Amenities
For the lols, please find below the fic I wrote at half past one this morning after drinking an obscene amount of alcohol. I really am impressed by my ability to write coherant sentences in that state. It was written for cienna, who thought it should be shared. Aha.
Title: And This Advent
Rating: R
Words: 1,134
Summary: Arthur/Merlin PWP. Again. Well, what did you expect me to write when I was drunk?!
.And This Advent.
It was near dawn by the time the advent revelries ended and Merlin found himself half-carrying a drunken Arthur back to his chambers, being taught lude songs about ladies of ill repute and their vegetables along the way.
"I knew this one woman," Arthur slurred, leaning even more heavily against Merlin, "Who liked cucumber."
Merlin nodded and replied, "How nice," and tried not t think of the implications of that.
"Not that I was interested," Arthur added. He tried to straighten himself up against Merlin's side, but failed rather miserably and ended up more propped up against Merlin's shoulder than anything else. "I rather like cucumber myself."
Arthur's head shifted, looking at him, and Merlin turned his head obligingly to look back, and Arthur was grinning with such manic fondness that Merlin was sure Arthur had gone quite wrong in the head.
"Right," he said, because he could think of nothing better, and was surprised when Arthur then pushed himself away, listing so that Merlin had to almost catch his arm to stop him falling. And he was pouting, "How can you be so naive, Merlin? Are all peasants like this or is it just you?"
"I'm quite sure, sire," Merlin replied slowly, righting Arthur and guiding him more quickly towards his chambers lest he throw up or something, "It is just I who has no idea what you mean." He frowned and added under his breath, "Except when you are talking about swords. Then no one knows what you mean."
Arthur humphed. "I'm quite sure you are lying." And then, to Merlin's relief, "Oh look, my door."
He quickly hefted Arthur's weight onto one shoulder and opened the door to Arthur's chambers, glad that he had had the foresight to light the fire and turn down the bed before the feast. Arthur was singing something about vegetables again so Merlin decided the best course of action was to deposit him in bed and then leave. Except, when he did Arthur looked sort of sad and lonely sitting on his bed, and Merlin thought that maybe he should sober him up, for the sake of his own sanity and likely suffering the following morning if he did not. So, "Sire," he said. "Water?" And thrust a pitcher into Arthur's hands. And if Arthur could not quite hold the cup steady, and if Merlin had to help him then it was all for the sake of his own well-being and most definitely not out of concern for the spoilt prince in any way.
"You are so good to me," Arthur sighed between sips, which made Merlin smile and wonder at how kind Arthur could be when he'd been drinking. So Merlin sat next to him on the bed, and Arthur said, "I like that, you know."
"Right," Merlin replied sceptically, because Merlin was very sure Arthur usually hated it when he tried to take care of him.
"No really," Arthur said. "I do."
It was, Merlin thought, the talk of the truly inebriated and he would have laughed but then Arthur sat himself up and leaned in and kissed Merlin soundly on the lips. And Merlin was very sure that was not normal, no matter how drunk Arthur got.
"Arthur," he tried, but Arthur stopped any more words by burying a hand in Merlin's hair and drawing his face towards him.
Merlin thought, He's drunk, and, This is wrong.
Except it wasn't. It was passion and want and need and something like affection and frustration and if he was honest with himself Merlin could say that he felt it too. So he kissed back, though he didn't know why, just that this was right. He hadn't drunk much at the feast because he had feared that Arthur was too drunk to find his own feet let alone his rooms; couldn't blame it on that then. But still. It was like a kind of truth, with Arthur's tongue licking along his dry lips, into his mouth, meeting him there and how could Merlin not answer that?
There was something of a fight, perhaps, for dominance, which no one won because in the end they were just all lips and tongues and teeth and everything in between; each other, themselves and Merlin couldn't really tell and didn't care until Arthur was shoving him back against the bed and digging their hips together and kneading his hands against Merlin's thighs in a way that could not be mistaken for anything other than lustful.
