Entries Dump, Post I
So I've decided that rather than do one every week, I'm going to wait to post my entries until once every two or three challenges. I don't know why, I just am. Probably because this seems like less work, and I am nothing if not lazy.
Also, please note that while none of have been altered drastically, some of these have been edited for grammar, wording, etc. since submitting them for the Pornathon.
CHALLENGE ONE: DIALOGUE ONLY
Notes: I still hate dialogue. HATE.
“What’s brown and sticky?”
“What?”
“You heard me the first time. I know even you’re not dumb enough to have missed it, but fine. I’ll indulge you, because I’m magnanimous like that. What’s brown and sticky?”
“Four-syllable word, nice. Been to see Morgana again, or are you finally reading books out of the adults’ section of the library now?”
“Shut up. Answer the question.”
“I don’t know, Arthur. Lots of things. Molasses, maybe, or caramel. Or coffee when you spill some and don’t wipe it up, letting it dry on the floor for your boyfriend to step in and be sufficiently grossed out by.”
“It was one time, alright? One. You have to let things go sometime, Merlin. Also, I think you’re missing the point of this whole endeavor.”
“There is no point to this, Arthur. There is no point to you asking me countless numbers of absolutely retarded jokes that I’ve heard a thousand times. None.”
“You said I needed a better sense of humor. I’m trying to acquire one.”
“You locked me out for two days because I put your hand in warm water when you were passed out on the back porch the night before April Fool’s Day and forced you to do your laundry for once! I did you a favor, and you were irrational! Also, boundless knowledge of stupid one-liners does not a sense of humor make.”
“I do laundry! I’m just not obsessive about it like you are, Mr. I-must-clean-everything-I-own-at-least-twice-a-week.”
“…”
“And your definition of ‘a sense of humor’ is completely subjective. Also, wrong. I’m sorry you can’t appreciate good comedy, Merlin.”
“Arthur. Those jokes are in no way ‘good comedy.’ None. Whatsoever. They are pointless and dumb and maybe amusing for the first two, but certainly only dull after hearing thousands of them.”
“You’re exaggerating. I’ve only been through three books, and each has about 300 jokes. You’ve heard maybe 900, at best.”
“It doesn’t matter! That’s still 900 too many! It’s still 900 that I never wanted or needed to hear!”
“Are you saying that your day isn’t automatically brightened by me sharing joy with you, or at least hearing my laughter? I’d think it would be month-brightening, let alone just one day.”
“My biology professor now thinks I’m a pervert because of that helicase joke you wrote -- in ink, I might add -- on my report. Excuse me if I don’t find it exactly day-brightening.”
“…Which helicase joke was that, again?”
“I wish I were your DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes.”
“Why, Merlin, I had no idea!”
“…”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I thought it was funny.”
“Well, my professor didn’t, and she now practically refuses to be alone in the same room with me, which makes going to office hours to get the help sessions that I very much need rather difficult.”
“Oh. It’s still a good joke, though, you have to admit.”
“…I am this close to stabbing you with a pencil.”
“You know what else is a good joke? The one I was trying to tell you earlier.”
“No, really, pencils. In your eyes.”
“No, really, locked out for another two days if you don’t shut up and indulge me.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s nice, Merlin. Now, again: what’s brown and sticky?”
“I don’t know, Arthur. What?”
“You could at least sound interested, you know?”
“Would you just finish the damn joke?”
“Ugh, fine. A stick.”
“That wasn’t - that didn’t even attempt to be clever!”
“I thought it was actually quite witty. Sort of tongue-in-cheek.”
“Well, that’s because you’re deranged. Also, retarded.”
“But you still love me.”
“Says who?”
“You. Last night. When I was fucking you through the mattress.”
“Can’t that be blamed on the throes of ecstasy?”
“No, not really.”
“Fuck.”
“And I think I’m actually rather insulted by that.”
“You’re insulted by me essentially complimenting your skills in bed?”
“No, I’m insulted by the fact that you apparently only love me for my skills in bed. And I thought I actually meant something to you, but no, I see how it is.”
“…”
“Clearly, you should make it up to me.”
“How?”
“By letting me fuck you through the mattress again. Obviously.”
“Oh, obviously. Well. If you insist.”
“I do. Oh, but first, I have a question for you.”
“What, Arthur?”
“What did the one chicken breeder say to the other?”
“I’m going to regret this, but. What?”
“‘Want to see my cock?’”
“…”
“…Merlin? Where are you going? Merlin!”
BONUS CHALLENGE ONE: INTERESTING PLACES
Notes: This is what happens when you spend too much time at Sea World as a child. I'm sorry, beluga whales. I love you, I swear.
Normally, Merlin loves working in the Wild Arctic exhibit. He's a huge fan of belugas and polar bears both (fucking adorable, they are, no matter how much Arthur mocks him for thinking so), and the walruses are, well. He’ll go with “interesting” and leave it at that. Plus, it's always cold in there, which is a huge deal when Florida summers often feel like one extended trip to the sauna.
