Kink Meme 1
Welcome to the 1st Camelot kink meme. Here you can post your prompts and fills at leisure, that is, as long as this meme is open. Have fun!
Guidelines for prompting: Please make sure you include the pairing (or the keyword “gen” in case your prompt does not include one) and the kink/trope/theme in the header of your prompt. This will make it ( Read more... )
Guidelines for prompting: Please make sure you include the pairing (or the keyword “gen” in case your prompt does not include one) and the kink/trope/theme in the header of your prompt. This will make it ( Read more... )
They were so close. Another few strides and they would be in the room. Merlin’s heart was still racing and his limbs felt heavy and boneless. With a huge effort of will, he tugged his neckerchief off, diving into his braes with it and swirling it about unskillfully across his tunic before thrusting it deep into Arthur’s waste paper basket beneath a bundle of scrunched up scrolls. He would deal with it later.
With another hasty movement, he shoved the offending scroll back into the drawer.
The footsteps were on the threshold now. He didn’t have time to rearrange the other pieces of parchment on top, nor to lock the drawer. As quietly as he could, he dropped the key on the desk, and scuttled over to the wardrobe, which he scanned for a suitable excuse, hastily grabbing a pair of dress boots.
“Of course, Father. However, do pray allow me to do her the courtesy of a farewell le-- Merlin? What are you doing here?” Arthur scowled. “Father and I are having a private conversation!”
“Arthur!” he said, faintly, holding the already immaculately polished boots in front of the incriminating wet patch on his clothes. “I mean, sire. Begging your royal highness’s pardon, sir.” He bowed at Uther. “I just. Um. You know. Need to polish these. For um. The feast. Sire?”
“What feast?” The line between Arthur’s eyes deepened as he glanced over to his desk and back before his gaze alighted on Merlin’s bare neck, where it stayed. “You’d, um.” Arthur swallowed. “Um. You’d better not have been snooping at my private correspondence.”
“No, Arthur, I would nev--”
“You will address your master correctly,” interrupted Uther. “Arthur? Punish the idle miscreant. I will talk with you in my chambers.” Scowling, he strode out of the room, his cloak swirling about him in a dramatic arc.
Merlin sighed. “I’ll just go and let myself into the stocks then, shall I, sire?”
“Um.” Arthur’s jaw twitched and his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “All right,” he added, in a hoarse voice, staring so hard at Merlin’s neck that he began to feel a little uncomfortable.
“Do I have a mark on my neck?” said Merlin. He couldn’t help it. He was only human. He let his own gaze drift south from Arthur's face for a second or two and tried to disguise it as a blink.
Holy fuck. Arthur’s crotch was bulging as if it was fit to explode.
“No, no.” Arthur folded his hands in front of his groin. He stepped hurriedly behind his desk and sat in the chair where moments before Merlin had been pulling at his cock. Dear God. What if there was a lingering smell. What if he’d left a mark? Arthur would be sitting in a pool of his seed, right now… and… oh, great. His dick was twitching again. He didn’t think that was even possible.
Mortified at the direction of his wayward thoughts, Merlin felt a deep and shameful blush start at his neck and burn all the way up to the roots of his hair and along his cheeks to his ears.
“Are you all right?” Arthur was still staring at his neck. “You look a bit, um.”
“Yeah,” said Merlin, hoarsely, as he edged towards the door. “Actually, I do feel a bit, you know.”
“Hmm. Well. No need to go to the stocks, Merlin. I’m not to be disturbed for a bit. I’ll just… ahem. Correspondence, you know.” He fumbled for the key around his neck with one hand while the other disappeared under his desk. There was a small sound, like that of a belt buckle being loosened, and another, like that of a held breath being released in a hastily suppressed moan. “Take your time. Don’t hurry back.” With another exhalation suspiciously close to a moan, Arthur opened the drawer.
“Right,” said Merlin, trying and failing not to think about what Arthur might be going to do next - and what’s more, what he might be going to think about while he was doing it. “Correspondence. Right.” God. He hoped Gaius was out.
He needed to lie down.
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:D
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I loved Arthur's reaction to seeing Merlin's neck, man, could those boys be anymore obvious?! They need to get it on!!! :D
I loved this so much, can't wait for more, but please don't ever stop! I could read Arthur's smutty fanfiction forever!
