smiling at the same time, looking at Roger as his eyebrows twitch.
Roger grins. “Sure,” he says, nodding and playful.
Rafa’s face softens. Roger looks at him for a moment longer before leaning in to kiss him.
Title: The Owl and The Pussycat
Pairing/Fandom: Noel Fielding/Mike Fielding/Dave Brown (The Mighty Boosh RPS)
Rating: R - for sexy threesome times (not overly explicit)
Warning: Contains real person incest between brothers.
Word Count: 944
Disclaimer: This is fiction. That means: not real. No slander intended.
Note: I forget what the prompt was for this one.
Mike was curled on his side, asleep, facing away from Noel. Noel was propped up with pillows, drawing in a sketchbook with a set of brightly coloured crayons. Electro-pop was going through Noel’s head. The house was silent.
When Noel looked up, Dave was leaning in the doorway. Noel wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. The music in his head had been so loud.
“Hiya Dave,” he said, brightly.
Dave looked from Noel to Mike and back again. “Alright?” he said.
“Alright,” replied Noel.
Dave moved across the room, shedding his t-shirt as he went. Noel watched him and almost chewed on a bright green crayon. Dave crawled up the bed and hovered, on his hands and knees, in the space between Noel and Mike. “Hi,” he said in a low voice and took the green crayon out of Noel’s hand.
He regarded Noel with level blue eyes. Noel slowly moved his sketchbook to one side and tried to keep his smile from being coy. When Dave kissed him, Noel’s hands were quickly all over Dave’s torso. Dave’s mouth tasted of toothpaste and, beneath that, faintly of pickled onions. Noel’s hands skirted over Dave’s nipples, over his shoulders, one hand clamping firmly to the back of his neck, pulling him down towards Noel. The other hand made its way into Dave’s hair, grasping it in a fist - not hard, but persistent. Noel arched upwards towards Dave, but Dave drew away, breaking away from Noel and sitting upright. Noel let his hands slip from Dave. He hurriedly shed his own t-shirt and undid his belt.
Dave was looking at Mike, who was still curled asleep on his side. Dave put a hand on Mike’s torso. Mike stirred and made a small murmur. Dave rubbed his hand up and down Mike’s back. Mike turned towards him. He blinked his eyes open, squinting from the light, and focussed blurrily on Dave’s face. He smiled. Noel watched at Dave leant down and tenderly kissed Mike’s mouth. He heard Mike make a hum.
When they broke apart, Noel noticed that Dave’s hands stayed on Mike’s body, slowly moving down to his waist and under his top. Noel saw that there was a bulge in Mike’s pants.
Mike turned his face towards Noel and smiled. “Hi, Noel,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Noel said. “3PM still morning then, is it?”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “It is.”
Noel nodded. He watched as Dave worked Mike’s t-shirt up and kissed his nipples. Noel saw teeth. He heard Mike inhale through his teeth. The sound made Noel suddenly hard, but he was unable to move.
Dave was pushing his body down into Mike’s and Mike flung a leg over Dave’s back. Dave pulled Mike’s t-shirt off, over his head. “That’s better,” he said quietly. Their naked torsos brushed together and then their lips.
Noel was about to get up and leave. He could fuck Dee when she got home. He could give Julian head. He could jack off in the bathroom. Hell, he could even go looking for Simon and fuck him against a brick wall behind a pub. With the right persuasion, he could make Rich dressed up as Eleanor and talk dirty until they both came - in their hands, if they were lucky - but most likely in their pants, laughing and slightly repulsed but turned on in ways neither of them could recognise. All those things were possibilities. But Dave and Mike being tender and sweet made him want to throw something, or break something, or get rip-roaring drunk and then throw something or break something, maybe himself.
Then Mike looked at him. And Dave looked from Mike’s face to Noel. Mike gave Noel a little smile. Something in their eyes let him in. He thought the question and it must have showed on his face - Are you sure? - because Mike reached out his hand and touched Noel’s shoulder. It was enough. Noel didn’t leave.
He moved across the bed and kissed Mike’s neck. He felt Dave’s hands on him, and Mike’s too, and Dave was kissing Noel too, on the back of the shoulder. He moved his mouth to the top of Mike’s jaw and bit his earlobe. He stole a glance at Mike’s face - his eyes were closed, his mouth pink and closed. Noel took a breath and kissed him, and Mike kissed him back. He felt Dave pulling off his pants, and laughed, and helped him. Then Dave kissed him too, and Noel put one hand into Dave’s hair and the other on Mike’s face, his hand on Mike’s cheek and his thumb in Mike’s warm, wet mouth. Mike sucked on it and reached for Noel with his hands.
Before long, they were all without pants. At one point, Noel wondered if fucking his brother would be the closest he’d get to fucking himself. But then Mike was nothing like Noel - it was no mistake he played the creature from another world in their show. Noel found Dave exquisitely generous and adept at multi-tasking.
Noel’s head was on Dave’s shoulder, his hand playing in Dave’s chest-hair. Mike was panting on Dave’s other side. “Phew!” Mike said, and both Noel and Dave laughed. Noel saw Mike turn on his side and rest his head on Dave’s other shoulder, his arm curling around Dave’s body so that it came to rest between Noel and Dave. Noel looked into Mike’s face and Mike held his gaze, unblinking. Noel wanted to smile.
On the floor, Noel’s open sketchbook showed a great green ocean and on it, a small boat carrying the owl and the pussycat, the gorilla and the shaman.