Pornathon Reposts: Leftovers
So, I have a bit of a tendency towards overkill. Which basically means that every week I wrote at least one extra entry so I could pick and choose which one I liked best to submit. I won't post every single one of them (especially as one might get expanded into a proper fic at some point), but here's a sampling!
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Title: All Tied Up
Wordcount: 741
Warnings: bondage, perhaps slight hints of D/s
Summary: Merlin ties Arthur up.
Notes: This might be the porniest thing I have ever written.
Merlin runs his hand down Arthur’s spine, feeling his back heave with every breath even though Arthur’s face is buried in the pillows to muffle his choked gasps. “Going to admit you like it yet?”
“Shut up.”
“Won’t fuck you until you admit it.”
A few more gasps. “--put you in the stocks--”
He fiddles a bit with the ropes at Arthur’s ankles. There’s just enough slack to push him up on his elbows and knees when the time comes. “Not helping your cause. Sire.”
Arthur grinds his hips against the bed with what leverage he has. He’s been tied up and spread open for an hour now, and Merlin can’t blame him for being impatient. It won’t make him go any faster, though. He just waits until Arthur stops writhing around for at least the twelfth time, realizing once again that he only feels the plug more when he moves. “Please,” he mutters at last.
Most nights, that would make Merlin crumble, but it’s not what he’s looking for tonight. “Not yet. You’ve still got to say you like it when I tie you up.”
“You like it, because you’re a--a fiend, and a deviant, and I am a generous mast--”
Merlin spanks him once, lightly, and Arthur pushes into it. “If you didn’t like it so much I wouldn’t do it. I like it when you can touch me, and wrap your legs around me when I fuck you. But you like it so much when I tie you down like this, and I just want you to tell me.”
“I don’t like having this thing inside me instead of you,” Arthur grunts.
“That’s why you’re going to tell me. So I get in there instead.” Merlin puts his mouth to the end of the polished wood sticking out of Arthur’s arse and hums into it. The wood’s too dense to pass the vibrations on much, but it’s just enough to make Arthur twitch. “Come on, I just want to make you feel good. If you don’t say you like it, maybe I won’t do it anymore.”
Arthur groans, and Merlin hums again. “Tease,” he accuses.
“You just have to say, one way or the other.” Merlin settles himself back on his heels, just in Arthur’s line of sight when he twists to glare, and starts gently stroking his cock. “Say you don’t like it, and I’ll never do it again, or say you do, and you’ll get just what you want.”
“Damn you.” Arthur’s eyes never leave Merlin’s hand, which he keeps moving at as steady a pace as he can manage. Merlin isn’t above giving him a little bit of a show, thrusting his hips into the circle of his fingers, letting Arthur see what he’s missing, and that’s what finally does Arthur in, makes him bury his face in the pillow again. “I like it, I like it, Merlin.”
Those are the magic words. Merlin lets go of his cock and moves to push and prod at Arthur until he goes to his knees with a whine, arching back and letting the bindings at his wrists pull hard. “You’ll get it.” He fumbles against the slippery grain of the wood as he pulls it out, and the noise the loss wrenches from Arthur makes him slide it back in a few inches. Arthur bucks against it, shoulders straining. “Better when it’s moving?” he inquires.
“Merlin, damn it, please.”
Merlin fucks it in and out of him a few more times, and Arthur keens with it every time, biting his lip after every one. It will feel so much better for both of them when it’s him, but he never gets to watch like this, to see Arthur’s hole as it stretches and the way his stomach goes taut as he tries to squirm towards and away all at once. Merlin brings the slick to him with a whisper, moves to get a free hand and spreads the oil over his cock. “Here, here,” he says when Arthur manages to get the wherewithal to twist and glare, and pulls the slicked wood out. Arthur groans, and Merlin moves quickly to slide in where he’s empty, slow and steady, better, so much better even when he can’t see.
And Arthur is arching back into it, beyond pride, saying “I like it, Merlin, I like it--”
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Title: Washing Clean
Wordcount: 711
Warnings: post-Camlann fic, so character death
Summary: After Camlann, Merlin goes to the lake.
Notes: For the "washing/cleaning kink" from the kink grab bag
Merlin comes to the lake caked with dirt and blood, and the only place where skin shows is where the tears have fought their way down his cheeks. He knows he barely looks human.
(He doesn’t feel human.)
Freya meets him at the water’s edge, arms out to catch him when he stumbles to her. He dirties her hands. “I thought you would be the one to return Excalibur to me.”
“I couldn’t, I--” His breath shudders out. “It’s all over. Camelot. Albion. Arthur. I failed.”
She pulls him to his knees in the shallows and presses her forehead against his when he keeps trying to stare out into the mists. Arthur is out there, dying. Dead. And he can’t follow. When he pulls away from Freya, he leaves a red-brown smear of filth. Freya just makes a cup of her hands to scoop up water, lifts them over his head, and pours it over him. “You didn’t fail,” she whispers, lifting her hands again and letting the water slide down his face and neck to soak in his shirt. The water around him is already growing cloudy. “Everyone must die someday, Merlin.”
“Not at the hand of--it should have been me.”
“He’ll return.” She draws him further into the water. “He and Albion, they belong to each other. When the land needs him again, he’ll return. You’ll all return. And you’ll do better.”
“The land needs him now. They’re tearing everything apart.” Merlin bends with the force of his grief, face almost in the water, and Freya keeps bringing up handfuls of water, rinsing Camlann away. “Gods, please, Freya, I need him.”
Freya kisses the newly-cleaned nape of his neck, then pushes at his ruined shirt (Merlin won’t wear armour into battle, he doesn’t need it, but Arthur doesn’t like it, makes himself Merlin’s shield, it killed him, it killed him). He pulls it off, looks in some surprise at the dark bruises Leon’s gauntlets left when he pulled Merlin off his king. Freya hushes him when he chokes on his next breath. “You’ll see him again. For now, I’m here. You came for me when I thought I was alone and friendless, once.”
Merlin can’t keep his chest from heaving, but he lets Freya wash the grime and the death from his body, his trousers floating away (ruined as well, it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care if he has to go naked). She pours handful after handful of water over bruised and scratched skin, sloughing the dirt off until his skin is pink and clean and he’s forced to remember that he’s a man and not the memory of another.
Though she is more spirit than flesh, she is here, his last bastion in a world too empty. Merlin clings to her, kisses her too hard, washes her hands and her face in return, places he sullied with the battle. “I’m yours always, Merlin,” she whispers. “I will never leave you, just as you couldn’t leave him. I’m here.”
Freya still looks fragile and lost like she did too many years ago now, and she’s such a good memory, and her body is cool with lake water. Merlin pulls her closer and closer still, too terrified to be gentle, too alone to let her go for even a second, and when she guides him inside where she’s warmest, he buries his face in her shoulder and moves into her, beat after beat and there’s a heartbeat thrumming against his mouth when he moves his lips to her neck.
“I’m here,” she keeps saying between moans, “I’m yours, always and completely,” and the words are like her cool hands cleaning him, reminding him that Arthur was and is his destiny, but he loves her too, and part of him is hers. She, this spirit of a woman who died, binds him back to his life, dulls the grief until it won’t kill him.
Merlin comes with a sob of her name, and for a second, she’s all he thinks of.
When it’s all over, Freya pulls back and looks gravely at the streaks of tears he hadn’t been able to hold back. She fills her hands with lake water and washes him clean again.
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Title: Wings
Wordcount: 749
Summary: A stolen moment before Freya has to fly away.
Notes: A steampunk AU. It's part of a larger world but I don't know if I'll revisit it.
