Warnings for the this story: Slash, Stockholm Syndrome, Noncon, slavery, collar, imprisonment & violence. Also, first chapter written a year ago. Don't like, don't read.(Bailieboro, please don't read!)
Rating: M
Pairing: Merlin/Uther noncon, Merlin/Arthur, Arthur/Gwen
Author Notes: I am not entirely sure if this may be too mature for this site. Any ideas?
Thank you K_nightfox for the beta! :)
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Merlin is shivering in the middle of the bedroom, fear consuming his entire being. He cannot speak; he cannot move; he cannot yell.
He cannot cry for help. He has forgotten language and movement all together.
All his thoughts are trying to rip out of his skin, every time the older man circles him.
Every time the man lightly touches him; the man's grin widening, pleased upon seeing the boy jump or shiver at the contact. All that Merlin's mind wants to do is leave this room; his body to float away and never return.
He can't believe this is happening.
Not now.
Not with this man.
The warlock's skin is soaked in cold perspiration. Beads of ice cold sweat dampen his hair and run down his pale face, outlining his delicate features as they travel downward. His neck feels raw and sore where the collar binding his magic rubs against his wet skin . The warlock screws his eyes shut once again as the man's gloved hands explore him.
They reach lower this time.
Merlin cringes as he feels fingers slide along his inner thigh.
"Do you want to scream?" The king inquires, his hand moving up and down the youth's leg. His rough gloves were beginning to agitate the damp skin. The boys lips quiver, stumbling on his response.
The powerful man grows impatient, his large hands snatching the youth's testicles and roughly pulling them downward, forcing the warlock to emit a loud scream.
"Yes!" the Merlin's voice finally yells, sounding like it's barely holding back all the tears in the world.
Uther lets go of the boy, face lighting in a sick mirth upon seeing the warlock's body; that pale, luscious skin trembles even more. It feels wonderful to have something so powerful shiver at his touch, at his voice, at his very presence. The ruler has spent half of his life chasing and killing all that is magic, only to have it return ten-fold in the form of betrayal: Morgana.
The monarch's erection jumps at the anticipation of being in control again. Defeating, no, shattering something so magical, so powerful underneath him. He cannot wait to rip asunder that porcelain skin, those blue eyes. He hopes that those depths can still turn golden with the collar on, the threat that usually accompanies the unnatural change long gone. Uther fights the urge to touch himself at the thought of breaking those molten golden eyes so beautifully, so skillfully.
The warlock jumps at another touch, the king's fingers running in a mock affection through his raven hair. He admires the way the light dances along the locks, before grasping the strands and pulling on Merlin's scalp.
The boy cries in a pitiful display.
The king smiles.
He is the one in power once again!
He pushes the boy forward with more strength than is needed, the youth falling half-way onto the royal bed. The older man marches toward the warlock in haste, every loud thud of the his footsteps causing the boy's heart to quicken in pace. Then Merlin's senses heighten; his thoughts are yearning to run away. His magic burns the backs of his irises as it tries to stop the inevitable.
The youth cries as the monarch uses one hand to force him into place, turning that taunting, pale form around onto his back on the deep red mattress. Merlin's eyes are glowing bright with the forbidden craft, tears escaping their corners unopposed.
The king's grin grows wider with every whimper that delicious mouth emits. He holds the warlock's arms over his head, his legs dangling over either side of the ruler's hips.
For what seems like an eternity the monarch simply watches the warlock struggle under his hold, drinking in the youth's helplessness and fear. He shoves the boy against his front, against his painfully hardened cock, forcing the youth to fully realize the danger he is in; to understand what will happen to him, how badly Uther wants to tear the sorcerer in two.
A satisfied grin finds its way onto Uther's face once the warlock begins to struggle harder. He is screaming incoherent strings of words at the ruler, his captor. The Royal reaches down one hand to begin freeing his pulsing member from its cage. He then grasps both of those slender wrists within his other hand, the magical creature's luscious screams filling the room.
He is the creature's master now as well.