Still, the Wild Arctic exhibit is not exactly Merlin's ideal place for a fuck. It's fucking cold, especially in the actual exhibits, and it smells kind of perpetually like fish, and just. Yeah, not his dream location.
Arthur, though, is apparently a bit of a kinky bastard, because Arthur is currently on top of him on the snow-covered floor, rutting vigorously against his thigh in a way that shows he definitely has no qualms getting it on in their workplace environment, dear God, much less a room flavored with the delicate aroma of old whale-food.
And ordinarily, Merlin would object -- had objected, actually, and quite vehemently, too, until Arthur had pulled him close and kissed him, swallowed his protests and arguments and eventual moans like they were water in the desert or something. He would normally push Arthur back, and he'd tried that, in fact -- only Arthur had grabbed his hands and pulled him close, wrapped his arms tight around Merlin's waist and maneuvered him to the floor, nibbling kisses down his throat as a distraction from the awkwardness of the motion and the really fucking cold of the ground.
And it's still really fucking cold. It hasn't gotten any better, only now, Arthur's pressed up along the front of him, burning hot in comparison to the chill of the snow against his back. Arthur's breath comes in warm, steamy gusts against his mouth and neck, and Merlin shivers as they cool instantly in the clima-controlled air. More importantly, Arthur's hand is tugging at his uniform pants, finally popping the button and slipping a hand inside to grab Merlin's cock. He pumps a few times, lazily, and Merlin can't help his hips from moving up into it.
He also can't help the groan that comes when Arthur removes his hand to rub it in the snow, grin wicked and unabashed.
It evolves into unabashedly smug (and Merlin will have to knock him down a peg or two, certainly, but later, fuck) when Arthur wraps his now freezing, wet hand back around Merlin's dick and Merlin hears himself fucking keen, hips bucking wildly up.
It shouldn't feel so good, this burning, stinging cold, but it does, it does. Merlin's gasping now, lungs drawing in air that he swears tastes faintly of salty fish. And he can hear Arthur doing the same, can hear him whispering, "Fuck, Merlin," in that way that means he's close, close from no touches, only the friction of his cock dragging along Merlin's thigh and whatever effect Merlin’s own loss of control is having on him, and Jesus, this is not helping the situation. In the background, Sally the beluga lets out a cry, long and plaintive and eerily melodious, the reason he wanted to study whales in the first place, but Merlin can barely hear it over the sound of Arthur's hand moving along his cock, the harsh rhythm of Arthur's choked-out whimpers against his neck, the roar of blood in his ears as a particularly sharp twist of the wrist, all of it, makes him come.
It's almost surreal, when he blinks away the daze of orgasm. Arthur's finished himself off somehow and is now lying, sated and heavy, on top of Merlin. Merlin brings a hand up to stroke through Arthur's hair, and he can't help but laugh a bit when he realizes he's doing so in time to the gentle beat of waves against the beluga tank's glass walls. Sally lets out another cry while Arthur mumbles something that sounds a bit like love you into Merlin’s shoulder, and yeah, it’s not exactly why Merlin took this job to begin with.
It is, however, exactly why he stays.
CHALLENGE TWO: FIRST TIMES
Notes: I think I like this one (or the bonus challenge entry right before it) the least out of all of them. Also, this is a prime example of why I need to start actively practicing variation in how I write smut. I swear, one of these days, I will post smut that does not contain any derivative of the words "It doesn't last long." I will also one day post smut that doesn't get all schmoopy towards the end. UGH, SELF.
Merlin has Arthur moaning beneath him, and that’s nothing new. What is new is that Merlin has Arthur moaning because of Merlin’s fingers inside him, twisting helpless at the stretch and pull of his own body around Merlin’s knuckles. Yeah, that’s. That’s definitely something new.
He pushes another finger, already slick with oil, inside Arthur. It slides in easily along the first one, and Merlin groans a bit at how tight Arthur is around him. He starts to flex them, to probe and stretch Arthur wide, and Arthur lets out a whimper that is probably the hottest thing ever. When Merlin looks up, Arthur’s face is scrunched, eyes squeezed shut as he adjusts, and Merlin knows how that is. He knows the deep breaths Arthur’s taking, knows how Arthur’s eyes sting from the awkward burn of this, knows the exact moment it becomes bearable when Merlin’s fingers finally brush against his prostate.
Arthur’s never asked him for this before, and Merlin’s been fine with that. He’s been more than satisfied with the feel of Arthur thrusting, deep and hard and fast, inside him, and he hasn’t really felt the need to change it up. Only now, he’s wondering if Arthur was right in all those comments about Merlin being slightly retarded, because Merlin’s not sure how he could ever have lived without wanting to see more of this.
This is the sight of Arthur’s eyes flying open to gape at the ceiling, pupils blown dark and open in pleasure, as Merlin drags his fingers repeatedly over his prostate. This is the knowledge that those bitten-off moans and gasps are ripping themselves from Arthur’s throat because of what Merlin’s doing, steadily flexing his fingers and gently biting Arthur’s hip in distraction from the third digit now working its way inside. This is the fact that Arthur trusts him enough to let him do this to begin with, to give up control to lie pliant and spread-out under Merlin.