Leon hears the beat of wings and drops the gear he’s repairing to rush to his balcony door, to fling it open and watch Freya light down, drawing in her wings with a practiced flick of her wrist. She’s covered in coal-dust and sweat, lungs heaving with the effort of flying through steam and smog, her wings filthy. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“The air’s thick today. I thought you might not come.” He ushers her inside and starts unfastening the buckles and straps that will let her take off her wings.
Freya shrugs them off and hangs them on the stand on the wall that he pretends is just decoration when friends come. Not that they come often, when he lives up high in the cloud of steam and smog surrounding the city, where the poor stay. “I’ll always come if I can,” she whispers, unbuttoning her cuffs.
They don’t have much time, these days. He’s got to work, and it’s the storm season, so the trips from Freya’s eyrie are growing more dangerous. “I would go to you, if I could. Maybe I’ll learn to fly.” She pauses in shrugging out of her jacket to look at him sad-eyed. They both know he’s too tall, too strong-built for wings to hold him, at least the wings they know. Leon looks away first, to bend down and take off his boots.
Freya comes over just as he straightens to work at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. She draws him down to kiss her, chap-lipped and almost chaste. “We should hurry,” she whispers. “It’s too wet today. I don’t want my wings to rust.”
Leon kisses her again, and they go about the familiar business of undressing each other. She’s pale and bird-thin even though she doesn’t wear a corset like the city girls, but her shoulders are strong from helping her fly. Leon’s hands look huge against her sides. “Come to bed, sparrow,” he whispers.
She leads him there, eager. His bed, modest by his friends’ standards, is still a novelty to her. In the eyrie, they sleep nested in furs. Leon gets into it first, pulling her down against his chest. She smiles, leaving behind the sober mood she arrived in, and kisses across his chest. “I missed you,” she confesses, low.
He draws her up to kiss him again, opening her mouth slowly and gently to find the taste of spices that city folk don’t use. He wonders if he tastes as exotic to her, or if he just has the tang of coal to him. Freya buries her fingers in his hair, and if he tastes of coal, at least she doesn’t mind. Leon skims a hand up her side and cups her breast, loves the feel of her gasp. Loves her.
Something’s wrong, today. She won’t tell him, so he doesn’t stop to murmur and ask what the matter is. He just mouths his devotion into her skin as she moves over him. “Please,” she whispers at last.
It’s all he needs. He settles his hands at her hips and moves her easily into position. Freya goes with a sigh and a smile, settling on his cock, drawing him into wet heat. She sets the rhythm today, easy but deep, and he meets her thrusts. “My little sparrow,” Leon murmurs, a fond childhood nickname becoming something new.
Freya’s smile is tender and fierce at once, and her hips are steady. She stops when he gets too close, though, and then starts again. Makes a game of it so whenever he’s close to coming, he loses his chance. He puts his finger between them, slides it between her legs to add to her pleasure. She comes twice, head thrown back, before she finally encourages him to just take her hips and thrust up into her. He does, crying out her name.
After, he almost asks her to stay, but. “The air is too close,” she says. “My wings will rust. I wish I could stay.”
Leon thinks of the delicate ribs of steel and gold that he’s been forging in his spare time with whatever money he can scrounge up, of the impossibly strong black silk that will stretch over them. Of wings that won’t rust or tarnish in soot and steam, so she can fly to him more often.
He wonders how long it would take to build wings strong enough to hold him. He wonders if she would wait that long.
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Title: An Invitation
Wordcount: 746
Summary: Morgana certainly isn't expecting this when she goes to Elena and Gwaine's for dinner.
Notes: I seem to have developed a fondness for Gwaine and Elena being an established couple inviting people into their relationship.
Gwaine and Elena invite Morgana to dinner at their house, and she’s surprised when the rest of her brother’s friends aren’t there as well. “We wanted to get to know you better, on your own,” Elena explains as Gwaine takes Morgana’s jacket.
“Right,” says Morgana, trying not to show her confusion.
Dinner is surprisingly delicious--none of Arthur’s friends seem to know how to cook except Gwen, and Gwen and Morgana don’t talk anymore--and Elena and Gwaine give the impression of having been together forever, finishing one another’s sentences and touching each other absently every few seconds. It makes Morgana feel isolated even though she knows they don’t intend it. They don’t know, after all.
“We invited you here for a reason,” Gwaine says over dessert.
Elena finishes slurping down a spoonful of custard in a way she probably doesn’t mean to be obscene. “There’s no pressure, but Gwaine and I have been talking, and we’d like you to come to bed with us.”
Morgana puts her spoon down. “That’s not funny.”
“We don’t mean it to be. We think you’re gorgeous, and we want you in bed.”
“Once or as many times as you’d like,” says Elena, and holds out her hand. “We’ve been talking about it. A lot. You’ll be perfect. It’s our first time inviting someone to our bed, but we both met you and we want you--”
Morgana stands up, her face crimson with humiliation. “So it’s pity?”
“Oh no!” Elena’s hands flutter as she stands, like she wants to reach out. “I knew I’d fuck this up. We just … I don’t know what makes you think we’re joking, but we’re not.”
Judging by the look on Gwaine’s face, he might know more than Elena does, but he just shrugs. “No pressure. You can throw wine in our faces and storm out, if you like. We bought red for the occasion.”
Morgana looks between them--both so kind, Elena awkward and Gwaine every inch a charmer. It’s hard to imagine that they’re setting this up as some practical joke. She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
*
They tumble her into bed and strip her, then settle on either side of her and start kissing and licking her everywhere. Elena seems fascinated by her hair, twining locks of it around her fingers while she kisses off Morgana’s lipstick, and Gwaine nuzzles into her breasts, stubble tickling the skin. Morgana unhooks Elena’s bra with one hand and Gwaine, the arse, high-fives her when he notices what she’s done to his wife and then helpfully reaches over Morgana to strip Elena.
Elena gives Morgana a conspiratorial grin and pushes Gwaine over onto his back before wrestling off his clothes. “I want to watch him fuck you. We talk of little else, recently. Will you?”
Morgana licks Gwaine’s stomach, tracing over muscle. It’s been a while since she was with a man, but she wants it tonight. “What about you?”
“Don’t you worry about Ellie. You and me will sort her out.”
“Can he?”
“Okay,” says Morgana again, and Elena brandishes a condom packet before opening it and rolling it onto Gwaine’s cock with a grin.
“You ready?” Gwaine raises his eyebrows, and Morgana nods, letting herself smile. He grabs her hips and pulls until she’s straddling him, and Elena reclines next to them, watching as Morgana sinks slowly down on Gwaine’s cock, getting used to the stretch of it.
When Morgana is fully seated, Elena kisses Gwaine, then Morgana. “Give her the ride of her life,” she orders her husband, and settles back.
Morgana rides him hard, fast, head thrown back and thighs screaming, and when she finds her rhythm she reaches out for Elena and slips a finger into her and crooks it. “Great idea,” says Gwaine, and slides two fingers in alongside Morgana’s, and then they’re both finger-fucking his wife while he gives Morgana the ride of her life.
Later, much later, Morgana is slick and sticky and trapped in a warm tangle of limbs. Gwaine is snoring like a bear at her back, an arm clasped carelessly over her waist and his ankles twined with Elena’s. Elena, though, is awake and facing Morgana, watching her. “Will you be coming back?” she whispers.
I’ll inevitably fuck this up, thinks Morgana, but she hasn’t felt this happy or this loved in a long time, so she rubs her thumb across Elena’s lips and then kisses her. “Of course. Of course I will.”
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Title: Stake-Out
Wordcount: 801
Summary: Gwaine and Elena are not doing a very good job of paying attention to their investigation.
Notes: for the prompt "Elena/Gwaine/Leon, they fight crime" on the meme and not used because the OP deserves a much longer fill.
