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Pain and lust scoured his heart clean. For the first time in weeks, for a few blessed minutes, he forgot all about Merlin.
Oh, poor, poor Arthur.
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Merlin has taken over Arthur’s thoughts since he came to Camelot. He’s stubborn and insubordinate and disrespectful and the worst manservant Arthur has ever had-and he’s a sorcerer and genuinely seems to think that Arthur hasn’t figured this out yet, which means he insults the royal intelligence every time he pretends that the latest thing he did was pure coincidence and not him risking his own life to save Arthur’s-and he’s stupidly brave and charming and kind and rather attractive in his own odd way. Arthur is thoroughly sick of the way that he thinks about Merlin all the time. Merlin is, after all, an entirely unsuitable person to be taking up so much of his attention.
(Arthur is always too keenly aware of Merlin’s hands when Merlin dresses or undresses him: their shape, their heat, the length of the fingers, and he wants those hands to touch him, him and not his clothes, deliberately. The best days-the worst days-are the days when Merlin’s hands slip and brush across his skin ( ... )
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“What do you want, sir?” Bran asks.
It actually takes effort for Arthur not to say I don’t know. He thinks about fucking Bran but it would just take so much work: the time it would take to stretch him open (he doesn’t think, at all, about making Merlin writhe and gasp and sob with pleasure on his fingers, beg for his cock), the effort of motion. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed, because he might as well be comfortable, and says, “Your mouth.”
Bran’s hands are quick and competent on the laces of his breeches, on his smallclothes, gentler on his cock. (Too soft: the hands of someone who’s never scrubbed or polished or carried anything heavy.)
He sits there as Bran kneels between his legs and sucks him to hardness, sits while Bran takes his cock deep and swallows around it-his eyelashes are the wrong shape, the way they ( ... )
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*pets Bran too, while she's at it*
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