TITLE: A Draughty Corridor
SUMMARY: Merlin is in a mischievous mood, and that means, of course, he'll be ambushing Arthur in the corridors of the Camelot castle…
WARNING: PWP.
APOV
I'm looking for Merlin. No surprises or shocks, because I'm always looking for Merlin. I wonder what the hell he's doing this time?
Suddenly, hands have seized my shoulders and have yanked me back into an alcove. I've been slammed against a wall, but if I didn't recognise the hair and the smell, the bastard would be on his back with a sword through his chest. Very familiar lips are busy on my neck and very familiar hands are all tearing down the front of my shirt, pulling material up and over my head.
"Merlin, for Gods sake, anyone could see."
"Shut up," he mumbles, his lips silencing my protests as they land on mine in a hot, hard, possession, a possession which I can't fight, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I don't care that the alcove he's dragged me into is open and uncovered, that if anyone walked by they'd see us, and there wouldn't be any denying the situation. His lips are kissing a path down the chest he exposed, and those big eyes are staring up at me. Oh god, like I would ever have been able to object or push him away. He's reached the hem of my breeches, and those eyes are now a challenge.
"Merlin," I hiss, "if you stop, I will hurt you." I feel his smile against my skin, and then he's yanked my trousers down and his mouth is so very busy.
And by God, it is a very, very talented mouth. I remember the day I found that out, and how fucking incredible it was. But right now, right now, here in this corridor where the wind is caressing my chest, making a wonderful contrast to the waves of heat that stem from my groin, that radiate over and over through my body and make me literally unable to think. Morgana herself could walk round the corner and she'd have to wait until I could feel my legs again. God, I haven't even come yet, and already I'm gripping ridges in the stonework so I don't crumble.
And then he does it. I'm not aware of his long fingers until they're already stroking that spot, the one I know will never stop making me lose myself in ecstasy and will never stop making me cry with pleasure. The next thing I know, his throat is constricting as he swallows, and there are huge black spots clouding my vision. He doesn't give me a chance to recover, doesn't even let my vision clear before he's turned me round, slammed me against the stonework and is placing very hot, open-mouthed kisses onto my neck, while I can hear his hands fumbling with his trousers. And then he's inside and my god, but he's very, very good at this.
"Beg me, Prince. Beg."
"Please," I say, happily. "Please, Merlin, please."
His hand wraps around my throat and I let my head fall back on his shoulder. I don't realise how loud I've become until that hand shifts, covering my mouth. His moans are breathy, quiet things that combine with the wind, something nobody will ever think twice about. The next thing I know, his teeth are in my neck, which he does when I've come and he can feel it around his cock. He's tense behind me, and I can feel the long tremors running through him, there's so much contact. There couldn't be a sheet of parchment slid between us. He pulls away, and without his support, I literally slide down the wall. I hear his chuckle and then I hear footsteps approaching. He yanks me to my feet and helps me tidy myself, and then shoves me out into the corridor, while he himself hides in the alcove. I'm all too aware that even though I'm dressed, it's going to be obvious to whoever it is that I wasn't in there to retie my bootlaces. It's Percival, and out of everyone who it could have been, I think I'd rather it be him. He spends enough time being pushed out of hidey-holes by Merlin.
He grins at me, and slings and arm around my shoulders, just as Merlin himself strolls off down the corridor.
"You know, Arthur," he says, solemnly, watching the dark-haired man saunter off, "we're going to have to find out how he's so bloody good one day. We could bottle it, sell it, make our fortunes. But in the meantime, you're late for training." I exchange a look with him, and then we both start laughing. "Want me to carry you, Sire, or do you think you'll make it?" I cuff him round the head, and then we race to training. Because he's a knight, and I'm a prince, and we don't talk about what happens in draughty corridor alcoves.