Elena tries not to moan while Gwaine bites her neck, but she doesn’t mind too much when she fails. It’s not like they’re in a part of town where that would be a problem.
Leon, however, objects, or at least judging by his sigh over her earpiece that’s the case. “You two do realize that you’re out on a stakeout.”
“Piss off or join in,” says Gwaine into Elena’s microphone, which is clipped to her neckline, and then proceeds to explore the area while he’s down there. “We’ve been staking this street out for a week, and I’m bored,” he adds, speaking mostly to Elena’s cleavage.
“I can’t piss off, knowing my luck you two will get shanked while you’re … necking.”
“Not her neck, mate.” Elena smacks the back of Gwaine’s head. He pouts up at her before speaking again. “So join in, then.”
“Very funny.” Poor Leon. Elena suspects half the reason he keeps his beard is so it won’t show when Gwaine makes him blush. She also suspects that he has completely missed the point of his business partners constantly making out in front of him. “What if you two have to make a quick getaway? Again?”
Elena grins. “No worries, I’ve still got my foot on the gas pedal.”
“Not comforting, actually.” Elena can’t answer, because Gwaine’s just slid his hand inside her pants and she’s a bit busy biting her lip because there’s a difference between moaning and sounding like a complete slag. “Are you two really--Gwaine, for God’s sake,” Leon interrupts himself when Gwaine makes a horrid slurping sound on her neck for the show of it. Elena smacks him again, this time on Leon’s behalf. “I really don’t need to hear this, you two.”
Either this needs to stop or they need to explain, and Gwaine isn’t going to do either, so Elena shoves him away from her microphone. “You sort of do. We’ve been trying to seduce you since the Myror case, and we’ve about reached our limit.”
One thing she loves about Leon is that he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He’s silent for a few minutes while Gwaine explores under Elena’s pants and Elena attempts to keep her eyes on the seedy hotel they’re staking out. “You two could have told me,” he points out at last.
Gwaine props himself up on Elena’s chest instead of aiming for his own microphone. “Well, we sort of thought the countless invitations to join us at dinner, not to mention the back massages and the innuendo and the ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard from our romantic vacation, would make our point.”
“So then Gwaine decided we should be more direct.” As if to prove that, Gwaine finally slides one finger inside her and crooks it. “Oh, that feels good.”
“Wait, you’re still--”
“Like we said, join in,” says Gwaine, and then kisses Elena loud and wet and messy, since Leon can’t see the show and has to imagine it unless he’s using his genius tech skills to spy without telling them. Which she wouldn’t put past him, actually.
“We’re on the clock,” mutters Leon, but it’s the same way he muttered “I like blue” after Elena painted the office yellow, with a sort of hopeless resignation.
“She never leaves until one thirty and we’ve got a bit of time till then,” Elena answers when Gwaine sees fit to release her mouth, and then unzips his fly so she can get at his cock. Full sex isn’t currently an option, but she certainly isn’t averse to front seat handjobs. “You want to give this a shot?”
There’s a sigh, and then the sound of Leon shuffling around in his chair and groaning, probably as he takes his cock out. “We are so fired,” he mourns, but his breath is catching already so he really hasn’t got a leg to stand on.
Gwaine and Elena are both terrible at dirty talk, start giggling every time they try, but both of them make a point out of moaning a little more theatrically than necessary while Elena jacks Gwaine off and he fucks her with his fingers. Leon’s quiet, but their earpieces are state-of-the-art, so she knows his breath catches quite a lot.
Elena comes first, riding it out on Gwaine’s hand and gasping into her microphone, which seems to set Leon off, as he lets out a surprised grunt and then a moan. It only takes Gwaine a few more strokes before he comes all over her hand. They’re all quiet a few minutes while they clean themselves off and presumably poor Leon rearranges his worldview to include on-the-job threesomes.
“And that,” Gwaine says eventually, with great satisfaction, “is why it’s far more fun to work in a private detective agency than on the police force.”
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Title: Girlfriends Who Live Together
Wordcount: 667
Summary: Elena and Morgana, the morning after a flatwarming party.
Notes: I have fallen in love with this pairing this summer.
Elena is just patting down the soil around her new zinnias when the balcony door slides open. “I was wondering where you got to,” says Morgana.
“Merlin gave us flowers,” Elena explains, and turns around to find Morgana with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, wearing one of her silky nightgowns and Elena’s horrid terrycloth robe. “And really, what’s the point of a balcony if you can’t have flower-boxes? I was thinking I might grow some herbs out here, so you would have fresh for cooking.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to tend them.”
“Not if I want them to live.” Elena steps over to give her girlfriend a kiss, careful to keep her hands to herself so Morgana doesn’t whine about getting dirty. She tastes like toothpaste and coffee, and all Elena can think, giddy, is that she gets to taste that every morning, possibly for the rest of her life. Just for that, she backs Morgana up against the French doors that lead to the balcony of their new flat and kisses her hard.
Morgana looks a bit dazed when she pulls away. “Remind me again why we spent last night entertaining our friends and not christening every single surface in this flat?”
“Because our friends spent the whole day consolidating the contents of our flats into this one and we owed them lots of alcohol.” Elena wipes her hands off on her jeans when Morgana closes her eyes to take a sip of her coffee. “And we have plenty of time to christen everything.” Because they are now, as Morgana drunkenly announced last night, girlfriends who live together, not just girlfriends.
“Let’s start now, shall we?” Morgana looks down at Elena’s clothes, which got covered in potting soil, and quirks a smile. “Perhaps we ought to christen the shower first.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Elena leads the way back into the flat. It’s still covered in moving boxes and duplicates of things they both thought the other had got rid of (they inexplicably have five garlic presses now, though she thinks one of them is Gwaine’s), but it’s home, and the bathroom is the one room they’ve actually organized.
Elena strips off while Morgana turns on the shower and gets it to the right temperature, then steps in to quickly scrub off the worst of the grime while Morgana works on the whole naked thing, the same routine they go through whenever they visit Elena’s dad and Elena spends the whole day riding horses. Morgana joins her quite quickly, probably after downing the last of her coffee, and they wash each other gently and then take out the shampoo--they’ve both got difficult hair, and they’ve discovered in the last couple years that it’s much easier to deal with if they do each other’s.
Morgana is practically purring by the time Elena finishes rinsing the conditioner out of her hair, and Elena can’t resist kissing down her neck and then getting to her knees in the spray, glad that the shower is unreasonably large. Morgana’s hands go to her hair immediately, undoing any good done by the washing, but Elena just grins and nuzzles at her hip until Morgana drags her head to the side.
“Pushy,” says Elena, but she licks Morgana open anyway, teases her with the little kitten-licks she knows she loves, slides a finger up inside her just to feel Morgana arch and push her hips out for more. She uses her fingers and her tongue until Morgana comes, shaking, hands buried in Elena’s hair, and then Elena pulls away and scrubs her face off in the rapidly cooling spray.
Morgana pulls her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get dried off, and then I’ll return the favour while we christen the bed.” She kisses Elena. “And maybe the balcony, really give the neighbours a show.”
Elena grins. “Let’s start with the bed, and see how it goes from there.”
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Title: Playing Grown-Ups
Wordcount: 837
Warning: light ageplay
Summary: Morgana invites Merlin over for a dinner party.
Notes: I like it, but I couldn't quite get it to fit for the challenges.
Morgana’s wearing a blue silk cocktail dress, and she’s spent dinner sipping expensive wine and smiling across a candlelit table at Merlin, who’s wearing a tie and trying to pretend he knows how to use the silverware (even though he started in and moved out--she hadn’t the heart to correct him).
