Fic: Privilege
Title: Privilege
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Morgana, implied Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Morgana and Arthur are going to be the death of him.
AN: Written for kink_bingo for the 'crossdressing' square.
Merlin doesn't have battle reflexes, because he never had to learn any. The near-constant number of magical threats that keep invading the castle have gone some way to teaching him how not to be horribly killed straightaway. But he still hasn't exactly mastered lightening reflexes yet. He's not Arthur.
Which is why when he gets to Arthur's room with an armful of folded clothes and ends up with a sword at his neck, he doesn't try and attack whoever it is. Because that would be stupid, that would be a stupid way to be horribly killed. Instead, he turns round, very slowly.
At first, in the dark half of Arthur's room, he thinks it's one of the knights. But it only takes a step before he knows that assumption is completely wrong.
The body under the armour is regal and slim; softer than it should be. Not only that, it's familiar.
One more step and the figure reaches the candlelight. It's quite clearly Morgana.
Her hair's been left to fall free at the front but it's plaited at the back and then arranged to give the impression of something considerably shorter. The length of her neck over the shoulder-guard is a long, pale line more delicate than the armour was ever made for, even if her shoulders are built up with steel. Her face is calm and fierce at the same time.
Merlin's so busy gawping at her that he lets her push him into the edge of the table without protest. The sword ends up on the wood behind him with a dull 'clang.' Morgana's hands are small but her fingers are sharp, even through the leather gloves, when she grasps his waist.
"Your master won't be back for hours," Morgana says. Her voice is pitched low in her throat, rough and dark in a way that's jarring. "More than enough time for me to have my way with you and leave him none the wiser."
Merlin's brain comes to a messy stop at the implication of that and suddenly there's no moisture in his mouth at all. She's stolen every bit of it.
The folded clothes are sliding out of his arms and he doesn't have the sense to try and catch them.
Morgana kicks them out of the way, then reaches out with one gloved hand and jerks his neckerchief down his throat, rocking it until the knot comes loose and then pulling it away. Then she slides the same hand into his shirt and pulls hard. The ties come loose in one movement. She's not quite strong enough to tear his shirt but some of the stitching pops under her enthusiasm and the sharp, sweet jolt of arousal that brings with it makes Merlin briefly weak at the knees.
"Morgana," he manages, though it's mostly air.
She crowds him back into the wall and holds him there, the sharp edges of her armour digging through his clothes.
"That's Sir Morgan to you," she says imperiously. Though there's a slip of a smile, sharp and white and blatantly feminine which just makes everything a thousand time worse.
"Oh, God, you two are going to be the death of me," Merlin whispers. He can't for the live of him decide if that's a bad thing right now.
Morgana growls in her throat, a noise she seems to think is appropriately manly, before fisting a hand in his hair and tugging him forward.
He goes willingly, always willingly.
Morgana even kisses differently like this, hard and messy, leather clad fingers tightening in Merlin's hair until he's forced to tilt his head in a way that suits her.
When she draws back her mouth is red and shiny, left open in a way that's hungry and not graceful at all. Merlin can see perfectly what she would be like as a man. Some cold, elegantly beautiful prince, who took what he wanted and destroyed people on a whim. Morgana raises an eyebrow, like she can see what he's thinking, and she regards him disdainfully like a thing that she owns, a thing she can do whatever she pleases with.
Normally Merlin would be offended but his brain's gone wrong and all he can do is whimper unattractively and think he must look a wreck all dishevelled and kiss-bruised. Just waiting for her to command him.
"Perhaps I should put you on your knees and have your mouth on me," Morgana says. Her tone leaves Merlin absolutely certain that he'll have no say in the matter if she decides to. All the blood has left his brain and he's no longer capable of sensible, rational thought. The noises he's making aren't even real, he's sure of it. He wonders if it's possible to completely lose control of your magic and do untold damage to the whole world. Because if it is then clearly Morgana and Arthur have some sort of terrible plan for him to do exactly that.
He's already been laughed at for setting the curtains on fire.
Morgana tugs his shirt up out of his belt and draws it over his head, lets the material flutter away to concentrate on the ties of his trousers.
"Does your master ask this of you, Merlin? Does he use you like this?"