(Even after all these months, this is still having Arthur Pendragon in his bed and in his arms at all.)
He has three fingers in Arthur now, and Arthur’s still so fucking tight, Merlin doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. He says as much and Arthur laughs like he’s dying, like he doesn’t really want to but can’t think of anything else to do, and his voice sounds strained as he says, “You’re just the same,” and then, “Come on, Merlin, fuck. I’m ready.”
Merlin doesn’t quite believe him, but he also has to remember that he’s as new at this side of things, at stretching and preparing, as Arthur is at being worked open. Arthur’s the one he needs to trust here, and he knows that while Arthur may be stubborn and over-eager sometimes, he’s not masochistic enough to want this before he’s ready.
So Merlin pulls out his fingers, reaching his other hand for the oil. Arthur moans at the loss, the sudden emptiness inside him, and Merlin bends up and kisses him, murmurs, “I know,” against Arthur’s lips because he does. And he knows that Arthur gets why he bites his lip while slicking his cock, the friction and heat almost too much when he’s already aware of just how good Arthur will feel around him.
They both moan when Merlin pushes into Arthur. Merlin bows his head to rest against Arthur’s shoulder as Arthur cranes his own back, both of them waiting to adjust to this, the strange newness of it all.
Arthur finally breaks the stalemate of adjustment. He rolls his hips to take Merlin in even deeper, head moving up to nudge against Merlin’s own, and Merlin really can’t help the moan that escapes him at that. “Move,” he hisses, mouth hot on Merlin’s ear, and Merlin smirks and does.
It doesn’t last long, but it can’t, really, not when it’s so new and over-stimulating for them both. Merlin’s hips move quickly, driving his cock in and out of Arthur hard enough to make Arthur keen on every thrust. His hand grips Arthur’s cock, hot and tight like Merlin usually needs, like Arthur is around him now. Arthur gives the same as he gets, moving his hips in sync with Merlin and clenching down on Merlin inside him, and it’s too much for both of them. Arthur comes with a flick of Merlin’s wrist, Merlin with a bite to his shoulder, and they’re both gone, swept away by what’s new and unfamiliar and right.
CHALLENGE THREE: ALTERNATE UNIVERSES
Notes: Out of all the challenges so far, this was the easiest for me. I knew what I wanted to do for it right away, and while it turned out to by far not be the most original of ideas (three different French Revolution-based entries, ugh), I'm still kind of proud of it. I think it's my favorite of all the entries I've submitted to date. Even if I totally edited out the sex-that-never-really-fit because it failed.
Arthur’s father says that the revolutionaries are a menace.
He says that their pamphlets are idealistic drivel, that their virtues are impractical.
He says that they are unsatisfied with what they already have -- jobs in the fields, flour for bread, roofs over their heads. He says that nothing will ever be enough for them, that they are radical, unrealistic desire personified.
He says.
***
Merlin comes to the manor as a stable-hand, someone fresh from the country arrived to help Gaius tend the many horses Arthur’s family owns. He’s wide-eyed at the splendor -- the marble columns and floors and staircases, the gold-inlay lining the walls, the sheer extravagance that makes Camelot one of France’s finest estates.
There’s something in his gaze, though, almost a hesitance to believe that this is real. Arthur can’t say he knows the feeling, but he can vaguely imagine it.
***
Arthur finds Merlin to be surprisingly good company.
He tells Arthur of village life, of winters spent playing in snow and fall days harvesting the town crops, of his mother and friends. He tells Arthur of cold nights huddled under threadbare blankets, of days when hunger gnawed at his stomach because flour ran out and there was no money for more.
Arthur tells Merlin of the manor’s midwinter feasts, of golden plates and silken clothes and warm featherbeds, of all the things that make up aristocratic life. Arthur pretends not to notice the hints of anger and disgust in Merlin’s eyes that he can’t quite hide.
Even as he recalls another banquet, Arthur pretends not to notice his own similar feelings.
***
Reports arrive daily from Paris. They talk of overthrow, of blood that stains the streets and chants that fill the air. They talk of mobs armed with guns and knives and pamphlets, weapons and words and a desire for change.
Arthur’s father calls them foolish, reckless, pointless. He calls it barbarism, a phase that will unnecessarily stain France’s history forever.
When Arthur asks him, Merlin calls it nothing, only hands Arthur the reins to his saddled horse and says, “He’s ready.”
His eyes, when they meet Arthur’s, call it hope.
***
They discuss other things now.
“What do they even want, these revolutionaries?” Arthur asks because he doesn’t know, has never been permitted to read the numerous publications that have circulated over the past few years.
“Change,” Merlin says. He brushes Arthur’s horse with a steady rhythm, whisper-soft and slow.
“Why?”
“Because they are tired of watching their children starve.”
“My father says they don’t,” Arthur responds, because he knows this, at least. “He says they have paying jobs, that it’s their own fault if they can’t manage their resources properly. He says we shouldn’t have to pay for their mistakes, that they’ll never learn if we do. He says -- ”
“And what do you say, Arthur?” Merlin cuts him off, anger coloring his voice.