It would all feel terribly adult if either of them could stop giggling.
“More wine, dear?” Merlin’s already pink-cheeked with the glass and a half that he’s had, but she has to keep finding excuses to call him “dear,” because he blushes every time.
“No, thank you.” He puts down his fork. “Dinner was lovely.”
Morgana looks at his plate. “You have the appetite of a finicky supermodel, darling.” He just shrugs. She stands and goes to his side of the table, pulls until he’s standing and then drags him into the living room, where one of Uther’s jazz CDs is playing. “Come sit down on the couch, you look tired.” He sits down, and she joins him, rubbing at her sore ankles. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so ambitious with the high heels she chose.
“Here.” He shifts on the couch. “Put your feet up on my lap.” She arches an eyebrow. “You’re sore, and I’m good at this. My mum trained me.”
She obeys, laughing a little, and sighs with relief as he unbuckles her shoes and slides them off and onto the floor. They’ll probably scuff, but she doesn’t much care. “You don’t have to,” she says, mostly out of obligation. “You looked knackered when you came here.” Morgana grins. “Came home.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to redecorate. God, I never realize how posh you lot are when I’m just playing video games with Arthur.” She kicks him gently for coming out of the game, and he grabs onto her foot, cupping her heel in his hand and starting a slow massage. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Better.” She lounges back on the couch and closes her eyes while he rubs the ache out of her feet from a day playing au pair to Mordred down the street and an evening of high heels. “You could make so much money off this,” she moans after a while. “I’m serious. I will hire you to be my personal masseur.”
Merlin laughs awkwardly, and she shifts her foot to prod him to take the compliment and forgets the subject entirely when her ankle brushes against the line of his erection through his trousers. They both freeze, and then he drops her foot like it’s burning. “Sorry, Jesus, I am so sorry,” he babbles, and she grabs for his hand before he can flee.
“Merlin.” Morgana sits forward and looks at him, blushing furiously, wearing a tie and a dinner jacket just because she’d called him up and asked him if he wanted to play at being adults for a night since Uther and Arthur are in London for the week. She’s still not sure why he said yes, but she’s beginning to suspect. And she’s … well, there’s a reason he was the one she called. So instead of trying to forget about it, she decides to take a chance. “You don’t have to be afraid to exercise your marital rights, darling.”
“I’m--” Morgana clambers ungracefully to straddle his lap before he can finish that sentence. “Morgana!”
She kisses him. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed--he was her first, four years ago at her thirteenth birthday party, and there have been a few dares since--so it feels familiar, almost calming. Morgana feels a bit reckless, seated firmly on his lap, with the game to hide behind if he has an annoying fit of nobility. “You had a hard day at work,” she whispers, using more air than she has to just to see him shiver. “Let me make it better.”
He starts laughing. “You are horrible.” She bites his lip in retaliation and he sucks in a breath and that’s very interesting and definitely something to explore later. He moves his hands to her hips. “Are you sure?”
Talking, she suspects, is just going to ruin the moment. Instead, she grinds her hips down into his and smiles triumphantly when he bucks a bit, eyes still wide and startled. “Very sure.”
They aren’t even dating properly, despite the game, so Morgana won’t do everything, but she’s perfectly willing to ride his lap while he clutches her hips. He keeps staring at her until she wraps her arms around his neck and leans forward to kiss him again, wet and messy, and then they stay like that until Merlin’s hands clench and he comes in his trousers.
It would be fine if that were it for the evening--she knows the manners of boys her age, after all--but after taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, Merlin slides his hand under her rucked-up skirt to cup her gently. “Let’s take care of you,” he says, and then she feels more than sees his lips quirk. “Dear.”
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Title: Nightmares
Wordcount: 835
Warning: references to execution
Summary: Arthur wakes from a nightmare. Merlin is there.
Merlin never looks away from his eyes, even though Arthur is trying his best not to look at him. He just stands straight, arms locked behind him. The wood is wet, Arthur’s father too impatient to wait a few days, so the fire is blessedly smoky, and Arthur hates that he is hoping Merlin suffocates before he burns, but he can’t move, limbs like lead, and he doesn’t know if it’s terror or sadness or Merlin trying to save him one last time, but he hates it, he should be there, he should rip him off the pyre, he doesn’t deserve it--
“--here, Arthur, damn it, wake up, I’m here,” Merlin says, and Arthur thrashes, mostly to prove to himself that he can move, that this is real, that Merlin is alive and unhurt and free.
He forces his eyes open to find Merlin, his brow knit with worry, hovering over him. He’s pale, sleeping bare even though the nights are getting colder. Arthur rests a hand on his shoulder, though it will do little to warm him. “I woke you.” His voice is rough, maybe from sleep, or maybe he was shouting again.
“I’d rather be awake than not, if you’re upset.” Merlin yawns and inches closer. “You were saying my name.”
“You were dying.” Arthur turns to bury his face in his pillow, embarrassed.
Merlin is silent for almost too long. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
For a moment, Arthur wonders which one of Merlin’s too-many brushes with death Merlin assumes Arthur’s been dreaming of, and then he realizes Merlin means he shouldn’t have told Arthur any of it. Shouldn’t have refused to come to bed one night and stood there like a reprimanded child while he told Arthur everything he’d been keeping from him and then said “I had to tell you all that before I could tell you I love you.”
Arthur rolls to his side and pulls Merlin as close as he can. “Never say that again, you hear me? I would not have it any other way.”
Merlin just looks mournful and far-away, though he buries his fingers in Arthur’s hair. “It worries you, though. You have more important things to worry about.” He doesn’t pause long enough to let Arthur answer. “Who was killing me this time?”
“My father.” He kisses Merlin’s shoulder. “I would never let him hurt you, Merlin.”
“I know you wouldn’t. But this is the third time you’ve had a nightmare about me in the last two weeks.”
Arthur grimaces, but it’s late, no one around but them, and he hates Merlin looking so worried about him. “Knowing about you is worth a few nightmares. More than a few.” Before Merlin can object, Arthur kisses him, and it doesn’t take much to coax his mouth open for kisses that still taste of the evening’s wine. Merlin pulls away long enough to scowl at him, but Arthur doesn’t want to talk about it, so he pulls Merlin’s mouth back to his, kisses him hard and deep before rolling him away and pressing up against his back.
“Still sore from--” Merlin starts apologetically before Arthur hushes him and strokes his cock to full hardness before sliding it between Merlin’s legs. It will chafe a little, without oil, but it’s the closest he can get to what he wants without leaving the warm cocoon of blankets. Merlin hums, understanding his intention, and starts rolling his hips. Arthur reaches around and wraps his hand around Merlin’s cock, scattering kisses on his neck and shoulders.
He doesn’t have the energy or the will to make it hard or fast, so he just moves against Merlin, feeling him solid and real and for this, he’ll protect him forever. For this, he’ll take nightmares and lying to his father and hearing truths that constantly sting.
Arthur comes with his groan muffled in Merlin’s shoulder, and keeps moving his hand until Merlin shudders against him and his hand flutters up to rest on whatever part of Arthur he can reach. “I’ll have to clean this up in the morning,” he remarks when their breathing evens. Arthur snorts. “Will you be able to sleep?”
It takes a second to remind himself that Merlin will never mock him, when they’re like this. “I think so. If I can--” He wraps himself around Merlin, presses his face into the crook of his neck so he can almost feel the pulse, rests a hand on his chest to feel it rise with every inhale. He’s glad he can’t see Merlin’s face.