"This," Arthur breathed between kisses. "This, Merlin." And his hands found their way to their way to Merlin's groin and were touching and pulling and trying to push away clothes before Merlin could even ask, "What," or ask, "Are you sure", or even think, "Are we sure?"
Instead, on instinct, Merlin drew Arthur closer, pushed his hips closer, pressed his lips closer and didn't think and didn't care. He let his hands find Arthur's belt; let them take it off physically, magically, he didn't care, because he could reach Arthur. And he did.
He touched Arthur's cock, held it and caressed it and slid his hand over it and loved the way Arthur moaned and arched into him. They kissed and kissed and Arthur thrust towards him, pressing closer.
There were Arthur's hands on him too, finding his own waist; sinking beneath fabric and grabbing at him in a way no one had before. He tasted the beer and he tasted the pheasant of the feast; he tasted lust and want and need and he revelled in the feel of Arthur in his hand and him in Arthur's.
They pushed and pulled and felt and rubbed and arched and twisted until they both came and came what felt like again and again. Arthur whispered, "Merlin," in Merlin's ear as he did, and Merlin said, "Arthur," as he came, fast and hot over Arthur's hand between them.
And when they were done, and his heartbeat slowed, and his body cooling in the icy winter night, Merlin had a moment to think, That was a mistake, and, Arthur will never forgive me, and, This means nothing to him, before Arthur pulled him close, wiping a hand on Merlin's tunic. "You'll stay," he said, almost a question but not quite. Arthur pushed at the covers , pulled at them until they both lay beneath them, boots and all, then kissed Merlin's nose (though Merlin was pretty sure he had been aiming for his lips) and said. "Merlin." Then Merlin knew; here and now, this was them, drunk or otherwise. So he said, "I'll stay," and held Arthur even as Arthur held him like a ragdoll or a pillow on a cold, lonely night.
And then he remembered; cucumbers, and laughed. Because maybe now he understood.
.END.
Probably not worth concrit because AHAHAHA WRITTEN WHILST DRUNK. But comments appreciated. Because I am, at heart, an attention-whore.
I WILL POST DECENT FIC NEXT TIME I SWEAR.
Title: And This Advent
Rating: R
Words: 1,134
Summary: Arthur/Merlin PWP. Again. Well, what did you expect me to write when I was drunk?!
.And This Advent.
It was near dawn by the time the advent revelries ended and Merlin found himself half-carrying a drunken Arthur back to his chambers, being taught lude songs about ladies of ill repute and their vegetables along the way.
"I knew this one woman," Arthur slurred, leaning even more heavily against Merlin, "Who liked cucumber."
Merlin nodded and replied, "How nice," and tried not t think of the implications of that.
"Not that I was interested," Arthur added. He tried to straighten himself up against Merlin's side, but failed rather miserably and ended up more propped up against Merlin's shoulder than anything else. "I rather like cucumber myself."
Arthur's head shifted, looking at him, and Merlin turned his head obligingly to look back, and Arthur was grinning with such manic fondness that Merlin was sure Arthur had gone quite wrong in the head.
"Right," he said, because he could think of nothing better, and was surprised when Arthur then pushed himself away, listing so that Merlin had to almost catch his arm to stop him falling. And he was pouting, "How can you be so naive, Merlin? Are all peasants like this or is it just you?"
"I'm quite sure, sire," Merlin replied slowly, righting Arthur and guiding him more quickly towards his chambers lest he throw up or something, "It is just I who has no idea what you mean." He frowned and added under his breath, "Except when you are talking about swords. Then no one knows what you mean."
Arthur humphed. "I'm quite sure you are lying." And then, to Merlin's relief, "Oh look, my door."
He quickly hefted Arthur's weight onto one shoulder and opened the door to Arthur's chambers, glad that he had had the foresight to light the fire and turn down the bed before the feast. Arthur was singing something about vegetables again so Merlin decided the best course of action was to deposit him in bed and then leave. Except, when he did Arthur looked sort of sad and lonely sitting on his bed, and Merlin thought that maybe he should sober him up, for the sake of his own sanity and likely suffering the following morning if he did not. So, "Sire," he said. "Water?" And thrust a pitcher into Arthur's hands. And if Arthur could not quite hold the cup steady, and if Merlin had to help him then it was all for the sake of his own well-being and most definitely not out of concern for the spoilt prince in any way.
