H (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} derryere) wrote,@ 2009-03-10 01:09:00 |
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| Entry tags: | arthur, big purple thing, bina for pornsident, ha ha ha ha oh god, lol these tags mean nothing, marthur, mer gets a tag, merlin, neck!porn for the people, snippets |
Big, purple—thing—and, God, he was practically showing off with it.
I'm sick. And woozy on ibuprofen. And grumpy. This is what happens when you bum around in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself.
UNEXPLAINED NECKING SNIPPET. For necking is my favourite. And I needed to balance all the angst glaring at me from my word doc. And the general angst that is me being sick. Clearly, chicks can get mancolds as well. Should've seen me last night. OH LOL, I wish I'd recorded every single 'I'm gonna diiiiiiieee I'm gonna diiieeeee' so I could play it back next time I'm sick and maybe not overreact as much.
...YEAH, AS IF.
Merlin/Arthur, PG13. Totally random neckporn. For scifijunkie, who looked it over and just generally deserves random necking.
--
- Merlin is sort of jumpy by nature. As it is he has a hard time keeping his knees locked when a horse escapes in the courtyard and thuds past him, or when an unexpected party of guard rounds a corner in the corridor he's walking down, so it really doesn't help when even the people who know about it make no effort in accommodating his tendencies toward the flail.
"You!" Arthur very nearly shouts as he storms into his chambers, throwing his sword on the table where it lands with a clatter. "Don't just—get me out of this—!"
Merlin is breathing shallowly, eyes unnaturally wide as one hand clutches onto the arm support—the other to the fabric of his shirt, just over his chest.
"—were you—?" Arthur pauses in his frantic attempts to get out of his damp armour and blinks at Merlin. "Were you napping in my royal chair?"
At once, Merlin drops his feet from where they're splayed on the tabletop, crossed at the ankle. He stands up, aiming for casual as he leans onto the side of the chair with one arm, but his elbow slips and he stumbles, awkwardly. "No," he tells the prince. "No I wasn't."
Arthur frowns, turning to face him completely from the other side of the room. "I'm pretty sure you—"
"No, no," Merlin assures. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't."
Arthur gives him gives him a long, incredulous look—a proper 'the fuck is wrong with you?' face—before glancing away, shaking his head. He's calmer now, though, and doesn't yell this time as he gives his armour a shake as says, "Just get me out of this damn thing."
Merlin complies with easy familiarity, walking over to Arthur as he wonders at what point along the day it'd started raining. The belts and loops that keep the hauberk in place are slippery, and the fabric beneath clings to the skin making it a difficult fumble of fingers and nails. Arthur is impatient, antsy, and his wriggling doesn't make it any easier.
Merlin is just about to tell him to stand still when he wrenches away the arm Merlin's been tugging on to snarl a curt,
"If you could take a moment to stop being so painfully incompetent, Merlin, perhaps the both of us can be done here before the day is out—yes?"
Seething out a short breath Merlin snatches back the elbow, muttering about moods and unnamed things crawling up certain people's butts. In reply, Arthur hisses a quiet order to shut his gob, but altogether manages exactly thirty seconds of jaw-clenched silence before,
"They were completely out of line today," he bites out loudly, apropos of nothing. Merlin looks up with a patient, questioning look and Arthur grumbles a clarifying, "The bloody knights. You should've—" He stops himself, glancing away with a small pout-like expression. "Lionel shows up, right, half an hour late for practice. All right, says I, whatever, if it's only just this time—which I thought was a pretty noble sort of thing to do, you know?" He stretches out his arms sideways as Merlin takes off the chest plate. "Right?"
Merlin hums in agreement, and so Arthur continues,
"But then he walks onto the field, yeah, without his helmet, and—there's—" For a moment Arthur seems at a loss for words. He waves a hand about, gesturing vaguely at his neck to indicate something. "—This—thing!"
"Thing?" Merlin says, mellow, barely quirking a brow as he peels off the hauberk.
"Yes!" Arthur vehemently agrees. "A—hickey thing!"
Merlin pushes down Arthur's arms back to his sides as he replies with a subdued,
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes! Big, purple—thing—and, God, he was practically showing off with it. And of course no one else took anything seriously anymore after that, it was all just a—insinuations fest and lewd stories and—"
Arthur's voice is muffled as Merlin throws a piece of dry cloth over his head, drying his hair with maybe a little too rough of movements. But Arthur doesn't seem to notice, and keeps on the moment the towel is off—hair sticking out at ridiculous angles—
"—Cador, of all people! Asking me when I was planning on showing up with—how did he put it? Oh yes. Battle marks."
Merlin snorts, momentarily forgetting himself, and quickly attempts a recovery with a frown and an unconvincing, "I mean, how dare he."