Merlin just relaxes into him, hand coming up to rest over Arthur’s, and it’s barely five minutes before his breathing evens into the rhythm of sleep. Arthur enjoys the feeling of Merlin alive and warm next to him, and knows he’ll wake up to it in the morning, no matter what he dreams. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he promises in a whisper, and follows Merlin to sleep.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Title: All Tied Up
Wordcount: 741
Warnings: bondage, perhaps slight hints of D/s
Summary: Merlin ties Arthur up.
Notes: This might be the porniest thing I have ever written.
Merlin runs his hand down Arthur’s spine, feeling his back heave with every breath even though Arthur’s face is buried in the pillows to muffle his choked gasps. “Going to admit you like it yet?”
“Shut up.”
“Won’t fuck you until you admit it.”
A few more gasps. “--put you in the stocks--”
He fiddles a bit with the ropes at Arthur’s ankles. There’s just enough slack to push him up on his elbows and knees when the time comes. “Not helping your cause. Sire.”
Arthur grinds his hips against the bed with what leverage he has. He’s been tied up and spread open for an hour now, and Merlin can’t blame him for being impatient. It won’t make him go any faster, though. He just waits until Arthur stops writhing around for at least the twelfth time, realizing once again that he only feels the plug more when he moves. “Please,” he mutters at last.
Most nights, that would make Merlin crumble, but it’s not what he’s looking for tonight. “Not yet. You’ve still got to say you like it when I tie you up.”
“You like it, because you’re a--a fiend, and a deviant, and I am a generous mast--”
Merlin spanks him once, lightly, and Arthur pushes into it. “If you didn’t like it so much I wouldn’t do it. I like it when you can touch me, and wrap your legs around me when I fuck you. But you like it so much when I tie you down like this, and I just want you to tell me.”
“I don’t like having this thing inside me instead of you,” Arthur grunts.
“That’s why you’re going to tell me. So I get in there instead.” Merlin puts his mouth to the end of the polished wood sticking out of Arthur’s arse and hums into it. The wood’s too dense to pass the vibrations on much, but it’s just enough to make Arthur twitch. “Come on, I just want to make you feel good. If you don’t say you like it, maybe I won’t do it anymore.”
Arthur groans, and Merlin hums again. “Tease,” he accuses.
“You just have to say, one way or the other.” Merlin settles himself back on his heels, just in Arthur’s line of sight when he twists to glare, and starts gently stroking his cock. “Say you don’t like it, and I’ll never do it again, or say you do, and you’ll get just what you want.”
“Damn you.” Arthur’s eyes never leave Merlin’s hand, which he keeps moving at as steady a pace as he can manage. Merlin isn’t above giving him a little bit of a show, thrusting his hips into the circle of his fingers, letting Arthur see what he’s missing, and that’s what finally does Arthur in, makes him bury his face in the pillow again. “I like it, I like it, Merlin.”
Those are the magic words. Merlin lets go of his cock and moves to push and prod at Arthur until he goes to his knees with a whine, arching back and letting the bindings at his wrists pull hard. “You’ll get it.” He fumbles against the slippery grain of the wood as he pulls it out, and the noise the loss wrenches from Arthur makes him slide it back in a few inches. Arthur bucks against it, shoulders straining. “Better when it’s moving?” he inquires.
“Merlin, damn it, please.”
Merlin fucks it in and out of him a few more times, and Arthur keens with it every time, biting his lip after every one. It will feel so much better for both of them when it’s him, but he never gets to watch like this, to see Arthur’s hole as it stretches and the way his stomach goes taut as he tries to squirm towards and away all at once. Merlin brings the slick to him with a whisper, moves to get a free hand and spreads the oil over his cock. “Here, here,” he says when Arthur manages to get the wherewithal to twist and glare, and pulls the slicked wood out. Arthur groans, and Merlin moves quickly to slide in where he’s empty, slow and steady, better, so much better even when he can’t see.
And Arthur is arching back into it, beyond pride, saying “I like it, Merlin, I like it--”
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Title: Washing Clean
Wordcount: 711
Warnings: post-Camlann fic, so character death
Summary: After Camlann, Merlin goes to the lake.
Notes: For the "washing/cleaning kink" from the kink grab bag
Merlin comes to the lake caked with dirt and blood, and the only place where skin shows is where the tears have fought their way down his cheeks. He knows he barely looks human.
(He doesn’t feel human.)
Freya meets him at the water’s edge, arms out to catch him when he stumbles to her. He dirties her hands. “I thought you would be the one to return Excalibur to me.”
“I couldn’t, I--” His breath shudders out. “It’s all over. Camelot. Albion. Arthur. I failed.”
She pulls him to his knees in the shallows and presses her forehead against his when he keeps trying to stare out into the mists. Arthur is out there, dying. Dead. And he can’t follow. When he pulls away from Freya, he leaves a red-brown smear of filth. Freya just makes a cup of her hands to scoop up water, lifts them over his head, and pours it over him. “You didn’t fail,” she whispers, lifting her hands again and letting the water slide down his face and neck to soak in his shirt. The water around him is already growing cloudy. “Everyone must die someday, Merlin.”
“Not at the hand of--it should have been me.”
“He’ll return.” She draws him further into the water. “He and Albion, they belong to each other. When the land needs him again, he’ll return. You’ll all return. And you’ll do better.”
“The land needs him now. They’re tearing everything apart.” Merlin bends with the force of his grief, face almost in the water, and Freya keeps bringing up handfuls of water, rinsing Camlann away. “Gods, please, Freya, I need him.”
Freya kisses the newly-cleaned nape of his neck, then pushes at his ruined shirt (Merlin won’t wear armour into battle, he doesn’t need it, but Arthur doesn’t like it, makes himself Merlin’s shield, it killed him, it killed him). He pulls it off, looks in some surprise at the dark bruises Leon’s gauntlets left when he pulled Merlin off his king. Freya hushes him when he chokes on his next breath. “You’ll see him again. For now, I’m here. You came for me when I thought I was alone and friendless, once.”
Merlin can’t keep his chest from heaving, but he lets Freya wash the grime and the death from his body, his trousers floating away (ruined as well, it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care if he has to go naked). She pours handful after handful of water over bruised and scratched skin, sloughing the dirt off until his skin is pink and clean and he’s forced to remember that he’s a man and not the memory of another.
Though she is more spirit than flesh, she is here, his last bastion in a world too empty. Merlin clings to her, kisses her too hard, washes her hands and her face in return, places he sullied with the battle. “I’m yours always, Merlin,” she whispers. “I will never leave you, just as you couldn’t leave him. I’m here.”
Freya still looks fragile and lost like she did too many years ago now, and she’s such a good memory, and her body is cool with lake water. Merlin pulls her closer and closer still, too terrified to be gentle, too alone to let her go for even a second, and when she guides him inside where she’s warmest, he buries his face in her shoulder and moves into her, beat after beat and there’s a heartbeat thrumming against his mouth when he moves his lips to her neck.
“I’m here,” she keeps saying between moans, “I’m yours, always and completely,” and the words are like her cool hands cleaning him, reminding him that Arthur was and is his destiny, but he loves her too, and part of him is hers. She, this spirit of a woman who died, binds him back to his life, dulls the grief until it won’t kill him.
Merlin comes with a sob of her name, and for a second, she’s all he thinks of.
When it’s all over, Freya pulls back and looks gravely at the streaks of tears he hadn’t been able to hold back. She fills her hands with lake water and washes him clean again.
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Title: Wings
Wordcount: 749
Summary: A stolen moment before Freya has to fly away.
Notes: A steampunk AU. It's part of a larger world but I don't know if I'll revisit it.
Leon hears the beat of wings and drops the gear he’s repairing to rush to his balcony door, to fling it open and watch Freya light down, drawing in her wings with a practiced flick of her wrist. She’s covered in coal-dust and sweat, lungs heaving with the effort of flying through steam and smog, her wings filthy. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“The air’s thick today. I thought you might not come.” He ushers her inside and starts unfastening the buckles and straps that will let her take off her wings.