"Yes," Merlin answers breathlessly, because that's clearly what she wants.
"Does he fuck you?" she asks, fingers dug into his hips hard enough to leave an ache all the way though him.
Merlin inhales sharply, because that word from her is never, never anything but obscene.
"Yes."
The word's barely out before she's turning him, pressing him against the wall and crowding in behind him, all cold metal, chain mail and warm leather. Merlin groans and forgets, for one brief second, that she's a girl and completely incapable of taking him this way. But her breathing's sharp and quick against his cheek, long bursts of warmth, like she noticed and approves of his moment of confusion.
"You'd like that wouldn't you, Merlin?" Morgana says.
He grunts agreement, then gasps when Morgana's gloved hands pull him away from the wall and press him back into the table with a thud.
She has her fingers in his trousers before he can draw a breath, unknotting the laces completely and pushing her hands inside.
She's not gentle when she pulls them free, cloth catches tight on his skin in a way that's uncomfortable and intoxicating. Merlin has no choice but to fall under her urging, shoulders and then head smacking the wood. It's cold under his back, cold on his overheated skin and he feels halfway to obscene stretched out naked on the table, with nothing to hide how much he wants.
But Morgana's hissing rough words of appreciation as she crawls up his body, already stripping her lower armour free, chain mail sliding in a shock of cold against Merlin's bare thighs.
"I warn you Merlin one day I will make you spread your legs," she says fiercely and the curling hum of her voice makes every muscle in his body clench in bright hot want. Then her thighs are warm and bare either side of his own and Merlin's breathing harsh and sharp. She plants her hands on his bare chest, a soft scrape and slide of leather, before she's moving into his lap where he's more than ready for whatever she wants to do to him, unable to take a breath without it shaking straight out of him again.
"Are you?" he manages to ask, with what little breath he has left.
"I've seen to it," she says simply, then pins him there with her hands, not gently, an aggressive demand that he do as he's bid and Merlin has no problem with that at all. Before she shifts back and he can feel every inch of her beneath the length of her shirt. He can feel the warmth of her and she holds there for a brief agonising moment, before she smiles and pushes down.
Merlin's gasping her name, strangled in his throat and fighting not to catch her hips. She falls forward and groans into his mouth. Then kisses him, a collection of greedy, hard pushes that are open and quick and make the edges of his mouth sore. She's crushed down as far as she can go, and Merlin's as deep inside her as he can get. She's making noises like this is all she wanted, and her teeth are sharp where they drag on his chin and throat.
There's no way to survive things like this without leaving half of himself in her hands.
Her hips rock and catch and the table creaks sharply, threatening to snap in two and Morgana laughs, quick and fierce, like the thought amuses her. She sways upright, a stretch of metal and regality, cheeks flushed, mouth half open. She's still holding him down and though he knows he could break free if he wanted to he's not sure why he would want to. Not when he's exactly where he wants to be. So instead Merlin holds on tightly to his own greedy pleasure, a battle he's losing with every tiny, broken noise that rushes out of her throat.
Morgana knows how to push, she knows how to take, and the careful arrangement of her hair slowly comes free, leaving her hair flung over her shoulders, looking wild and beautiful and Merlin can't resist sliding a hand up and touching it, gathering it together until Morgana shudders out a breath and leans over again, kissing him so hard and so deep Merlin has trouble breathing.
He's helpless to do anything but let her rough, jerky pushes drag him over the edge. And it's only then that he digs his fingers into her skin, murmurs her name and shakes under the warm weight of her while she breathes words into his cheek that he can't make out and rocks through the long low shudders of her own.
Eventually Morgana slides off of him and Merlin can hear her breathing even from his position sprawled on the table.
When he feels like he's capable of breathing again he pushes himself up to his elbows.
"Dress me," Morgana says stiffly and Merlin's sliding to her side in an instant, kneeling at her feet and buckling her armour with loose and uncoordinated fingers. She fixes her hair in a stiff, formal sort of way.
When he's finished she bends, just far enough to press a kiss against Merlin's sore mouth. Then she retrieves her sword and leaves the room.
Merlin lays back on the stone and lets it cool his burning skin.