Arthur has no answer.
***
Days later, Merlin takes Arthur into town. They visit a pub, smoke-filled and smelling of roasted meat and spilled wine, of unwashed laborers and the stale-sweet odor of sweat, of things that Arthur both knows and doesn’t.
They stand in the back and listen, Merlin bright-eyed and rapt, Arthur merely observant. The gathered men shout about the injustice of seeing thousands starve while handfuls feast and waste each night. And about the injustice of watching thousands grow sick from cold while handfuls use beyond their share of wood and coal to light rooms in mansions that no one bothers to use. And about the injustice of living in a society that ignores the majority of its people.
They shout about a need for change.
Arthur looks at Merlin, focused and flushed with enthusiasm, with wasted youth and passion, and agrees.
***
Merlin comes to him one day, face drawn and eyes wide.
“Your father is sending me away,” he says. “He found a pamphlet from the pub, and -- ”
“They’re banned here,” Arthur finishes, “so you have to leave.”
“Yes,” Merlin says, and pulls Arthur forward to kiss him brokenly. His tongue licks into Arthur’s mouth like fire, hot and fleeting, and Arthur can’t help but moan. He’s wanted this, yes, since he saw Merlin’s eyes bright in the pub, heard Merlin’s voice angry and challenging in the stable. He’s wanted it, they both have, so he kisses back easily, desperately, searching for a way to hold onto Merlin when he’s already slipping away.
When he pulls back, Merlin says, lips shiny from spit and red like the color of radical anger and all-consuming want, “Come with me.”
Arthur thinks about his father and France, about blood and change, about Merlin and Paris and what defines necessary progress. In the end, he has only one answer.
BONUS CHALLENGE TWO: FOREPLAY
Notes: My love for this pick-up line is ridiculous. Just so you know.
Arthur’s a maths major, right? Yeah, he started as business (with an emphasis on economics), as per his father’s request, but there’s only so much financial jargon and studying variations on models of economic success that one guy can take. And Arthur had found that with those models, he didn’t care so much about the why as he did the what, the shape of those graphs, the subtle rise and fall of smooth curves around a central axis. So while his father isn’t the happiest about it, Arthur’s now switched his academic focus to a double, tacked on a shiny new maths major with classes he actually enjoys to his regular load of Industrial Organization and Game Theory.
And this is relevant, really. It’s relevant because it’s these graphs that Arthur’s currently drawing down and across Merlin’s chest. With his tongue, because Arthur is just that skilled. Merlin apparently agrees, if his choked-off moans are any indication.
Arthur traces his tongue up the left side of Merlin’s chest in an unbroken line, curving inwards slightly to peak at a point just between his nipples, then back down the other side. “Basic quadratic function, y equals x squared,” he murmurs, breath bouncing hot off Merlin’s skin and back against his own face.
He moves into another curve, starts at Merlin’s left nipple and drags his tongue smoothly through a series of upwards- and downwards-facing arcs, even and repetitive, cyclical. When he reaches Merlin’s right nipple, he bites it softly, whispers, “A trigonometric function, y equals the sine of x,” and Merlin whimpers.
“Arthur,” he says, voice hoarse with want that Arthur can feel, hard and jutting, against his thigh. “Arthur, please.”
“But Merlin,” and Arthur can’t help but tease him. “Merlin, you promised you’d help me study for my final tomorrow.”
“I assumed you meant flashcards and practice quizzes -- you know, the way normal people study.”
“But practical and applied reviews work so much better, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Merlin says, but it tapers off into a groan as Arthur begins systematically nibbling and kissing his way through outlining the greatest integer function across the planes of Merlin’s abdomen.
“You know,” Arthur says once he’s finished, pulling back and up until he’s eye-to-lust-filled-eye with Merlin. Merlin squirms a bit, moves as if to tug Arthur down for a kiss, and Arthur pins his arms swiftly down. “There are times, Merlin, where I wish I were your first derivative.”
Merlin groans again, but it’s in exasperation this time, just as Arthur expected; he’s used that line before, and he loves it, but Merlin really, really doesn’t. “For the love of God, Arthur, I’m not a girl. I don’t even have any curves for you to lie tangent to.”
And this Arthur disagrees with, simply because Merlin is nothing if not a study in conics. The bow in the line of his lips, the arc of his back and throat as he pushes up against Arthur, the slow curve in from his shoulders to his hips -- his entire physique is filled with enough of these enticing curves for Arthur to write a fucking dissertation on, if he thought any academic department would give him credit and a degree for Conics in the Sexually-Charged Anatomy of Merlin Emrys: A Study.
For now, though, Arthur bends his own neck down to kiss Merlin, wet and hot and fast, and Merlin whines when Arthur pulls back. Arthur moves his way down Merlin’s body and fits his thumbs into the concave depressions of Merlin’s hipbones. He kisses his way inward, tongue tracing small circles (the graph of all the points in a plane equidistant from a single given point, for anyone who cares, and Arthur does) against Merlin’s skin along the way, and as Merlin curses and pants above him, Arthur thinks, And people say maths isn’t sexy, before he does his level best to make Merlin’s back arc up in a perfect, even parabola by the night’s end.