Freya shrugs them off and hangs them on the stand on the wall that he pretends is just decoration when friends come. Not that they come often, when he lives up high in the cloud of steam and smog surrounding the city, where the poor stay. “I’ll always come if I can,” she whispers, unbuttoning her cuffs.
They don’t have much time, these days. He’s got to work, and it’s the storm season, so the trips from Freya’s eyrie are growing more dangerous. “I would go to you, if I could. Maybe I’ll learn to fly.” She pauses in shrugging out of her jacket to look at him sad-eyed. They both know he’s too tall, too strong-built for wings to hold him, at least the wings they know. Leon looks away first, to bend down and take off his boots.
Freya comes over just as he straightens to work at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. She draws him down to kiss her, chap-lipped and almost chaste. “We should hurry,” she whispers. “It’s too wet today. I don’t want my wings to rust.”
Leon kisses her again, and they go about the familiar business of undressing each other. She’s pale and bird-thin even though she doesn’t wear a corset like the city girls, but her shoulders are strong from helping her fly. Leon’s hands look huge against her sides. “Come to bed, sparrow,” he whispers.
She leads him there, eager. His bed, modest by his friends’ standards, is still a novelty to her. In the eyrie, they sleep nested in furs. Leon gets into it first, pulling her down against his chest. She smiles, leaving behind the sober mood she arrived in, and kisses across his chest. “I missed you,” she confesses, low.
He draws her up to kiss him again, opening her mouth slowly and gently to find the taste of spices that city folk don’t use. He wonders if he tastes as exotic to her, or if he just has the tang of coal to him. Freya buries her fingers in his hair, and if he tastes of coal, at least she doesn’t mind. Leon skims a hand up her side and cups her breast, loves the feel of her gasp. Loves her.
Something’s wrong, today. She won’t tell him, so he doesn’t stop to murmur and ask what the matter is. He just mouths his devotion into her skin as she moves over him. “Please,” she whispers at last.
It’s all he needs. He settles his hands at her hips and moves her easily into position. Freya goes with a sigh and a smile, settling on his cock, drawing him into wet heat. She sets the rhythm today, easy but deep, and he meets her thrusts. “My little sparrow,” Leon murmurs, a fond childhood nickname becoming something new.
Freya’s smile is tender and fierce at once, and her hips are steady. She stops when he gets too close, though, and then starts again. Makes a game of it so whenever he’s close to coming, he loses his chance. He puts his finger between them, slides it between her legs to add to her pleasure. She comes twice, head thrown back, before she finally encourages him to just take her hips and thrust up into her. He does, crying out her name.
After, he almost asks her to stay, but. “The air is too close,” she says. “My wings will rust. I wish I could stay.”
Leon thinks of the delicate ribs of steel and gold that he’s been forging in his spare time with whatever money he can scrounge up, of the impossibly strong black silk that will stretch over them. Of wings that won’t rust or tarnish in soot and steam, so she can fly to him more often.
He wonders how long it would take to build wings strong enough to hold him. He wonders if she would wait that long.
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Title: An Invitation
Wordcount: 746
Summary: Morgana certainly isn't expecting this when she goes to Elena and Gwaine's for dinner.
Notes: I seem to have developed a fondness for Gwaine and Elena being an established couple inviting people into their relationship.
Gwaine and Elena invite Morgana to dinner at their house, and she’s surprised when the rest of her brother’s friends aren’t there as well. “We wanted to get to know you better, on your own,” Elena explains as Gwaine takes Morgana’s jacket.
“Right,” says Morgana, trying not to show her confusion.
Dinner is surprisingly delicious--none of Arthur’s friends seem to know how to cook except Gwen, and Gwen and Morgana don’t talk anymore--and Elena and Gwaine give the impression of having been together forever, finishing one another’s sentences and touching each other absently every few seconds. It makes Morgana feel isolated even though she knows they don’t intend it. They don’t know, after all.
“We invited you here for a reason,” Gwaine says over dessert.
Elena finishes slurping down a spoonful of custard in a way she probably doesn’t mean to be obscene. “There’s no pressure, but Gwaine and I have been talking, and we’d like you to come to bed with us.”
Morgana puts her spoon down. “That’s not funny.”
“We don’t mean it to be. We think you’re gorgeous, and we want you in bed.”
“Once or as many times as you’d like,” says Elena, and holds out her hand. “We’ve been talking about it. A lot. You’ll be perfect. It’s our first time inviting someone to our bed, but we both met you and we want you--”
Morgana stands up, her face crimson with humiliation. “So it’s pity?”
“Oh no!” Elena’s hands flutter as she stands, like she wants to reach out. “I knew I’d fuck this up. We just … I don’t know what makes you think we’re joking, but we’re not.”
Judging by the look on Gwaine’s face, he might know more than Elena does, but he just shrugs. “No pressure. You can throw wine in our faces and storm out, if you like. We bought red for the occasion.”
Morgana looks between them--both so kind, Elena awkward and Gwaine every inch a charmer. It’s hard to imagine that they’re setting this up as some practical joke. She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
*
They tumble her into bed and strip her, then settle on either side of her and start kissing and licking her everywhere. Elena seems fascinated by her hair, twining locks of it around her fingers while she kisses off Morgana’s lipstick, and Gwaine nuzzles into her breasts, stubble tickling the skin. Morgana unhooks Elena’s bra with one hand and Gwaine, the arse, high-fives her when he notices what she’s done to his wife and then helpfully reaches over Morgana to strip Elena.
Elena gives Morgana a conspiratorial grin and pushes Gwaine over onto his back before wrestling off his clothes. “I want to watch him fuck you. We talk of little else, recently. Will you?”
Morgana licks Gwaine’s stomach, tracing over muscle. It’s been a while since she was with a man, but she wants it tonight. “What about you?”
“Don’t you worry about Ellie. You and me will sort her out.”
“Can he?”
“Okay,” says Morgana again, and Elena brandishes a condom packet before opening it and rolling it onto Gwaine’s cock with a grin.
“You ready?” Gwaine raises his eyebrows, and Morgana nods, letting herself smile. He grabs her hips and pulls until she’s straddling him, and Elena reclines next to them, watching as Morgana sinks slowly down on Gwaine’s cock, getting used to the stretch of it.
When Morgana is fully seated, Elena kisses Gwaine, then Morgana. “Give her the ride of her life,” she orders her husband, and settles back.
Morgana rides him hard, fast, head thrown back and thighs screaming, and when she finds her rhythm she reaches out for Elena and slips a finger into her and crooks it. “Great idea,” says Gwaine, and slides two fingers in alongside Morgana’s, and then they’re both finger-fucking his wife while he gives Morgana the ride of her life.
Later, much later, Morgana is slick and sticky and trapped in a warm tangle of limbs. Gwaine is snoring like a bear at her back, an arm clasped carelessly over her waist and his ankles twined with Elena’s. Elena, though, is awake and facing Morgana, watching her. “Will you be coming back?” she whispers.
I’ll inevitably fuck this up, thinks Morgana, but she hasn’t felt this happy or this loved in a long time, so she rubs her thumb across Elena’s lips and then kisses her. “Of course. Of course I will.”
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Title: Stake-Out
Wordcount: 801
Summary: Gwaine and Elena are not doing a very good job of paying attention to their investigation.
Notes: for the prompt "Elena/Gwaine/Leon, they fight crime" on the meme and not used because the OP deserves a much longer fill.
Elena tries not to moan while Gwaine bites her neck, but she doesn’t mind too much when she fails. It’s not like they’re in a part of town where that would be a problem.
