Fic: Countable and Uncountable
Title: Countable and Uncountable
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1512
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Gwaine is evil, and Merlin is distracted.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'tickling' square.
Merlin has decided that Gwaine is evil. There's no doubt about it. He's absolutely, completely and utterly evil.
He didn't notice at first. Because his evil-ness wasn't immediately obvious. It's the sort of evil which creeps up on you slowly, when you're not paying attention. The sort of evil you find yourself suddenly aware of, when you're in the middle of something very important, a distraction, a suggestion, a wagon straight through your carefully ordered thoughts. Sometimes it's so brief and so subtle, that Merlin convinces himself it's just his imagination. Those are the most frustrating days.
Gwaine.
Sometimes he just looks at Merlin, expression warm and open, and so easy to read, all promise and challenge and mischief. Most of the time Merlin's convinced he's doing it on purpose, looking like that. Most of the time. Sometimes he worries that it's just Gwaine's normal expression, that he just looks at people like that naturally. Which makes Merlin feel like some sort of insatiable madman for being so affected by it. Or for reading things into it which aren't intentional.
He knows for certain it was that expression, combined with some magical scorpions, and some interestingly shaped bruises, which started everything. Started...everything. Merlin doesn't regret a minute of it, but that's not the point. Gwaine is very distracting, and enthusiastic, and insatiable. Which, he's fairly sure are good qualities in a...in a...whatever it is they are. But he also knows that he should have better self-control, especially considering what he is, what he can do when he's not paying attention. Enough self-control so that he doesn't surrender immediately every time Gwaine smiles at him would be nice - or perhaps just enough not to set fire to the curtains.
His thoughts are scattered apart - good intentions trampled - when he's thumped into the door of his room. Large hands are tipping his head back against the wood, and Gwaine's doing things to his mouth which shouldn’t be allowed. But they're things which Merlin isn't objecting to, if the way his hands are fisted in Gwaine's shirt are to be believed.
His name is growled against his open mouth when he tries - and briefly fails - to open the door.
Merlin can't help but laugh, because Gwaine is always so impatient, smile too wide, full to bursting with mischief. He doesn’t stop smiling for a minute, not when they stumble through the door, not when Merlin falls, less than gracefully, onto his own bed. Left with his hands spread too far apart to hold himself up, and Gwaine's laughing and pressing him back into the sheets. Gwaine, who is always so warm and wild, and he doesn't seem to mind at all that Merlin's hands always end up buried in his hair.
There's a scrabbling moment of strong, callused fingers up his ribs, sensation stealing all the breath from him, before cloth is whisked over his head, and Gwaine stretches back far enough to strip his own shirt free - before he's back, kiss too fast, beard rough against Merlin's jaw. Merlin likes it like this though, all dizziness and laughter. Gwaine pushing for things, like he wants everything, and is making sure they have time to fit it all in.
Merlin's fairly sure he could make time if necessary. But he isn't going to admit that to Gwaine. It would probably only give him ideas. Terrible ideas.
"Merlin, Merlin." Gwaine's voice is smooth caramel, but there are drags of fire underneath, promises in the weight of it.
"Yes," Merlin says, without any real idea what he's agreeing to. But it doesn’t matter, because whatever it is, it's already a yes. He should probably worry more that Gwaine makes him want to skip everything, and go straight for the yes. Every time.
Gwaine's hands are quick and clever at his laces, pulling them open and dragging his trousers past his hips, the pale stretch of his stomach, the hot, hardening curve of his cock. He lifts his legs, and lets Gwaine draw them all the way free. They end up on the floor, and Gwaine ends up pressed down over him, lines of warmth and weight and muscle. He tugs at the neckerchief Merlin's still wearing, and grins, like it's the most entertaining thing in the world. Merlin lets him slide a hand round his neck and unpick the knot, draw the cloth down. It gets lost somewhere in the sheets, when Gwaine slithers down the bed, strong, tanned back curving in a way that Merlin can't seem to look away from. Merlin's thighs end up spread round Gwaine's shoulders, and he has to tighten them when Gwaine's breath flows over his cock.