Thoughts?
Also, please note that while none of have been altered drastically, some of these have been edited for grammar, wording, etc. since submitting them for the Pornathon.
CHALLENGE ONE: DIALOGUE ONLY
Notes: I still hate dialogue. HATE.
“What’s brown and sticky?”
“What?”
“You heard me the first time. I know even you’re not dumb enough to have missed it, but fine. I’ll indulge you, because I’m magnanimous like that. What’s brown and sticky?”
“Four-syllable word, nice. Been to see Morgana again, or are you finally reading books out of the adults’ section of the library now?”
“Shut up. Answer the question.”
“I don’t know, Arthur. Lots of things. Molasses, maybe, or caramel. Or coffee when you spill some and don’t wipe it up, letting it dry on the floor for your boyfriend to step in and be sufficiently grossed out by.”
“It was one time, alright? One. You have to let things go sometime, Merlin. Also, I think you’re missing the point of this whole endeavor.”
“There is no point to this, Arthur. There is no point to you asking me countless numbers of absolutely retarded jokes that I’ve heard a thousand times. None.”
“You said I needed a better sense of humor. I’m trying to acquire one.”
“You locked me out for two days because I put your hand in warm water when you were passed out on the back porch the night before April Fool’s Day and forced you to do your laundry for once! I did you a favor, and you were irrational! Also, boundless knowledge of stupid one-liners does not a sense of humor make.”
“I do laundry! I’m just not obsessive about it like you are, Mr. I-must-clean-everything-I-own-at-least-twice-a-week.”
“…”
“And your definition of ‘a sense of humor’ is completely subjective. Also, wrong. I’m sorry you can’t appreciate good comedy, Merlin.”
“Arthur. Those jokes are in no way ‘good comedy.’ None. Whatsoever. They are pointless and dumb and maybe amusing for the first two, but certainly only dull after hearing thousands of them.”
“You’re exaggerating. I’ve only been through three books, and each has about 300 jokes. You’ve heard maybe 900, at best.”
“It doesn’t matter! That’s still 900 too many! It’s still 900 that I never wanted or needed to hear!”
“Are you saying that your day isn’t automatically brightened by me sharing joy with you, or at least hearing my laughter? I’d think it would be month-brightening, let alone just one day.”
“My biology professor now thinks I’m a pervert because of that helicase joke you wrote -- in ink, I might add -- on my report. Excuse me if I don’t find it exactly day-brightening.”
“…Which helicase joke was that, again?”
“I wish I were your DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes.”
“Why, Merlin, I had no idea!”
“…”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I thought it was funny.”
“Well, my professor didn’t, and she now practically refuses to be alone in the same room with me, which makes going to office hours to get the help sessions that I very much need rather difficult.”
“Oh. It’s still a good joke, though, you have to admit.”
“…I am this close to stabbing you with a pencil.”
“You know what else is a good joke? The one I was trying to tell you earlier.”
“No, really, pencils. In your eyes.”
“No, really, locked out for another two days if you don’t shut up and indulge me.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s nice, Merlin. Now, again: what’s brown and sticky?”
“I don’t know, Arthur. What?”
“You could at least sound interested, you know?”
“Would you just finish the damn joke?”
“Ugh, fine. A stick.”
“That wasn’t - that didn’t even attempt to be clever!”
“I thought it was actually quite witty. Sort of tongue-in-cheek.”
“Well, that’s because you’re deranged. Also, retarded.”
“But you still love me.”
“Says who?”
“You. Last night. When I was fucking you through the mattress.”
“Can’t that be blamed on the throes of ecstasy?”
“No, not really.”
“Fuck.”
“And I think I’m actually rather insulted by that.”
“You’re insulted by me essentially complimenting your skills in bed?”
“No, I’m insulted by the fact that you apparently only love me for my skills in bed. And I thought I actually meant something to you, but no, I see how it is.”
“…”
“Clearly, you should make it up to me.”
“How?”
“By letting me fuck you through the mattress again. Obviously.”
“Oh, obviously. Well. If you insist.”
“I do. Oh, but first, I have a question for you.”
“What, Arthur?”
“What did the one chicken breeder say to the other?”
“I’m going to regret this, but. What?”
“‘Want to see my cock?’”
“…”
“…Merlin? Where are you going? Merlin!”
BONUS CHALLENGE ONE: INTERESTING PLACES
Notes: This is what happens when you spend too much time at Sea World as a child. I'm sorry, beluga whales. I love you, I swear.
Normally, Merlin loves working in the Wild Arctic exhibit. He's a huge fan of belugas and polar bears both (fucking adorable, they are, no matter how much Arthur mocks him for thinking so), and the walruses are, well. He’ll go with “interesting” and leave it at that. Plus, it's always cold in there, which is a huge deal when Florida summers often feel like one extended trip to the sauna.
Still, the Wild Arctic exhibit is not exactly Merlin's ideal place for a fuck. It's fucking cold, especially in the actual exhibits, and it smells kind of perpetually like fish, and just. Yeah, not his dream location.