Leon, however, objects, or at least judging by his sigh over her earpiece that’s the case. “You two do realize that you’re out on a stakeout.”
“Piss off or join in,” says Gwaine into Elena’s microphone, which is clipped to her neckline, and then proceeds to explore the area while he’s down there. “We’ve been staking this street out for a week, and I’m bored,” he adds, speaking mostly to Elena’s cleavage.
“I can’t piss off, knowing my luck you two will get shanked while you’re … necking.”
“Not her neck, mate.” Elena smacks the back of Gwaine’s head. He pouts up at her before speaking again. “So join in, then.”
“Very funny.” Poor Leon. Elena suspects half the reason he keeps his beard is so it won’t show when Gwaine makes him blush. She also suspects that he has completely missed the point of his business partners constantly making out in front of him. “What if you two have to make a quick getaway? Again?”
Elena grins. “No worries, I’ve still got my foot on the gas pedal.”
“Not comforting, actually.” Elena can’t answer, because Gwaine’s just slid his hand inside her pants and she’s a bit busy biting her lip because there’s a difference between moaning and sounding like a complete slag. “Are you two really--Gwaine, for God’s sake,” Leon interrupts himself when Gwaine makes a horrid slurping sound on her neck for the show of it. Elena smacks him again, this time on Leon’s behalf. “I really don’t need to hear this, you two.”
Either this needs to stop or they need to explain, and Gwaine isn’t going to do either, so Elena shoves him away from her microphone. “You sort of do. We’ve been trying to seduce you since the Myror case, and we’ve about reached our limit.”
One thing she loves about Leon is that he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He’s silent for a few minutes while Gwaine explores under Elena’s pants and Elena attempts to keep her eyes on the seedy hotel they’re staking out. “You two could have told me,” he points out at last.
Gwaine props himself up on Elena’s chest instead of aiming for his own microphone. “Well, we sort of thought the countless invitations to join us at dinner, not to mention the back massages and the innuendo and the ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard from our romantic vacation, would make our point.”
“So then Gwaine decided we should be more direct.” As if to prove that, Gwaine finally slides one finger inside her and crooks it. “Oh, that feels good.”
“Wait, you’re still--”
“Like we said, join in,” says Gwaine, and then kisses Elena loud and wet and messy, since Leon can’t see the show and has to imagine it unless he’s using his genius tech skills to spy without telling them. Which she wouldn’t put past him, actually.
“We’re on the clock,” mutters Leon, but it’s the same way he muttered “I like blue” after Elena painted the office yellow, with a sort of hopeless resignation.
“She never leaves until one thirty and we’ve got a bit of time till then,” Elena answers when Gwaine sees fit to release her mouth, and then unzips his fly so she can get at his cock. Full sex isn’t currently an option, but she certainly isn’t averse to front seat handjobs. “You want to give this a shot?”
There’s a sigh, and then the sound of Leon shuffling around in his chair and groaning, probably as he takes his cock out. “We are so fired,” he mourns, but his breath is catching already so he really hasn’t got a leg to stand on.
Gwaine and Elena are both terrible at dirty talk, start giggling every time they try, but both of them make a point out of moaning a little more theatrically than necessary while Elena jacks Gwaine off and he fucks her with his fingers. Leon’s quiet, but their earpieces are state-of-the-art, so she knows his breath catches quite a lot.
Elena comes first, riding it out on Gwaine’s hand and gasping into her microphone, which seems to set Leon off, as he lets out a surprised grunt and then a moan. It only takes Gwaine a few more strokes before he comes all over her hand. They’re all quiet a few minutes while they clean themselves off and presumably poor Leon rearranges his worldview to include on-the-job threesomes.
“And that,” Gwaine says eventually, with great satisfaction, “is why it’s far more fun to work in a private detective agency than on the police force.”
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Title: Girlfriends Who Live Together
Wordcount: 667
Summary: Elena and Morgana, the morning after a flatwarming party.
Notes: I have fallen in love with this pairing this summer.
Elena is just patting down the soil around her new zinnias when the balcony door slides open. “I was wondering where you got to,” says Morgana.
“Merlin gave us flowers,” Elena explains, and turns around to find Morgana with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, wearing one of her silky nightgowns and Elena’s horrid terrycloth robe. “And really, what’s the point of a balcony if you can’t have flower-boxes? I was thinking I might grow some herbs out here, so you would have fresh for cooking.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to tend them.”
“Not if I want them to live.” Elena steps over to give her girlfriend a kiss, careful to keep her hands to herself so Morgana doesn’t whine about getting dirty. She tastes like toothpaste and coffee, and all Elena can think, giddy, is that she gets to taste that every morning, possibly for the rest of her life. Just for that, she backs Morgana up against the French doors that lead to the balcony of their new flat and kisses her hard.
Morgana looks a bit dazed when she pulls away. “Remind me again why we spent last night entertaining our friends and not christening every single surface in this flat?”
“Because our friends spent the whole day consolidating the contents of our flats into this one and we owed them lots of alcohol.” Elena wipes her hands off on her jeans when Morgana closes her eyes to take a sip of her coffee. “And we have plenty of time to christen everything.” Because they are now, as Morgana drunkenly announced last night, girlfriends who live together, not just girlfriends.
“Let’s start now, shall we?” Morgana looks down at Elena’s clothes, which got covered in potting soil, and quirks a smile. “Perhaps we ought to christen the shower first.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Elena leads the way back into the flat. It’s still covered in moving boxes and duplicates of things they both thought the other had got rid of (they inexplicably have five garlic presses now, though she thinks one of them is Gwaine’s), but it’s home, and the bathroom is the one room they’ve actually organized.
Elena strips off while Morgana turns on the shower and gets it to the right temperature, then steps in to quickly scrub off the worst of the grime while Morgana works on the whole naked thing, the same routine they go through whenever they visit Elena’s dad and Elena spends the whole day riding horses. Morgana joins her quite quickly, probably after downing the last of her coffee, and they wash each other gently and then take out the shampoo--they’ve both got difficult hair, and they’ve discovered in the last couple years that it’s much easier to deal with if they do each other’s.
Morgana is practically purring by the time Elena finishes rinsing the conditioner out of her hair, and Elena can’t resist kissing down her neck and then getting to her knees in the spray, glad that the shower is unreasonably large. Morgana’s hands go to her hair immediately, undoing any good done by the washing, but Elena just grins and nuzzles at her hip until Morgana drags her head to the side.
“Pushy,” says Elena, but she licks Morgana open anyway, teases her with the little kitten-licks she knows she loves, slides a finger up inside her just to feel Morgana arch and push her hips out for more. She uses her fingers and her tongue until Morgana comes, shaking, hands buried in Elena’s hair, and then Elena pulls away and scrubs her face off in the rapidly cooling spray.
Morgana pulls her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get dried off, and then I’ll return the favour while we christen the bed.” She kisses Elena. “And maybe the balcony, really give the neighbours a show.”
Elena grins. “Let’s start with the bed, and see how it goes from there.”
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Title: Playing Grown-Ups
Wordcount: 837
Warning: light ageplay
Summary: Morgana invites Merlin over for a dinner party.
Notes: I like it, but I couldn't quite get it to fit for the challenges.
Morgana’s wearing a blue silk cocktail dress, and she’s spent dinner sipping expensive wine and smiling across a candlelit table at Merlin, who’s wearing a tie and trying to pretend he knows how to use the silverware (even though he started in and moved out--she hadn’t the heart to correct him).
It would all feel terribly adult if either of them could stop giggling.