There's a strangled, agreeable noise which he's fairly sure came out of his throat. It's nice that his body is making the effort, while his brain is failing. He appreciates that. Gwaine laughs at his incoherence, fingers pressing into his thigh muscles. His teeth are white and sharp, and there's a shiver at the suggestion of it.
"Gwaine." It's as close to a demand as Merlin gets. But Gwaine takes pity on him
He bends his head, and the first thing Merlin feels is the fall of hair against his thighs - like a tease - then the flat, wet press of a tongue, that makes his hips twist and lift.
Gwaine's mouth takes him inside in one slow, wet slide, a squeeze of warmth and tightness. Merlin takes a huge breath, and then moans it all out in a shameless rush. He can't help stretching both hands down, winding his fingers through Gwaine's hair, which is soft and thick and everywhere, trailing through the bend of his thigh, and the thin skin over his hips. It's a slow slide of soft curves, and prickling ends that leave him twitching up into Gwaine's mouth, taking little gasping breaths on every sway.
He won't push up into Gwaine's mouth, he won't. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Gwaine slides down like he can feel the need, mouth tight, tongue shifting and hot.
Merlin gives a breathless little laugh, gathering handfuls of Gwaine's hair and letting the soft warmth of it slip through his fingers, to fall against his skin. It tightens and prickles under the sensation, and his toes curl. The ticklish drift of it makes him spread his legs wider, feel the fall of it against the sensitive insides of his thighs. It provokes a rush of tightness, and a delicious twist of the spine.
Gwaine's head tilts up towards him and Merlin loses all his air at the rich darkness of his eyes, the bruised, wet stretch of his mouth around him. He watches himself slide all the way inside, noise caught in his throat, then watches Gwaine pull back, leaving the wet length of him exposed.
"Gwaine." It's loose, strangled, and he has to reach a hand down and push Gwaine's hair aside, so he can see. He leaves it gathered against his thigh, still prickling at the skin.
Gwaine smiles at him and he shouldn't be able to do that, shouldn't be able to make it look so obscene.
"Your hair tickles," Merlin says, voice all breathless amusement and filthy delight. Gwaine must decide as much too, because he doesn't pull away. He makes a long, humming noise that sends Merlin's mouth dry, and bends his head, leaves the wild fall of his hair in Merlin's hands.
There's a slow, dirty suck and Merlin’s thighs clench on their own, fingers twisting through the dark strands. They rub against his skin, and he can't help but shiver up into them, pressing himself deeper into Gwaine's mouth. It's a greedy moment of pressure and tightness.
He can see Gwaine's other arm, moving quick and jerky, familiar enough that Merlin swears and tightens his fingers. Then gives in, surrenders, pulls Gwaine's hair forward to fall against the skin of his thighs. Tickling and gliding wherever it lays, shifting every time Gwaine moves. Occasionally it will drag against the exposed base of his cock, and his eyes will cross, heel digging into Gwaine's shoulder blade.
"Gwaine." The sound of his name is punched-out, warning. Gwaine's mouth is warm and tight and Merlin is so deep, he has no choice but to lose himself inside it.
It takes the world a while to come back. All Merlin can do is hope that it's still in one piece. Last time he'd smashed a window, the time before that he'd set the curtains on fire.
"Nothing's on fire," Gwaine reassures him, from where he's sprawled half-over him, eyes lazy and warm. Merlin can hear laughter in his voice.
"I hate you," Merlin sounds drunk, words slurred together.
Gwaine hums agreement, then bites the softness of his stomach, before resting his head there, hair splayed across it in a wave. Merlin can't stop playing with it, dragging it across his skin, making it twitch and shiver.
