fic: this is a bad idea
Title: this is a bad idea
Rating: R
Genre(s): angst, porn
Word Count: ~680
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Merlin of sorts
Warnings / Spoilers: End of S2
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Summary: Arthur hates magic. He hates Merlin. He hates himself. Written for Challenge 7 of the summerpornathon.
The spell had been a mistake - an accident. Uther is furious, crying for blood, and Gaius is still frantically searching for a way to reverse the chaos. The entire castle had been running amok until well after sundown, and Morgana would probably laugh, were she still here.
Yet, Arthur can’t bring himself to hate the magic.
The mirror is propped at the end of the bed. Arthur looks at it - stares at himself - at the large blue eyes, the mop of black hair, and cheekbones that are too high and too damn noticeable.
He sighs. This is a bad idea.
Nonetheless, he begins unlacing his breeches. They fall away, and Arthur stares at his cock - flushed, hard, straining pink for the past hour - and has an undeniable impulse to swallow it; suck it down his throat and tease the dripping head until come runs along his throat.
Instead, Arthur takes his cock in hand - pulls it through his fingers - and begins to jerk off slowly, the beads of precome slicking the slide of his palm. Arthur throws his head back and bites down a moan; his eyelashes flutter as he thinks of Merlin doing this to himself, Merlin with his hand on his dick, crying out.
But Arthur doesn’t have to imagine it. He opens his eyes and looks at the mirror - at the flushed neck, the rise and fall of his chest, the heated glaze in that ocean-blue. He watches himself- no, he watches Merlin - touch himself, watches him thrust his hips up, greedy and desperate. He can hear the sound of Merlin’s voice in his ears - soft pants, groans swallowed under, kept at bay even though he’s alone, in the Prince’s chambers, in the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep.
(Merlin’s asleep.)
This is a bad idea.
Arthur continues to stroke his cock, a steady, unfaltering rhythm; continues to stare, fixated, at Merlin in the mirror, legs spread wide like a whore on the rich bed covers. He’s beautiful. Arthur hates that Merlin is so beautiful.
Most of all, though, Arthur hates himself. He hates the overwhelming desire of his gut - hates the tell-tale tent of his trousers, the unmistakeable want he has for his manservant; his useless, good-for-nothing, foolish and fatally clumsy boy of a servant.
Arthur’s hand begins to gather pace, and his breath catches. His fingers are frantic, but he stares - still stares, he can’t stop staring - at himself in the mirror.
Arthur hates Merlin.
His hand is speeding up more, more, and Arthur can’t help the low, needy whine as he feels his thighs shake.
This is a bad idea.
“Shit,” Arthur breathes, because he’s close, he knows he’s so, so close, eyes trained on himself, watching Merlin’s hands on Merlin’s cock, watching Merlin’s mouth part, cherry-red lips shiny with spit, watching Merlin’s skin flushed pink and cock hard beneath his fingers-
“Merlin,” Arthur moans, half groaned and half whispered, and he’s coming, strings of milk-white falling on the sheets, his breeches, his hands.
Arthur doesn’t close his eyes, even as he lets his fast-wilting cock go, even through the heavy breathing and the haze of lust that’s only somewhat faded. He’s still looking at himself - himself in Merlin’s body. He’s intrigued and fascinated, and he wants so badly.
Slowly, Arthur brings his hand to his mouth. He watches Merlin’s tongue lick the come off his fingers, one by one, from his palm to his fingertips. He swallows every drop, tastes the bitterness, and craves the flavour when his nails are clean.
Afterwards, Arthur crawls up to the mirror; presses his face into the glass and stares at the blue depths of his eyes, the ethereally pale skin he’s wanted for so long, the lips he’s kissed in his dreams. His hand runs along his smooth, scar-less chest.
This is a bad idea.
Arthur hates Merlin. He hates his lies, he hates his betrayal, he hates his magic.
Tomorrow morning, Merlin will burn, until his face is his own again, and Arthur can no longer taste him on his tongue.