Arthur, though, is apparently a bit of a kinky bastard, because Arthur is currently on top of him on the snow-covered floor, rutting vigorously against his thigh in a way that shows he definitely has no qualms getting it on in their workplace environment, dear God, much less a room flavored with the delicate aroma of old whale-food.
And ordinarily, Merlin would object -- had objected, actually, and quite vehemently, too, until Arthur had pulled him close and kissed him, swallowed his protests and arguments and eventual moans like they were water in the desert or something. He would normally push Arthur back, and he'd tried that, in fact -- only Arthur had grabbed his hands and pulled him close, wrapped his arms tight around Merlin's waist and maneuvered him to the floor, nibbling kisses down his throat as a distraction from the awkwardness of the motion and the really fucking cold of the ground.
And it's still really fucking cold. It hasn't gotten any better, only now, Arthur's pressed up along the front of him, burning hot in comparison to the chill of the snow against his back. Arthur's breath comes in warm, steamy gusts against his mouth and neck, and Merlin shivers as they cool instantly in the clima-controlled air. More importantly, Arthur's hand is tugging at his uniform pants, finally popping the button and slipping a hand inside to grab Merlin's cock. He pumps a few times, lazily, and Merlin can't help his hips from moving up into it.
He also can't help the groan that comes when Arthur removes his hand to rub it in the snow, grin wicked and unabashed.
It evolves into unabashedly smug (and Merlin will have to knock him down a peg or two, certainly, but later, fuck) when Arthur wraps his now freezing, wet hand back around Merlin's dick and Merlin hears himself fucking keen, hips bucking wildly up.
It shouldn't feel so good, this burning, stinging cold, but it does, it does. Merlin's gasping now, lungs drawing in air that he swears tastes faintly of salty fish. And he can hear Arthur doing the same, can hear him whispering, "Fuck, Merlin," in that way that means he's close, close from no touches, only the friction of his cock dragging along Merlin's thigh and whatever effect Merlin’s own loss of control is having on him, and Jesus, this is not helping the situation. In the background, Sally the beluga lets out a cry, long and plaintive and eerily melodious, the reason he wanted to study whales in the first place, but Merlin can barely hear it over the sound of Arthur's hand moving along his cock, the harsh rhythm of Arthur's choked-out whimpers against his neck, the roar of blood in his ears as a particularly sharp twist of the wrist, all of it, makes him come.
It's almost surreal, when he blinks away the daze of orgasm. Arthur's finished himself off somehow and is now lying, sated and heavy, on top of Merlin. Merlin brings a hand up to stroke through Arthur's hair, and he can't help but laugh a bit when he realizes he's doing so in time to the gentle beat of waves against the beluga tank's glass walls. Sally lets out another cry while Arthur mumbles something that sounds a bit like love you into Merlin’s shoulder, and yeah, it’s not exactly why Merlin took this job to begin with.
It is, however, exactly why he stays.
CHALLENGE TWO: FIRST TIMES
Notes: I think I like this one (or the bonus challenge entry right before it) the least out of all of them. Also, this is a prime example of why I need to start actively practicing variation in how I write smut. I swear, one of these days, I will post smut that does not contain any derivative of the words "It doesn't last long." I will also one day post smut that doesn't get all schmoopy towards the end. UGH, SELF.
Merlin has Arthur moaning beneath him, and that’s nothing new. What is new is that Merlin has Arthur moaning because of Merlin’s fingers inside him, twisting helpless at the stretch and pull of his own body around Merlin’s knuckles. Yeah, that’s. That’s definitely something new.
He pushes another finger, already slick with oil, inside Arthur. It slides in easily along the first one, and Merlin groans a bit at how tight Arthur is around him. He starts to flex them, to probe and stretch Arthur wide, and Arthur lets out a whimper that is probably the hottest thing ever. When Merlin looks up, Arthur’s face is scrunched, eyes squeezed shut as he adjusts, and Merlin knows how that is. He knows the deep breaths Arthur’s taking, knows how Arthur’s eyes sting from the awkward burn of this, knows the exact moment it becomes bearable when Merlin’s fingers finally brush against his prostate.
Arthur’s never asked him for this before, and Merlin’s been fine with that. He’s been more than satisfied with the feel of Arthur thrusting, deep and hard and fast, inside him, and he hasn’t really felt the need to change it up. Only now, he’s wondering if Arthur was right in all those comments about Merlin being slightly retarded, because Merlin’s not sure how he could ever have lived without wanting to see more of this.
This is the sight of Arthur’s eyes flying open to gape at the ceiling, pupils blown dark and open in pleasure, as Merlin drags his fingers repeatedly over his prostate. This is the knowledge that those bitten-off moans and gasps are ripping themselves from Arthur’s throat because of what Merlin’s doing, steadily flexing his fingers and gently biting Arthur’s hip in distraction from the third digit now working its way inside. This is the fact that Arthur trusts him enough to let him do this to begin with, to give up control to lie pliant and spread-out under Merlin.
(Even after all these months, this is still having Arthur Pendragon in his bed and in his arms at all.)