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He threw on his clothes. Darting out of the door before Gaius could give him any errands to do, he scuttled through the most obscure corridors of Camelot, seeking to avoid being waylaid. He had to retrieve it before Arthur found it. Or worse, George.
But of course fortune could not allow him this one thing. Of course it couldn’t. Instead, just as he rounded the final corner, within sight of Arthur’s chambers, it forced him into the arms of an eager-looking Morgana and Gwen, sitting upon a window seat with their heads together.
“Merlin!” Gwen sprang to her feet with a broad smile. “Just the person!”
“Um. Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.” he said, gaze darting hopefully from one to the other and then to the door that awaited him. He could see it, a mere thirty or so feet away! The bell still hadn’t rung. Arthur would not be up yet. If he was quick, he could still get there in time.
“Come, Merlin.” Morgana’s expression was innocent, which meant that she was up to something. “Sit with me and Gwen.”
“What?” Oh, God! “Erm, can’t stop, I’ve just got to…”
“Oh, just for a minute or two, Merlin!” Gwen sat back down again, shuffling over to one side. She patted the window seat between her and Morgana. “We never get a chance to chat.”
“But Arthur will be w…”
“Don’t worry about him, he won’t be awake yet!” Morgana smiled sweetly at him, and grabbed him by the arm, leaving him no option but to sit down. “And that’s just what we wanted to talk to you about. Arthur! He does seem terribly distracted, of late, don’t you think? Since Wilhelmina left.”
“N...n...no?” stuttered Merlin, one leg jiggling, betraying his eagerness to complete his quest. He shrugged, trying to think of a gracious way of escaping. “The usual clotpoleishness, if you ask me. Clean the stables, Merlin. Polish my armour, Merlin… you know. Anyway, I’ll just, um...” He started to struggle to his feet.
“There’s no hurry,” said Gwen. A gentle hand on each arm - Morgana on his right, Gwen on his left - pulled him down. He was trapped!
He stared miserably out of the window at a poor soul who was currently occupying the stocks. As Jesmond, a particularly swift-armed stable boy, lobbed an over-ripe cabbage at the wrongdoer’s head, he felt a stab of fellow feeling.
“He spends all his time writing to Wilhelmina, doesn’t he?” Gwen tilted her head on one side. Like an eagle. Eyeing its prey. A very soft, kind, innocent-faced but nonetheless hungry eagle. “But whenever anyone asks him, he says he’s writing poetry.”
“He does?” He plastered a grin to his face in an effort to look nonchalant, because, dear God, if Morgana got hold of one of Arthur’s *ahem* poems, neither of them would ever live it down. He would have to leave Camelot. “Maybe he’s developed a passion for it?”
Of course, if those incriminating scrolls were ever found, Arthur would probably have to leave Camelot, too. They’d both have to go and live in Caerleon or something. Arthur could make a living as a hired sword, and Merlin could grow things and take care of all the household problems. And at night, Arthur would come home and eat a simple meal with him, and then they’d spend all night shagging like bunnies.
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But no matter how gratifyingly his idle fantasies played out, there was no doubt that Morgana would make their lives a living hell if she knew what Arthur was actually writing about. So her sudden interest was A Bad Thing.
“Oh, please, Merlin. Don’t insult our intelligence,” Morgana was saying. “I had to suffer lessons with Arthur as a child. He’s as imaginative as a boar, with an even more limited vocabulary--”
“He asked me if I knew any other words for purple, beginning with p, yesterday,” added Gwen. “When I suggested puce, he looked like he’d sucked a lemon. Not that Arthur sucks lemons, but you know the look, or rather, I don’t mean that he often looks sour, of course not, haha, but anyway, you’d have thought that I got a wine stain on his favourite shirt. Not that I drink wine, of course!”
“Of course you don’t, Gwen,” murmured Morgana, in a cooing sort of voice.
“Um. But then I suggested plum coloured,” Gwen went on. “Which is a bit weird when you think about it, because plums can be all sorts of colours, of course, although I think we all know when we say plum coloured that we mean a sort of purplish plum, not the red sort, or the green ones, which I always think taste a bit icky…
“Too sharp,” agreed Morgana, stroking Merlin’s forearm. It was like being petted by a kitten. All soft and kind, but you never knew when the sharp claws would come out.
“Anyway.” Gwen patted Merlin’s hand. “He just looked sort of thunderstruck, muttered Plums! Of course! And ran off.”