"How dare he, indeed," Arthur says, not picking up on the subtleties at all. "As if I . . . I mean, if I wanted to, I'd . . ."
He is distracted for a moment and seems faraway, and since Merlin's part of the job is done he steps back—leaning against the bedpost as Arthur collects his thoughts. He doesn't know what to think, though, when—on snapping back to attention—Arthur's gaze is fixed on his mouth. And then a probing hand is pushing up his lips, baring his teeth and Arthur is inspecting them with alarming interest as he says,
"You've still got all your teeth."
Merlin pushes him off, surprised and stunned.
"I—" he starts, but has to smack his lips once before able to finish with a, "What?"
"Your teeth," Arthur repeats. "You've got them all."
Merlin, unsure of what's going on but certain he won't like it, desperately tries to think of ways to deny this but comes as far as, "Well," and, "I cannot argue with that."
"All right." Arthur nods minutely, thoughtfully. "You can do it, then."
"Do what?" But Merlin thinks he sort of knows and so repeats, louder, "Do what?"
Arthur seems oddly unbothered, though, and gives another vague gesture at his neck. "You know," he says. "Be a mate, and all."
"Be a—" Merlin stops. "No. Arthur, no."
"Oh come on, Merlin. Do me a favour. I mean—" He puts on a bit of a sad face, and Merlin is totally not buying it. "Have you any idea how embarrassing that was? With everyone laughing, assuming I'd—"
"Embarrassing?" Merlin cuts him off. "As opposed to me—" He glances at the door, lowers his voice to an uncomfortable whisper, "Me—sucking your neck, yeah?"
"Yes!" Arthur replies immediately, happy in Merlin's understanding. "I mean, it's just you, isn't it? No one would know."
"I would know, Arthur. I would know.."
"You're being a baby about this, Merlin. It's not like you—and I—I mean, you're a bloke, right? Besides," he adds, shrugging, "I'm rather certain I've made you do worse than this in the past."
Merlin leans forward a bit to hiss out his next point, "I am not putting my mouth on your neck, Arthur."
"What?" Arthur inches his head back a bit. "It's clean and all, if that’s what's—"
"—Oh god," Merlin says, glancing up at the ceiling. It only seems to encourage Arthur, Merlin's natural aversion of his idea, and he grins as he turns slightly—tilting his head and baring his neck.
"Go on, then," he says, tapping two fingers under the joint of his jaw. "Right there."
"No."
"Half a day in the stocks."
"Fine with me."
"Really, Merlin?"
"I'm not—"
"—How about a raise?"
Merlin gives a single, high-pitched chuckle. "Yeah, right."
Arthur sighs. He gives Merlin a quick, dark glance before saying, "All right, then. Chamberpot—" --Merlin takes in a hissing breath, "—Duty."
"You wouldn't," he admonishes, voiceless.
"Wouldn't I?" Arthur tilts his head again, properly this time, making a real show out of it—closing his eyes, too. "On you go, Merlin."
"How can you not see what a horrible idea this is?"
"Make it good, too," Arthur ignores him. "I won't be outdone. Lionel's was at least an inch and some so—"
"Can't you pester some chambermaid into doing this?"
"—So," he keeps on, patiently opening his eyes, "it needs to be at least bigger than that." And then, a small pause later, "You do know how to do this, right?"
"Yes," Merlin retorts, somewhat indignantly. And then, quieter, "I think. I—Ugh. This is so not a part of my job description," he mumbles, shakily, but takes a small step forward nonetheless. He places two steadying, clammy hands on Arthur's damp shoulders and swallows. "Okay," he says, sucking in a lip in anticipation. "Okay."
"By all means," Arthur says, quietly, arching a brow.
"Shut up. You don't get to complain."
At this a slight smirk tilts up Arthur's lips, but he says nothing more of it. Merlin scowls at him and keeps on scowling for a long while, with all the emotion he can muster, until the case at hand cannot be avoided and—god, the things he does for this man—leans forward—slowly—the scowl turning into a frown as he tries to decipher the lines in Arthur's neck.
He grimaces even before he does it: baring his lips, awkwardly, looking away as if biting into an unappetising food of sorts. The expression of distaste deepens as he gives the skin a small nip of teeth only. This close Arthur smells of wet hair and sweat and also metallic, the armour's rust having rubbed itself onto his clothes. It's not exactly the sweet sort of invitation he's used to.
"Oi!" Arthur says, reclining a bit at Merlin's biting. "You're not supposed to—skin me alive, Merlin."
"Shut up," Merlin says, sternly now, sliding his hands a bit to the base of Arthur's neck for a better grip. "Just. Give me a moment, yeah?" He feels the hot breath of his words on his lips again he's so close to the stretch of neck, and Arthur grumbles an annoyed confirmation—the bobbing of his adam's apple distracting Merlin for a small second.