He has three fingers in Arthur now, and Arthur’s still so fucking tight, Merlin doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. He says as much and Arthur laughs like he’s dying, like he doesn’t really want to but can’t think of anything else to do, and his voice sounds strained as he says, “You’re just the same,” and then, “Come on, Merlin, fuck. I’m ready.”
Merlin doesn’t quite believe him, but he also has to remember that he’s as new at this side of things, at stretching and preparing, as Arthur is at being worked open. Arthur’s the one he needs to trust here, and he knows that while Arthur may be stubborn and over-eager sometimes, he’s not masochistic enough to want this before he’s ready.
So Merlin pulls out his fingers, reaching his other hand for the oil. Arthur moans at the loss, the sudden emptiness inside him, and Merlin bends up and kisses him, murmurs, “I know,” against Arthur’s lips because he does. And he knows that Arthur gets why he bites his lip while slicking his cock, the friction and heat almost too much when he’s already aware of just how good Arthur will feel around him.
They both moan when Merlin pushes into Arthur. Merlin bows his head to rest against Arthur’s shoulder as Arthur cranes his own back, both of them waiting to adjust to this, the strange newness of it all.
Arthur finally breaks the stalemate of adjustment. He rolls his hips to take Merlin in even deeper, head moving up to nudge against Merlin’s own, and Merlin really can’t help the moan that escapes him at that. “Move,” he hisses, mouth hot on Merlin’s ear, and Merlin smirks and does.
It doesn’t last long, but it can’t, really, not when it’s so new and over-stimulating for them both. Merlin’s hips move quickly, driving his cock in and out of Arthur hard enough to make Arthur keen on every thrust. His hand grips Arthur’s cock, hot and tight like Merlin usually needs, like Arthur is around him now. Arthur gives the same as he gets, moving his hips in sync with Merlin and clenching down on Merlin inside him, and it’s too much for both of them. Arthur comes with a flick of Merlin’s wrist, Merlin with a bite to his shoulder, and they’re both gone, swept away by what’s new and unfamiliar and right.
CHALLENGE THREE: ALTERNATE UNIVERSES
Notes: Out of all the challenges so far, this was the easiest for me. I knew what I wanted to do for it right away, and while it turned out to by far not be the most original of ideas (three different French Revolution-based entries, ugh), I'm still kind of proud of it. I think it's my favorite of all the entries I've submitted to date. Even if I totally edited out the sex-that-never-really-fit because it failed.
Arthur’s father says that the revolutionaries are a menace.
He says that their pamphlets are idealistic drivel, that their virtues are impractical.
He says that they are unsatisfied with what they already have -- jobs in the fields, flour for bread, roofs over their heads. He says that nothing will ever be enough for them, that they are radical, unrealistic desire personified.
He says.
***
Merlin comes to the manor as a stable-hand, someone fresh from the country arrived to help Gaius tend the many horses Arthur’s family owns. He’s wide-eyed at the splendor -- the marble columns and floors and staircases, the gold-inlay lining the walls, the sheer extravagance that makes Camelot one of France’s finest estates.
There’s something in his gaze, though, almost a hesitance to believe that this is real. Arthur can’t say he knows the feeling, but he can vaguely imagine it.
***
Arthur finds Merlin to be surprisingly good company.
He tells Arthur of village life, of winters spent playing in snow and fall days harvesting the town crops, of his mother and friends. He tells Arthur of cold nights huddled under threadbare blankets, of days when hunger gnawed at his stomach because flour ran out and there was no money for more.
Arthur tells Merlin of the manor’s midwinter feasts, of golden plates and silken clothes and warm featherbeds, of all the things that make up aristocratic life. Arthur pretends not to notice the hints of anger and disgust in Merlin’s eyes that he can’t quite hide.
Even as he recalls another banquet, Arthur pretends not to notice his own similar feelings.
***
Reports arrive daily from Paris. They talk of overthrow, of blood that stains the streets and chants that fill the air. They talk of mobs armed with guns and knives and pamphlets, weapons and words and a desire for change.
Arthur’s father calls them foolish, reckless, pointless. He calls it barbarism, a phase that will unnecessarily stain France’s history forever.
When Arthur asks him, Merlin calls it nothing, only hands Arthur the reins to his saddled horse and says, “He’s ready.”
His eyes, when they meet Arthur’s, call it hope.
***
They discuss other things now.
“What do they even want, these revolutionaries?” Arthur asks because he doesn’t know, has never been permitted to read the numerous publications that have circulated over the past few years.
“Change,” Merlin says. He brushes Arthur’s horse with a steady rhythm, whisper-soft and slow.
“Why?”
“Because they are tired of watching their children starve.”
“My father says they don’t,” Arthur responds, because he knows this, at least. “He says they have paying jobs, that it’s their own fault if they can’t manage their resources properly. He says we shouldn’t have to pay for their mistakes, that they’ll never learn if we do. He says -- ”
“And what do you say, Arthur?” Merlin cuts him off, anger coloring his voice.
Arthur has no answer.