Morgana and Arthur and their games were going to kill him.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Morgana, implied Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Morgana and Arthur are going to be the death of him.
AN: Written for kink_bingo for the 'crossdressing' square.
Merlin doesn't have battle reflexes, because he never had to learn any. The near-constant number of magical threats that keep invading the castle have gone some way to teaching him how not to be horribly killed straightaway. But he still hasn't exactly mastered lightening reflexes yet. He's not Arthur.
Which is why when he gets to Arthur's room with an armful of folded clothes and ends up with a sword at his neck, he doesn't try and attack whoever it is. Because that would be stupid, that would be a stupid way to be horribly killed. Instead, he turns round, very slowly.
At first, in the dark half of Arthur's room, he thinks it's one of the knights. But it only takes a step before he knows that assumption is completely wrong.
The body under the armour is regal and slim; softer than it should be. Not only that, it's familiar.
One more step and the figure reaches the candlelight. It's quite clearly Morgana.
Her hair's been left to fall free at the front but it's plaited at the back and then arranged to give the impression of something considerably shorter. The length of her neck over the shoulder-guard is a long, pale line more delicate than the armour was ever made for, even if her shoulders are built up with steel. Her face is calm and fierce at the same time.
Merlin's so busy gawping at her that he lets her push him into the edge of the table without protest. The sword ends up on the wood behind him with a dull 'clang.' Morgana's hands are small but her fingers are sharp, even through the leather gloves, when she grasps his waist.
"Your master won't be back for hours," Morgana says. Her voice is pitched low in her throat, rough and dark in a way that's jarring. "More than enough time for me to have my way with you and leave him none the wiser."
Merlin's brain comes to a messy stop at the implication of that and suddenly there's no moisture in his mouth at all. She's stolen every bit of it.
The folded clothes are sliding out of his arms and he doesn't have the sense to try and catch them.
Morgana kicks them out of the way, then reaches out with one gloved hand and jerks his neckerchief down his throat, rocking it until the knot comes loose and then pulling it away. Then she slides the same hand into his shirt and pulls hard. The ties come loose in one movement. She's not quite strong enough to tear his shirt but some of the stitching pops under her enthusiasm and the sharp, sweet jolt of arousal that brings with it makes Merlin briefly weak at the knees.
"Morgana," he manages, though it's mostly air.
She crowds him back into the wall and holds him there, the sharp edges of her armour digging through his clothes.
"That's Sir Morgan to you," she says imperiously. Though there's a slip of a smile, sharp and white and blatantly feminine which just makes everything a thousand time worse.
"Oh, God, you two are going to be the death of me," Merlin whispers. He can't for the live of him decide if that's a bad thing right now.
Morgana growls in her throat, a noise she seems to think is appropriately manly, before fisting a hand in his hair and tugging him forward.
He goes willingly, always willingly.
Morgana even kisses differently like this, hard and messy, leather clad fingers tightening in Merlin's hair until he's forced to tilt his head in a way that suits her.
When she draws back her mouth is red and shiny, left open in a way that's hungry and not graceful at all. Merlin can see perfectly what she would be like as a man. Some cold, elegantly beautiful prince, who took what he wanted and destroyed people on a whim. Morgana raises an eyebrow, like she can see what he's thinking, and she regards him disdainfully like a thing that she owns, a thing she can do whatever she pleases with.
Normally Merlin would be offended but his brain's gone wrong and all he can do is whimper unattractively and think he must look a wreck all dishevelled and kiss-bruised. Just waiting for her to command him.
"Perhaps I should put you on your knees and have your mouth on me," Morgana says. Her tone leaves Merlin absolutely certain that he'll have no say in the matter if she decides to. All the blood has left his brain and he's no longer capable of sensible, rational thought. The noises he's making aren't even real, he's sure of it. He wonders if it's possible to completely lose control of your magic and do untold damage to the whole world. Because if it is then clearly Morgana and Arthur have some sort of terrible plan for him to do exactly that.
He's already been laughed at for setting the curtains on fire.
Morgana tugs his shirt up out of his belt and draws it over his head, lets the material flutter away to concentrate on the ties of his trousers.
"Does your master ask this of you, Merlin? Does he use you like this?"