“More wine, dear?” Merlin’s already pink-cheeked with the glass and a half that he’s had, but she has to keep finding excuses to call him “dear,” because he blushes every time.
“No, thank you.” He puts down his fork. “Dinner was lovely.”
Morgana looks at his plate. “You have the appetite of a finicky supermodel, darling.” He just shrugs. She stands and goes to his side of the table, pulls until he’s standing and then drags him into the living room, where one of Uther’s jazz CDs is playing. “Come sit down on the couch, you look tired.” He sits down, and she joins him, rubbing at her sore ankles. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so ambitious with the high heels she chose.
“Here.” He shifts on the couch. “Put your feet up on my lap.” She arches an eyebrow. “You’re sore, and I’m good at this. My mum trained me.”
She obeys, laughing a little, and sighs with relief as he unbuckles her shoes and slides them off and onto the floor. They’ll probably scuff, but she doesn’t much care. “You don’t have to,” she says, mostly out of obligation. “You looked knackered when you came here.” Morgana grins. “Came home.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to redecorate. God, I never realize how posh you lot are when I’m just playing video games with Arthur.” She kicks him gently for coming out of the game, and he grabs onto her foot, cupping her heel in his hand and starting a slow massage. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
“Better.” She lounges back on the couch and closes her eyes while he rubs the ache out of her feet from a day playing au pair to Mordred down the street and an evening of high heels. “You could make so much money off this,” she moans after a while. “I’m serious. I will hire you to be my personal masseur.”
Merlin laughs awkwardly, and she shifts her foot to prod him to take the compliment and forgets the subject entirely when her ankle brushes against the line of his erection through his trousers. They both freeze, and then he drops her foot like it’s burning. “Sorry, Jesus, I am so sorry,” he babbles, and she grabs for his hand before he can flee.
“Merlin.” Morgana sits forward and looks at him, blushing furiously, wearing a tie and a dinner jacket just because she’d called him up and asked him if he wanted to play at being adults for a night since Uther and Arthur are in London for the week. She’s still not sure why he said yes, but she’s beginning to suspect. And she’s … well, there’s a reason he was the one she called. So instead of trying to forget about it, she decides to take a chance. “You don’t have to be afraid to exercise your marital rights, darling.”
“I’m--” Morgana clambers ungracefully to straddle his lap before he can finish that sentence. “Morgana!”
She kisses him. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed--he was her first, four years ago at her thirteenth birthday party, and there have been a few dares since--so it feels familiar, almost calming. Morgana feels a bit reckless, seated firmly on his lap, with the game to hide behind if he has an annoying fit of nobility. “You had a hard day at work,” she whispers, using more air than she has to just to see him shiver. “Let me make it better.”
He starts laughing. “You are horrible.” She bites his lip in retaliation and he sucks in a breath and that’s very interesting and definitely something to explore later. He moves his hands to her hips. “Are you sure?”
Talking, she suspects, is just going to ruin the moment. Instead, she grinds her hips down into his and smiles triumphantly when he bucks a bit, eyes still wide and startled. “Very sure.”
They aren’t even dating properly, despite the game, so Morgana won’t do everything, but she’s perfectly willing to ride his lap while he clutches her hips. He keeps staring at her until she wraps her arms around his neck and leans forward to kiss him again, wet and messy, and then they stay like that until Merlin’s hands clench and he comes in his trousers.
It would be fine if that were it for the evening--she knows the manners of boys her age, after all--but after taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, Merlin slides his hand under her rucked-up skirt to cup her gently. “Let’s take care of you,” he says, and then she feels more than sees his lips quirk. “Dear.”
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Title: Nightmares
Wordcount: 835
Warning: references to execution
Summary: Arthur wakes from a nightmare. Merlin is there.
Merlin never looks away from his eyes, even though Arthur is trying his best not to look at him. He just stands straight, arms locked behind him. The wood is wet, Arthur’s father too impatient to wait a few days, so the fire is blessedly smoky, and Arthur hates that he is hoping Merlin suffocates before he burns, but he can’t move, limbs like lead, and he doesn’t know if it’s terror or sadness or Merlin trying to save him one last time, but he hates it, he should be there, he should rip him off the pyre, he doesn’t deserve it--
“--here, Arthur, damn it, wake up, I’m here,” Merlin says, and Arthur thrashes, mostly to prove to himself that he can move, that this is real, that Merlin is alive and unhurt and free.
He forces his eyes open to find Merlin, his brow knit with worry, hovering over him. He’s pale, sleeping bare even though the nights are getting colder. Arthur rests a hand on his shoulder, though it will do little to warm him. “I woke you.” His voice is rough, maybe from sleep, or maybe he was shouting again.
“I’d rather be awake than not, if you’re upset.” Merlin yawns and inches closer. “You were saying my name.”
“You were dying.” Arthur turns to bury his face in his pillow, embarrassed.
Merlin is silent for almost too long. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
For a moment, Arthur wonders which one of Merlin’s too-many brushes with death Merlin assumes Arthur’s been dreaming of, and then he realizes Merlin means he shouldn’t have told Arthur any of it. Shouldn’t have refused to come to bed one night and stood there like a reprimanded child while he told Arthur everything he’d been keeping from him and then said “I had to tell you all that before I could tell you I love you.”
Arthur rolls to his side and pulls Merlin as close as he can. “Never say that again, you hear me? I would not have it any other way.”
Merlin just looks mournful and far-away, though he buries his fingers in Arthur’s hair. “It worries you, though. You have more important things to worry about.” He doesn’t pause long enough to let Arthur answer. “Who was killing me this time?”
“My father.” He kisses Merlin’s shoulder. “I would never let him hurt you, Merlin.”
“I know you wouldn’t. But this is the third time you’ve had a nightmare about me in the last two weeks.”
Arthur grimaces, but it’s late, no one around but them, and he hates Merlin looking so worried about him. “Knowing about you is worth a few nightmares. More than a few.” Before Merlin can object, Arthur kisses him, and it doesn’t take much to coax his mouth open for kisses that still taste of the evening’s wine. Merlin pulls away long enough to scowl at him, but Arthur doesn’t want to talk about it, so he pulls Merlin’s mouth back to his, kisses him hard and deep before rolling him away and pressing up against his back.
“Still sore from--” Merlin starts apologetically before Arthur hushes him and strokes his cock to full hardness before sliding it between Merlin’s legs. It will chafe a little, without oil, but it’s the closest he can get to what he wants without leaving the warm cocoon of blankets. Merlin hums, understanding his intention, and starts rolling his hips. Arthur reaches around and wraps his hand around Merlin’s cock, scattering kisses on his neck and shoulders.
He doesn’t have the energy or the will to make it hard or fast, so he just moves against Merlin, feeling him solid and real and for this, he’ll protect him forever. For this, he’ll take nightmares and lying to his father and hearing truths that constantly sting.
Arthur comes with his groan muffled in Merlin’s shoulder, and keeps moving his hand until Merlin shudders against him and his hand flutters up to rest on whatever part of Arthur he can reach. “I’ll have to clean this up in the morning,” he remarks when their breathing evens. Arthur snorts. “Will you be able to sleep?”
It takes a second to remind himself that Merlin will never mock him, when they’re like this. “I think so. If I can--” He wraps himself around Merlin, presses his face into the crook of his neck so he can almost feel the pulse, rests a hand on his chest to feel it rise with every inhale. He’s glad he can’t see Merlin’s face.
Merlin just relaxes into him, hand coming up to rest over Arthur’s, and it’s barely five minutes before his breathing evens into the rhythm of sleep. Arthur enjoys the feeling of Merlin alive and warm next to him, and knows he’ll wake up to it in the morning, no matter what he dreams. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he promises in a whisper, and follows Merlin to sleep.