Rating: R
Genre(s): angst, porn
Word Count: ~680
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Merlin of sorts
Warnings / Spoilers: End of S2
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Summary: Arthur hates magic. He hates Merlin. He hates himself. Written for Challenge 7 of the summerpornathon.
The spell had been a mistake - an accident. Uther is furious, crying for blood, and Gaius is still frantically searching for a way to reverse the chaos. The entire castle had been running amok until well after sundown, and Morgana would probably laugh, were she still here.
Yet, Arthur can’t bring himself to hate the magic.
The mirror is propped at the end of the bed. Arthur looks at it - stares at himself - at the large blue eyes, the mop of black hair, and cheekbones that are too high and too damn noticeable.
He sighs. This is a bad idea.
Nonetheless, he begins unlacing his breeches. They fall away, and Arthur stares at his cock - flushed, hard, straining pink for the past hour - and has an undeniable impulse to swallow it; suck it down his throat and tease the dripping head until come runs along his throat.
Instead, Arthur takes his cock in hand - pulls it through his fingers - and begins to jerk off slowly, the beads of precome slicking the slide of his palm. Arthur throws his head back and bites down a moan; his eyelashes flutter as he thinks of Merlin doing this to himself, Merlin with his hand on his dick, crying out.
But Arthur doesn’t have to imagine it. He opens his eyes and looks at the mirror - at the flushed neck, the rise and fall of his chest, the heated glaze in that ocean-blue. He watches himself- no, he watches Merlin - touch himself, watches him thrust his hips up, greedy and desperate. He can hear the sound of Merlin’s voice in his ears - soft pants, groans swallowed under, kept at bay even though he’s alone, in the Prince’s chambers, in the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep.
(Merlin’s asleep.)
This is a bad idea.
Arthur continues to stroke his cock, a steady, unfaltering rhythm; continues to stare, fixated, at Merlin in the mirror, legs spread wide like a whore on the rich bed covers. He’s beautiful. Arthur hates that Merlin is so beautiful.
Most of all, though, Arthur hates himself. He hates the overwhelming desire of his gut - hates the tell-tale tent of his trousers, the unmistakeable want he has for his manservant; his useless, good-for-nothing, foolish and fatally clumsy boy of a servant.
Arthur’s hand begins to gather pace, and his breath catches. His fingers are frantic, but he stares - still stares, he can’t stop staring - at himself in the mirror.
Arthur hates Merlin.
His hand is speeding up more, more, and Arthur can’t help the low, needy whine as he feels his thighs shake.
This is a bad idea.
“Shit,” Arthur breathes, because he’s close, he knows he’s so, so close, eyes trained on himself, watching Merlin’s hands on Merlin’s cock, watching Merlin’s mouth part, cherry-red lips shiny with spit, watching Merlin’s skin flushed pink and cock hard beneath his fingers-
“Merlin,” Arthur moans, half groaned and half whispered, and he’s coming, strings of milk-white falling on the sheets, his breeches, his hands.
Arthur doesn’t close his eyes, even as he lets his fast-wilting cock go, even through the heavy breathing and the haze of lust that’s only somewhat faded. He’s still looking at himself - himself in Merlin’s body. He’s intrigued and fascinated, and he wants so badly.
Slowly, Arthur brings his hand to his mouth. He watches Merlin’s tongue lick the come off his fingers, one by one, from his palm to his fingertips. He swallows every drop, tastes the bitterness, and craves the flavour when his nails are clean.
Afterwards, Arthur crawls up to the mirror; presses his face into the glass and stares at the blue depths of his eyes, the ethereally pale skin he’s wanted for so long, the lips he’s kissed in his dreams. His hand runs along his smooth, scar-less chest.
This is a bad idea.
Arthur hates Merlin. He hates his lies, he hates his betrayal, he hates his magic.
Tomorrow morning, Merlin will burn, until his face is his own again, and Arthur can no longer taste him on his tongue.