Plums? Oh, God. Merlin swallowed, hard, and tried to extricate himself from their gentle grip, without much success. They were strong, these maidens, with their deceptively smooth hands and sweet smiles. With one hand on each forearm, he was effectively pinioned.
“We’re worried about him, Merlin,” said Morgana. An earnest line appeared between her brows. It didn’t fool him for a second. This wasn’t concern. This was sheer nosiness. “A knight of Camelot does not need to be distracted by stone fruit-related obsessions. What if he starts going on about peaches in the middle of a battle?”
“Or greengages,” added Gwen, who also seemed to be unnaturally inquisitive about the topic. What happened to sympathy for fellow, downtrodden servants? She was meant to be on his side! He flashed her a betrayed glare, but she went on without noticing. “Or… or… quince. Or maybe vegetables? He might start going on about purple cabbages or something. Much though I love purple cabbage. Or are they called red cabbage? I’ve never understood that. I have always thought they look more purp--”
“Anyway,” interrupted Morgana. “Won’t you keep an eye open for us, Merlin?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “We just want to help him. Please. For Arthur.”
But it wasn’t concern that he saw on Morgana’s face. It was avid curiosity.
“Arthur’s absolutely fine,” he said firmly. “He doesn’t need any help. And he’s got a perfectly healthy attitude towards um. You know, apples and… and… cherries and what-not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…”
With a clever twist of his body, he moved out from under their grasping hands and stood up. Then promptly ducked to escape Morgana’s flailing hand, and darted for Arthur’s door.
He skidded to a halt outside, the two guards stationed there nodding at him.
Clang! Damn, he was too late. The morning bell tolled its jangling song, rousing the citadel to break its fast.
“Merlin!” came the imperious shout from within.
He groaned. It was going to be one of those days.
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It was lucky for Merlin that none of the other servants ever emptied Arthur’s waste paper basket. Normally Merlin just tossed the contents on the fire. But this time he wanted to retrieve his neckerchief first. So he dived into the basket and pulled out not one but two scrunched up scrolls, both of which were coated in Arthur’s handwriting, tossing them to the floor before delving back in.
But there was no sign of his soiled neckerchief.
Puzzled, Merlin upended the bin. He distinctly remembered thrusting his neckerchief into it after he’d… well. So, where could it be? Maybe Arthur had asked George to come in and tidy up? God, he hoped not. George would probably have tossed his neckerchief into the fire along with all the papers. And Merlin loved that neckerchief, despite what Gaius always said about it being tatty and rag-eared. His mother had sewed it for him, and it kept his neck warm, and served as a cleaning rag in extremis.
With a sigh, he gathered up the discarded parchments and was about to toss them onto the merry fire when the word “purple” caught his eye. Wait. It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek, now, would it? He smoothed the first one over and peered at it in the flickering firelight.
“Mark me, oh my prince,” panted the servant, his hair an ink-black fan, his neck a long, luscious canvas ready for the prince to leave possessive, purple plum-coloured prints, as patterns of passion like jewels pearls upon his person. “Bite me! I want to feel your porcelain teeth upon my needy flesh!” Raising his head, he howled out a hollow cry that made the prince’s engorged cock fill, aching with need.
Wow. Merlin knew how he felt. His own cock was already growing hot and heavy between his thighs just from reading it.
With some regret, he tossed the scrunched-up parchment onto the waiting fire, which flared and hissed to welcome it, then turned to the second scroll. He was about to throw it on as well, but a sudden devilish instinct paused his hand and he opened it up instead. It was full of crossings out.
Merlin’s Arthur’s balls hung like bright berries, bursting with seed. How Arthur Merlin longed to suck them between his lips. With parted lips, the servant laved his prince’s pendulous plums, worshipping them with languid licks of his velvet tongue…
Holy glory. With a groan, Merlin palmed his now desperately aching cock through the fabric of his clothes.
But wait. Were those footsteps outside?
If Merlin’s face had felt any hotter, it would start to steam. He made a hasty decision. He thrust the partly read scroll into his breeches, telling himself that he would burn it later, and righted the upended waste-paper basket, returning it to its place by the desk. But it was too late. He was still kneeling next to it when Arthur pushed open his door.