Gwaine's laughing, soft and wet, and it really is completely unfair, how easily he unravels all Merlin's secrets.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1512
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Gwaine is evil, and Merlin is distracted.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'tickling' square.
Merlin has decided that Gwaine is evil. There's no doubt about it. He's absolutely, completely and utterly evil.
He didn't notice at first. Because his evil-ness wasn't immediately obvious. It's the sort of evil which creeps up on you slowly, when you're not paying attention. The sort of evil you find yourself suddenly aware of, when you're in the middle of something very important, a distraction, a suggestion, a wagon straight through your carefully ordered thoughts. Sometimes it's so brief and so subtle, that Merlin convinces himself it's just his imagination. Those are the most frustrating days.
Gwaine.
Sometimes he just looks at Merlin, expression warm and open, and so easy to read, all promise and challenge and mischief. Most of the time Merlin's convinced he's doing it on purpose, looking like that. Most of the time. Sometimes he worries that it's just Gwaine's normal expression, that he just looks at people like that naturally. Which makes Merlin feel like some sort of insatiable madman for being so affected by it. Or for reading things into it which aren't intentional.
He knows for certain it was that expression, combined with some magical scorpions, and some interestingly shaped bruises, which started everything. Started...everything. Merlin doesn't regret a minute of it, but that's not the point. Gwaine is very distracting, and enthusiastic, and insatiable. Which, he's fairly sure are good qualities in a...in a...whatever it is they are. But he also knows that he should have better self-control, especially considering what he is, what he can do when he's not paying attention. Enough self-control so that he doesn't surrender immediately every time Gwaine smiles at him would be nice - or perhaps just enough not to set fire to the curtains.
His thoughts are scattered apart - good intentions trampled - when he's thumped into the door of his room. Large hands are tipping his head back against the wood, and Gwaine's doing things to his mouth which shouldn’t be allowed. But they're things which Merlin isn't objecting to, if the way his hands are fisted in Gwaine's shirt are to be believed.
His name is growled against his open mouth when he tries - and briefly fails - to open the door.
Merlin can't help but laugh, because Gwaine is always so impatient, smile too wide, full to bursting with mischief. He doesn’t stop smiling for a minute, not when they stumble through the door, not when Merlin falls, less than gracefully, onto his own bed. Left with his hands spread too far apart to hold himself up, and Gwaine's laughing and pressing him back into the sheets. Gwaine, who is always so warm and wild, and he doesn't seem to mind at all that Merlin's hands always end up buried in his hair.
There's a scrabbling moment of strong, callused fingers up his ribs, sensation stealing all the breath from him, before cloth is whisked over his head, and Gwaine stretches back far enough to strip his own shirt free - before he's back, kiss too fast, beard rough against Merlin's jaw. Merlin likes it like this though, all dizziness and laughter. Gwaine pushing for things, like he wants everything, and is making sure they have time to fit it all in.
Merlin's fairly sure he could make time if necessary. But he isn't going to admit that to Gwaine. It would probably only give him ideas. Terrible ideas.
"Merlin, Merlin." Gwaine's voice is smooth caramel, but there are drags of fire underneath, promises in the weight of it.
"Yes," Merlin says, without any real idea what he's agreeing to. But it doesn’t matter, because whatever it is, it's already a yes. He should probably worry more that Gwaine makes him want to skip everything, and go straight for the yes. Every time.
Gwaine's hands are quick and clever at his laces, pulling them open and dragging his trousers past his hips, the pale stretch of his stomach, the hot, hardening curve of his cock. He lifts his legs, and lets Gwaine draw them all the way free. They end up on the floor, and Gwaine ends up pressed down over him, lines of warmth and weight and muscle. He tugs at the neckerchief Merlin's still wearing, and grins, like it's the most entertaining thing in the world. Merlin lets him slide a hand round his neck and unpick the knot, draw the cloth down. It gets lost somewhere in the sheets, when Gwaine slithers down the bed, strong, tanned back curving in a way that Merlin can't seem to look away from. Merlin's thighs end up spread round Gwaine's shoulders, and he has to tighten them when Gwaine's breath flows over his cock.