"You are so good to me," Arthur sighed between sips, which made Merlin smile and wonder at how kind Arthur could be when he'd been drinking. So Merlin sat next to him on the bed, and Arthur said, "I like that, you know."
"Right," Merlin replied sceptically, because Merlin was very sure Arthur usually hated it when he tried to take care of him.
"No really," Arthur said. "I do."
It was, Merlin thought, the talk of the truly inebriated and he would have laughed but then Arthur sat himself up and leaned in and kissed Merlin soundly on the lips. And Merlin was very sure that was not normal, no matter how drunk Arthur got.
"Arthur," he tried, but Arthur stopped any more words by burying a hand in Merlin's hair and drawing his face towards him.
Merlin thought, He's drunk, and, This is wrong.
Except it wasn't. It was passion and want and need and something like affection and frustration and if he was honest with himself Merlin could say that he felt it too. So he kissed back, though he didn't know why, just that this was right. He hadn't drunk much at the feast because he had feared that Arthur was too drunk to find his own feet let alone his rooms; couldn't blame it on that then. But still. It was like a kind of truth, with Arthur's tongue licking along his dry lips, into his mouth, meeting him there and how could Merlin not answer that?
There was something of a fight, perhaps, for dominance, which no one won because in the end they were just all lips and tongues and teeth and everything in between; each other, themselves and Merlin couldn't really tell and didn't care until Arthur was shoving him back against the bed and digging their hips together and kneading his hands against Merlin's thighs in a way that could not be mistaken for anything other than lustful.
"This," Arthur breathed between kisses. "This, Merlin." And his hands found their way to their way to Merlin's groin and were touching and pulling and trying to push away clothes before Merlin could even ask, "What," or ask, "Are you sure", or even think, "Are we sure?"
Instead, on instinct, Merlin drew Arthur closer, pushed his hips closer, pressed his lips closer and didn't think and didn't care. He let his hands find Arthur's belt; let them take it off physically, magically, he didn't care, because he could reach Arthur. And he did.
He touched Arthur's cock, held it and caressed it and slid his hand over it and loved the way Arthur moaned and arched into him. They kissed and kissed and Arthur thrust towards him, pressing closer.
There were Arthur's hands on him too, finding his own waist; sinking beneath fabric and grabbing at him in a way no one had before. He tasted the beer and he tasted the pheasant of the feast; he tasted lust and want and need and he revelled in the feel of Arthur in his hand and him in Arthur's.
They pushed and pulled and felt and rubbed and arched and twisted until they both came and came what felt like again and again. Arthur whispered, "Merlin," in Merlin's ear as he did, and Merlin said, "Arthur," as he came, fast and hot over Arthur's hand between them.
And when they were done, and his heartbeat slowed, and his body cooling in the icy winter night, Merlin had a moment to think, That was a mistake, and, Arthur will never forgive me, and, This means nothing to him, before Arthur pulled him close, wiping a hand on Merlin's tunic. "You'll stay," he said, almost a question but not quite. Arthur pushed at the covers , pulled at them until they both lay beneath them, boots and all, then kissed Merlin's nose (though Merlin was pretty sure he had been aiming for his lips) and said. "Merlin." Then Merlin knew; here and now, this was them, drunk or otherwise. So he said, "I'll stay," and held Arthur even as Arthur held him like a ragdoll or a pillow on a cold, lonely night.
And then he remembered; cucumbers, and laughed. Because maybe now he understood.
.END.
Probably not worth concrit because AHAHAHA WRITTEN WHILST DRUNK. But comments appreciated. Because I am, at heart, an attention-whore.
I WILL POST DECENT FIC NEXT TIME I SWEAR.