"Yes," Merlin answers breathlessly, because that's clearly what she wants.
"Does he fuck you?" she asks, fingers dug into his hips hard enough to leave an ache all the way though him.
Merlin inhales sharply, because that word from her is never, never anything but obscene.
"Yes."
The word's barely out before she's turning him, pressing him against the wall and crowding in behind him, all cold metal, chain mail and warm leather. Merlin groans and forgets, for one brief second, that she's a girl and completely incapable of taking him this way. But her breathing's sharp and quick against his cheek, long bursts of warmth, like she noticed and approves of his moment of confusion.
"You'd like that wouldn't you, Merlin?" Morgana says.
He grunts agreement, then gasps when Morgana's gloved hands pull him away from the wall and press him back into the table with a thud.
She has her fingers in his trousers before he can draw a breath, unknotting the laces completely and pushing her hands inside.
She's not gentle when she pulls them free, cloth catches tight on his skin in a way that's uncomfortable and intoxicating. Merlin has no choice but to fall under her urging, shoulders and then head smacking the wood. It's cold under his back, cold on his overheated skin and he feels halfway to obscene stretched out naked on the table, with nothing to hide how much he wants.
But Morgana's hissing rough words of appreciation as she crawls up his body, already stripping her lower armour free, chain mail sliding in a shock of cold against Merlin's bare thighs.
"I warn you Merlin one day I will make you spread your legs," she says fiercely and the curling hum of her voice makes every muscle in his body clench in bright hot want. Then her thighs are warm and bare either side of his own and Merlin's breathing harsh and sharp. She plants her hands on his bare chest, a soft scrape and slide of leather, before she's moving into his lap where he's more than ready for whatever she wants to do to him, unable to take a breath without it shaking straight out of him again.
"Are you?" he manages to ask, with what little breath he has left.
"I've seen to it," she says simply, then pins him there with her hands, not gently, an aggressive demand that he do as he's bid and Merlin has no problem with that at all. Before she shifts back and he can feel every inch of her beneath the length of her shirt. He can feel the warmth of her and she holds there for a brief agonising moment, before she smiles and pushes down.
Merlin's gasping her name, strangled in his throat and fighting not to catch her hips. She falls forward and groans into his mouth. Then kisses him, a collection of greedy, hard pushes that are open and quick and make the edges of his mouth sore. She's crushed down as far as she can go, and Merlin's as deep inside her as he can get. She's making noises like this is all she wanted, and her teeth are sharp where they drag on his chin and throat.
There's no way to survive things like this without leaving half of himself in her hands.
Her hips rock and catch and the table creaks sharply, threatening to snap in two and Morgana laughs, quick and fierce, like the thought amuses her. She sways upright, a stretch of metal and regality, cheeks flushed, mouth half open. She's still holding him down and though he knows he could break free if he wanted to he's not sure why he would want to. Not when he's exactly where he wants to be. So instead Merlin holds on tightly to his own greedy pleasure, a battle he's losing with every tiny, broken noise that rushes out of her throat.
Morgana knows how to push, she knows how to take, and the careful arrangement of her hair slowly comes free, leaving her hair flung over her shoulders, looking wild and beautiful and Merlin can't resist sliding a hand up and touching it, gathering it together until Morgana shudders out a breath and leans over again, kissing him so hard and so deep Merlin has trouble breathing.
He's helpless to do anything but let her rough, jerky pushes drag him over the edge. And it's only then that he digs his fingers into her skin, murmurs her name and shakes under the warm weight of her while she breathes words into his cheek that he can't make out and rocks through the long low shudders of her own.
Eventually Morgana slides off of him and Merlin can hear her breathing even from his position sprawled on the table.
When he feels like he's capable of breathing again he pushes himself up to his elbows.
"Dress me," Morgana says stiffly and Merlin's sliding to her side in an instant, kneeling at her feet and buckling her armour with loose and uncoordinated fingers. She fixes her hair in a stiff, formal sort of way.
When he's finished she bends, just far enough to press a kiss against Merlin's sore mouth. Then she retrieves her sword and leaves the room.
Merlin lays back on the stone and lets it cool his burning skin.
Morgana and Arthur and their games were going to kill him.