There's a strangled, agreeable noise which he's fairly sure came out of his throat. It's nice that his body is making the effort, while his brain is failing. He appreciates that. Gwaine laughs at his incoherence, fingers pressing into his thigh muscles. His teeth are white and sharp, and there's a shiver at the suggestion of it.
"Gwaine." It's as close to a demand as Merlin gets. But Gwaine takes pity on him
He bends his head, and the first thing Merlin feels is the fall of hair against his thighs - like a tease - then the flat, wet press of a tongue, that makes his hips twist and lift.
Gwaine's mouth takes him inside in one slow, wet slide, a squeeze of warmth and tightness. Merlin takes a huge breath, and then moans it all out in a shameless rush. He can't help stretching both hands down, winding his fingers through Gwaine's hair, which is soft and thick and everywhere, trailing through the bend of his thigh, and the thin skin over his hips. It's a slow slide of soft curves, and prickling ends that leave him twitching up into Gwaine's mouth, taking little gasping breaths on every sway.
He won't push up into Gwaine's mouth, he won't. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Gwaine slides down like he can feel the need, mouth tight, tongue shifting and hot.
Merlin gives a breathless little laugh, gathering handfuls of Gwaine's hair and letting the soft warmth of it slip through his fingers, to fall against his skin. It tightens and prickles under the sensation, and his toes curl. The ticklish drift of it makes him spread his legs wider, feel the fall of it against the sensitive insides of his thighs. It provokes a rush of tightness, and a delicious twist of the spine.
Gwaine's head tilts up towards him and Merlin loses all his air at the rich darkness of his eyes, the bruised, wet stretch of his mouth around him. He watches himself slide all the way inside, noise caught in his throat, then watches Gwaine pull back, leaving the wet length of him exposed.
"Gwaine." It's loose, strangled, and he has to reach a hand down and push Gwaine's hair aside, so he can see. He leaves it gathered against his thigh, still prickling at the skin.
Gwaine smiles at him and he shouldn't be able to do that, shouldn't be able to make it look so obscene.
"Your hair tickles," Merlin says, voice all breathless amusement and filthy delight. Gwaine must decide as much too, because he doesn't pull away. He makes a long, humming noise that sends Merlin's mouth dry, and bends his head, leaves the wild fall of his hair in Merlin's hands.
There's a slow, dirty suck and Merlin’s thighs clench on their own, fingers twisting through the dark strands. They rub against his skin, and he can't help but shiver up into them, pressing himself deeper into Gwaine's mouth. It's a greedy moment of pressure and tightness.
He can see Gwaine's other arm, moving quick and jerky, familiar enough that Merlin swears and tightens his fingers. Then gives in, surrenders, pulls Gwaine's hair forward to fall against the skin of his thighs. Tickling and gliding wherever it lays, shifting every time Gwaine moves. Occasionally it will drag against the exposed base of his cock, and his eyes will cross, heel digging into Gwaine's shoulder blade.
"Gwaine." The sound of his name is punched-out, warning. Gwaine's mouth is warm and tight and Merlin is so deep, he has no choice but to lose himself inside it.
It takes the world a while to come back. All Merlin can do is hope that it's still in one piece. Last time he'd smashed a window, the time before that he'd set the curtains on fire.
"Nothing's on fire," Gwaine reassures him, from where he's sprawled half-over him, eyes lazy and warm. Merlin can hear laughter in his voice.
"I hate you," Merlin sounds drunk, words slurred together.
Gwaine hums agreement, then bites the softness of his stomach, before resting his head there, hair splayed across it in a wave. Merlin can't stop playing with it, dragging it across his skin, making it twitch and shiver.
Gwaine's laughing, soft and wet, and it really is completely unfair, how easily he unravels all Merlin's secrets.