"You drove a hard bargain, sorcerer…" the king purrs, running his gloved fingers along the body's chest and stomach, marveling in the way the muscles quake underneath his touch. He enjoyed how the skin immediately retracts from the contact, the pale cover trying to jump right off the body as the leather fingers move along the warlock's skin.
The boy's voice is beginning to grow hoarse from all his screaming, all his pleading, all the times he's told his captor that he has changed his mind. The sorcerer doesn't want to do this anymore. He prefers death by the pyre to serving as Uther's fuck toy. Anything other than this! Anything!
Finally, a large gloved hand has to silence the cycle of whining.
Such is the foolishness of youth, the monarch ponders, watching those large molten eyes as they grow wide with fear.
Such is the foolishness of the beautiful youth struggling below him to think that he could hide something so evil under the king's nose forever. That the laws and rules of this world did not apply to him; that he would never get caught, never stand trial.
A gloved hand raked along the warlock's face, around his glowing eyes, quivering lips, while the other gloved hand tightened its hold on Merlin's porcelain wrists. 'No', the boys pale lips continue to quiver, no voice escaping," Nonono dontdothis no!"
The monarch's pulsing cock jumps once again, precum sliding down the royal member, weeping to finally have its release.
The large gloved hand retracted from the warlock's face, steadying the body beneath him, grabbing hold of the king's manhood, readying to impale the pale form. The pulsing organ is screaming to submerge itself within the warlock's crying body.
It is begging; growing larger the longer the ruler hesitates, threatening premature release. The king realizes he hasn't been this hard in a long time.
Not since Igraine. Not since that beautiful woman was murdered by creatures like the boy beneath him.
Finally, the monarch stabs through the body, not preparing or stretching the youth beforehand. There is enough precum to ease the king's crying member into the horrified mage, and that is all that matters.
Merlin's always so tight.
Uther claims the boy for the umpteenth time, shoving the sorcerer onto the table. He bangs the boy's head till it bleeds and his kicking legs go still before he stabs his thick cock up that tight passage.
Merlin's always so tight. He's always so loud when he screams. He screams and screams as endless tears cascade down his face into his mouth.
Merlin's always the perfect outlet for the King's failures.
The monarch pumps the limp body up and down the table, dishes clattering to the floor as he grunts and moans inside the sorcerer.
'Warlock,' the King corrects himself. He had learned the difference a week beforehand, as he lay in bed exhausted from playing with his new fuck toy. At first his interest began as curiosity. He found questions would spill from his mouth about the boy's past life during the moments when satiation and fatigue left the monarch's guard down.
Uther could not understand how such a small, weak boy could hold so much power.
He would berate himself a short time later for showing weakness. Of course that meant beating the boy till he lost consciousness so Uther could regain the upper hand.
But the growing curiosity was always there and as time went on, it became something more akin to admiration. He would watch the fire from the light in the room play along the much younger male's body and he would give in to his private thoughts.
How could such a beautiful, young man hold all the power of the world in his hands?
Returning to the present, the King groans one final time and releases all the failures of the day. His nails dig into the pale skin until pools of red emerge. His hands move to grip each side of the table, exhausted as he bends over the boy, the smaller body limp as a rag doll under him.
A smirk plays on his lips, his old eyes watching the warlock's empty gaze stare off as blood seeps from his head wound and crimson streaks down his legs.
Such a powerful, beautiful boy lies defeated under him. He has conquered magic once again!
Grabbing locks of the ebony hair, the old king drags the unresponsive boy off the table. Merlin's body makes a slight thump as he hits and slides along the floor. Uther tosses him into the spare room on the far side of the bed. With the insertion of a key, and a click of a lock his conquered property is put away for safekeeping. He is an easy victory kept in storage for another bad day. The boy is growing weaker, more hopeless. It was only a matter of time until he gave in completely.
Satiated in both body and mind, Uther removes his few remaining garments and lays under the rich velvet sheets of his bed, smiling as he drifts off into a peaceful dream. His land is free from sorcerers and evil, with festivities and smiles abounding.
Not far from the sleeping king, lays a bruised and battered body resting not on rich sheets but on a cold, hard and dusty floor. Blood seeps from the wounds all over his form as he shivers, holding himself, trying to remember how to cry.