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When Merlin looked up, the prince was standing in the doorway, his arm propped up against the frame, glaring down at him with that imperious stare that always had such an immediate effect on Merlin’s equilibrium that he could hardly breathe.
“This had better be good,” said Arthur, folding his arms and crossing his legs. “Because it looks suspiciously like you are going through my bin.”
“Um. Well, you see, I can explain. Gwen said you were looking for vocabulary help, so I thought I’d. Um. But then there was a mouse, and I… Anyway. I’ll just...” Straightening, he started to sidle around the desk. “You know, empty the bin, and then…”
“Are you sure?” Arthur launched himself from the doorframe, hurtling towards Merlin like a stone from a ballista. “Are you sure you weren’t looking for something, Merlin?”
With an undignified squeak, Merlin tried to scuttle around the desk to safety, but he was off balance and Arthur managed to tackle him to the ground where he sat, straddling Merlin’s hips.
With his trunk pinned between Arthur’s sturdy thighs, there wasn’t much Merlin could do except thrash around squawking about bullies and prats while Arthur smirked down at him with that infuriating lop-sided grin of his. Of course, he could overpower the prat with just a thought, but not without risking imprisonment and certain execution, so instead he howled out his protests while Arthur held him down by the shoulders. Grinning.
“You see,” drawled Arthur, seemingly immune to every frantic jerk of Merlin’s legs beneath him. “Stop struggling, you oaf! You see, I found something in my waste paper basket that might belong to you. But it appears to have been ill used.”
“Let me go,” yelled Merlin. “You arrogant, overbearing, supercilious…”
“And,” interrupted Arthur. “In sore need of laundering.”
With an abrupt noise, Merlin let his booted feet drop to the floor and blinked up at Arthur, face colouring. “What are you saying?” he said, hoarsely.
“I’m saying, you blundering bumpkin,” growled Arthur, looking unfairly composed given the position that they were both in. “That you could have been a bit less obvious about reading my… ahem… notes. But instead you left incriminating evidence for me to find.”
“Evidence?” Oh, God. Arthur had found the scarf. And seen the stains. And Arthur, being -- despite what Merlin might mutter under his breath at least ten times a day -- gifted with at least some intellectual powers, had drawn probably correct conclusions about their source.
“Your scarf, Merlin.”
“Um.” Merlin tried to think of something clever that might explain the scarf and the state that it was in.
But with all that muscle and heat pressing him into the rug, it was very difficult for his brain to do anything much except make little zings of pleasure go darting legs and belly, converging on the sort of sudden erection that had explosive potential to confirm all Arthur’s worst assumptions.
“It’s just, you know. Um. I felt hot, you know? Haha. Warm in here. Must have got a bit. You know.” He coughed. “Sweaty?”
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Instinctively Merlin’s hips flexed, pressing the painful weight of his cock up against the overwhelming heat of Arthur’s thickly muscled thigh, and, oh, no, ugh, Gods, no! This could not be happening.
It was now or never. If he was to escape this humiliation, Merlin would have to get out from under the prince as soon as possible. Otherwise he was going to come in his pants like a horny teenager and would never live down the embarrassment.
Imbuing every muscle with all the strength that he could muster, Merlin bucked beneath Arthur, twisting this way and that. All to no avail. The prince’s strength and weight were too great for him. And, god, that was a turn on, all that heat and ego, all focused on Merlin’s hypersensitised body. It was no good. Merlin’s cock was straining, eager and hard against his clothing.
He whimpered and went limp. Well, most of him went limp, anyway. Save for one part. One very critical part.
“And what am I to surmise from that?” Arthur went on, still in that low, gravelly voice that bypassed Merlin’s brain and instead spoke straight to his already embarrassing cock, making it twitch insistently, as if to remind him of its confinement and need for release.
God. Arthur must have been able to see, to feel, the effect that he was having on Merlin. The absolute tease.
But maybe the effect was reciprocated? Merlin risked letting a glance dart down to the v at the top of Arthur’s legs, the v that was so effectively clamped around Merlin’s bony hips, and confirmed his wild surmise. God! The prince’s prick was bloody enormous. He could see it outlined like a delicious, thick extra limb through Arthur’s thick, leather trousers.
Before he could stop himself, he let out a tiny whine, high and pathetic at the back of his throat.
“Well?”
“I don’t know, sire,” said Merlin, hoarsely, still staring. He licked his lips. He would love to taste…
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