***
Days later, Merlin takes Arthur into town. They visit a pub, smoke-filled and smelling of roasted meat and spilled wine, of unwashed laborers and the stale-sweet odor of sweat, of things that Arthur both knows and doesn’t.
They stand in the back and listen, Merlin bright-eyed and rapt, Arthur merely observant. The gathered men shout about the injustice of seeing thousands starve while handfuls feast and waste each night. And about the injustice of watching thousands grow sick from cold while handfuls use beyond their share of wood and coal to light rooms in mansions that no one bothers to use. And about the injustice of living in a society that ignores the majority of its people.
They shout about a need for change.
Arthur looks at Merlin, focused and flushed with enthusiasm, with wasted youth and passion, and agrees.
***
Merlin comes to him one day, face drawn and eyes wide.
“Your father is sending me away,” he says. “He found a pamphlet from the pub, and -- ”
“They’re banned here,” Arthur finishes, “so you have to leave.”
“Yes,” Merlin says, and pulls Arthur forward to kiss him brokenly. His tongue licks into Arthur’s mouth like fire, hot and fleeting, and Arthur can’t help but moan. He’s wanted this, yes, since he saw Merlin’s eyes bright in the pub, heard Merlin’s voice angry and challenging in the stable. He’s wanted it, they both have, so he kisses back easily, desperately, searching for a way to hold onto Merlin when he’s already slipping away.
When he pulls back, Merlin says, lips shiny from spit and red like the color of radical anger and all-consuming want, “Come with me.”
Arthur thinks about his father and France, about blood and change, about Merlin and Paris and what defines necessary progress. In the end, he has only one answer.
BONUS CHALLENGE TWO: FOREPLAY
Notes: My love for this pick-up line is ridiculous. Just so you know.
Arthur’s a maths major, right? Yeah, he started as business (with an emphasis on economics), as per his father’s request, but there’s only so much financial jargon and studying variations on models of economic success that one guy can take. And Arthur had found that with those models, he didn’t care so much about the why as he did the what, the shape of those graphs, the subtle rise and fall of smooth curves around a central axis. So while his father isn’t the happiest about it, Arthur’s now switched his academic focus to a double, tacked on a shiny new maths major with classes he actually enjoys to his regular load of Industrial Organization and Game Theory.
And this is relevant, really. It’s relevant because it’s these graphs that Arthur’s currently drawing down and across Merlin’s chest. With his tongue, because Arthur is just that skilled. Merlin apparently agrees, if his choked-off moans are any indication.
Arthur traces his tongue up the left side of Merlin’s chest in an unbroken line, curving inwards slightly to peak at a point just between his nipples, then back down the other side. “Basic quadratic function, y equals x squared,” he murmurs, breath bouncing hot off Merlin’s skin and back against his own face.
He moves into another curve, starts at Merlin’s left nipple and drags his tongue smoothly through a series of upwards- and downwards-facing arcs, even and repetitive, cyclical. When he reaches Merlin’s right nipple, he bites it softly, whispers, “A trigonometric function, y equals the sine of x,” and Merlin whimpers.
“Arthur,” he says, voice hoarse with want that Arthur can feel, hard and jutting, against his thigh. “Arthur, please.”
“But Merlin,” and Arthur can’t help but tease him. “Merlin, you promised you’d help me study for my final tomorrow.”
“I assumed you meant flashcards and practice quizzes -- you know, the way normal people study.”
“But practical and applied reviews work so much better, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, fuck you,” Merlin says, but it tapers off into a groan as Arthur begins systematically nibbling and kissing his way through outlining the greatest integer function across the planes of Merlin’s abdomen.
“You know,” Arthur says once he’s finished, pulling back and up until he’s eye-to-lust-filled-eye with Merlin. Merlin squirms a bit, moves as if to tug Arthur down for a kiss, and Arthur pins his arms swiftly down. “There are times, Merlin, where I wish I were your first derivative.”
Merlin groans again, but it’s in exasperation this time, just as Arthur expected; he’s used that line before, and he loves it, but Merlin really, really doesn’t. “For the love of God, Arthur, I’m not a girl. I don’t even have any curves for you to lie tangent to.”
And this Arthur disagrees with, simply because Merlin is nothing if not a study in conics. The bow in the line of his lips, the arc of his back and throat as he pushes up against Arthur, the slow curve in from his shoulders to his hips -- his entire physique is filled with enough of these enticing curves for Arthur to write a fucking dissertation on, if he thought any academic department would give him credit and a degree for Conics in the Sexually-Charged Anatomy of Merlin Emrys: A Study.
For now, though, Arthur bends his own neck down to kiss Merlin, wet and hot and fast, and Merlin whines when Arthur pulls back. Arthur moves his way down Merlin’s body and fits his thumbs into the concave depressions of Merlin’s hipbones. He kisses his way inward, tongue tracing small circles (the graph of all the points in a plane equidistant from a single given point, for anyone who cares, and Arthur does) against Merlin’s skin along the way, and as Merlin curses and pants above him, Arthur thinks, And people say maths isn’t sexy, before he does his level best to make Merlin’s back arc up in a perfect, even parabola by the night’s end.
Thoughts?