He swallows, again, and readies himself for another attempt: idly, he presses his lips along a small dip of muscle and bone with barely any pressure at all—for testing the ground, really, or perhaps for a lack of anything better to do. But Arthur doesn't say anything this time, which is something, so Merlin continues by dragging the pressure a bit further up to where the flesh is smoother, thicker. He is very much aware of his movements, painfully so, and another nervous swallow pulls at his throat before he opens his mouth. He waits a heartbeat, quietly admiring the insanity that is this situation and wondering how many more moments like this would follow in the course of his servitude. And then dips his head, plants the wet of his lips on Arthur's neck, and drags the flat of his tongue over the skin.
He has a small second to notice the unexpected hitch of a breath coming from Arthur before running his tongue over the wet patch once more and then sucking, hard, lifting the skin a bit and the biting down—dragging his teeth harshly half an inch to the left and repeating the routine all over again. Arthur is a hot entity under his lips and now that he's close, now that he tastes him, Merlin finds in it something that isn't the sweat or wet or rust. It makes his breathing shallow and heavy and when he sucks down on a new patch of skin for the third time Arthur makes a sound—a guttural, unintentional sound that only spurs Merlin on as he cocks his head to lick up a trail along a tendon from the bottom to the curve of Arthur's jaw line, and—and why is he doing this again?—nosing under his chin, lightly biting down on Arthur's adam's apple, pressing his cheek flat against the flush that is crawling its way up Arthur's throat to place a wet and sultry open-mouthed kiss at the deep hollow between Arthur's collarbones.
And between all the noises Arthur is making or trying to suppress, the breaths he's choking on, Merlin can decipher a faraway, "Holy sh—," and "Okay I can see where—bad idea—" and, "Ohgod—don't—"
It's then that Merlin silently notes that it isn't sheer attraction that latches him onto Arthur's neck, but rather Arthur's hand, that has somehow—at some point—twisted itself into his hair and is not letting go, keeping Merlin firmly in place. Still miles away from his own sanity, Merlin finds the nerve to grin at this, to tease with small and brushing touches of kisses before finding new, unmarked skin at a shoulder or higher up, the silky skin behind an ear—and that on its own brings a whole new set of possibilities, what with the earlobes and the shell, so sensitive to whispered, "Satisfactory enough, sire?", following the places where his tongue has made path.
He probably doesn't mean to, but Arthur turns his head at the words—lips already parted, eyes low and cheeks flushed deeply. It's such a natural movement that Merlin barely even thinks—or maybe just doesn't think at all—before nipping at his cheekbone, then wetly kissing down the hollow beneath it and following the stubbly line to a corner of a lip, where he's so close—quite a second away from—
Merlin pulls back, minutely, and it's the fact that Arthur's mouth follows the movement—tries to get it back—that shakes Merlin out of it.
He lets go of Arthur's shoulders with a sudden, "Woah," stepping back as if already in defence.
Arthur blinks at him, blankly, and Merlin can't really stop himself from—
"Did you just—" he starts, mouth feeling heavy and swollen. "Did you just try to—"
"—No," Arthur cuts him off, hoarsely. "I absolutely did not."
"I'm—I'm pretty sure—"
"No, you're not," Arthur tells him, now flushed with something new, something frantic and confused.
Merlin stares at him for a long, wide-eyed moment before letting his gaze unfocus on an indiscernible point beyond Arthur's shoulder. His thoughts are muddled and thick in his head and he ignores them all, settling for breathing a few times before—
"All right," he says. "If everything is . . ." He glances at Arthur, notices the impressive redness of his neck and immediately regrets his words. Eventually, he settles for an awkward, "Okay. I'm gonna . . . go now . . ." before madly willing his feet into movement, his walk to the door a trajectory of strategically placed traps and invisible, chest-high puddles of mud.
Only once he's outside, and at least three corridors down, does he stop to take a moment and uneasily paw at his trousers—haplessly trying to readjust the fabric to make it less uncomfortable and only succeeding in making it worse.
ARTHUR'S RETALIATION: WHO WANTS TO WRITE IT?
And with 'wants to write it', you know I mean COMMENT PORN NOW PLEASE. You know you guys do it like no other, so why try and resist, really? Bonus points to whoever incorporates the lj-cut line. IDEK WHAT BONUS POINTS MEAN, but they're probably something good, so yes.
...DO EEETTTT! *prods*
ETA:
- Eternal praise for the great cherrybina.
Cont'd here, here and here. - KDSGHKF OH, longleggedgit ♥
Part 1 | Part 2
