AN: Written for perverse_bang over on Livejournal. Pretty much the one where my love for Renaissance Theatre meets porn.
The first time Mordred stood in the thick, pungent crowds of the theatre it had been a tactic move. Orphaned and living on the streets of London, where the horse droppings and human waste washed the very streets he lived off, he knew the best place to pick pockets were the swelling crowds of people crowded onto the middle yard of the theatre.
Mordred hated the stage and the yard and the tiers of seats up above the commoners. The actors had odd makeup on their faces, and young boys darted about in dresses. The smell overpowered his nostrils as the men and women towered over his small frame. As a child he could only see the stage at random intervals. And above, like the vultures they were, the wealthy looked down on him, judged him as his hands slipped into unsuspecting pockets.
But there were no city authorities to worry about. Theatre had been outlawed within the city limits, and it was with the excited passive rebellion of the people that thousands marched across the bridges of the Thames to see the spectacles of actors and fake ladies and lords. The south shore of the Thames stood outside the city of London and Mordred often walked over the river, filled with barges and people taxied by riverboat, on his way to the theatre, when he saw the flag waving proud from across the river. He would pass the whores and gamblers, men stumbling in a drunken haze in the afternoon sun.
He never stayed at one theatre long, in case people became suspicious. It was the rule of the street, never stay still, never get caught, never get attached. Mordred was good at all three.
He saw Shakespeare at the Globe and hated the drawn out words. He dug deep into the pockets while Tambourlaine threw off his shepherd clothes at the Rose. Once or twice he dared to enter the Black Friar theatre attached to the grammar schools within the city, but even though the lighting was dark, there was more space and he was almost caught several times in one performance.
It was not until he was sixteen and starting to outgrow the protection that youth had blessed him with, that he heard of Camelot. People were more suspicious of him now, and he found that again and again the theatre was the only place that was crowded enough to get away with stealing from the pockets of those better off than himself. Still, he was tired of the theatres of the South shore and he dreaded having to hear the convoluted and overly-dramatic words of the actors. He had seen men stabbed and bled to death and he had seen men beg their women for love, he had seen the rich steal and the poor beg and theatre made a mockery out of it all.
Camelot was whispered even more carefully than the other playhouses that people talked about.
"I swear, Mum, it was real I tell you," Merlin heard one woman whisper to another. "I do not know how they did it, but they must have got a royal there."
"Do not be silly," the older woman chided. "And quiet your tongue child. This is not the time or place to discuss such matters."
"Though surely you have heard of Camelot ..." the younger woman tried to say, but was quickly silenced. Mordred though had heard enough to pique his interest. It was not unusual for the naive peoples of London to be easily entertained, but there was something in her voice, a strange inflection which caught Mordred's mind and plagued him as he slept curled in his favourite alleyway. At the very least it would be new hunting grounds.
There was very little difference between the round oval-like structure of Camelot Theatre and any of the others Mordred had been to over the years. It had the tiers of wooden seats up above, the hard dirt ground of the yard, the slow falling straw from the thatched roof, and sunlight beaming through the opened centre. The stage tilted down towards the audience, just barely noticeable, just like every other, and there was a haphazard wooden balcony just like the other theatres.
The main difference was in how many people were crowded in the yard. There was still a fair number of people, but nothing compared to the slick press of bodies that the Rose, Swan or Globe had. It would make his job much harder to accomplish.
Mordred shuffled along the back wall and tried to avoid the stares of the other audience members. He knew he would need to wait a few acts, before people would be too immersed to notice his quick hands, their legs too numb from standing to feel their slide.
"You lad! With the darting eyes, halt!" a commanding voice called out, as a man with flipped hair and a roguish smile bounded onto stage. It made Mordred stop with a start. How many times had men yelled at him in that tone. Made to grab him and punish him, and for the first time he felt a connection.
The men on stage, the Knights of Camelot as they were known, were handsome and strong. The words falling from their lips had a bluntness and crudeness that far surpassed any of the finer prose he had ever heard. The beauty of the dirt and filth of a common tongue, spoken without rhyme, had Mordred wrapped in a pleasure he had never known existed. He closed his eyes, let them come to him, sweep him away, leave him open and wanting something he did not understand.
That first performance Mordred was only able to grab a half penny from the dirt strewn ground as he left, too preoccupied by the thief and his daring chase across the stage.
It was the story, he told himself, he was so swept away because the story had so closely resembled his life.
The second show he saw at Camelot was about two royal brothers trying to kill each other and take the throne. There was no connection to Mordred's life, no similarity, but still he found himself entranced. He found himself starting to get aroused by the words, how they played and built on each other in a foreplay of passion. As the final act reached its climax, he had barely suppressed a whimper of pain and humiliation that he could be rendered so vulnerable in a crowd of people.
When he left he told himself it was the actors: Gwaine, the thief who then played the hot headed brother, who winked at the audience and liked to show off with two swords in a fighting scene. Or perhaps it was Leon, who played the authorities and then the other brother who was loyal to the father, and how he brought a solidarity to each character. Or even Lancelot with his deep soulful eyes or Elyan with his passionate speeches or Percival with his rippling muscles. Yes, it was simply that the male body had always been Mordred's preference and the Knights of Camelot were a fine specimen to be ogled and enjoyed.
The third play was completely different, a comedy this time, and once again Mordred found himself with a growing stiffness in his trousers. He closed his eyes against the sight of a shirtless Gwaine, thinking it would solve his escalating problem. But then it hit him stronger, the words, words falling onto his ears and licking their sensitive shells with the power behind them.
Blinking open his eyes, he was faced with a blonde god he was sure even the flowery romantic prose of Shakespeare or Marlowe would not be able to capture. The stimulation of the words being uttered on the stage, so common and beautiful, and the sight of the sun peering through the thatched roof to hit the golden man who watched the stage with a furious frown of complete concentration, was too much for Mordred. Quickly making his way to the side of the theatre, he did not bother checking to see if the alley was properly empty of any street urchins or layabout drunks.
With shaking hands, he brought himself out of his trousers and started to stroke himself furiously as he could still hear some of the noise, muffled as it were by the thick walls. Closing his eyes he relived each word, each uncompleted sentence and rough language, the strangeness and magic of the prose, so enticing and it brought him to the edge of the pleasure he so desperately sought. It was as he thought of those words being uttered by the Golden Man that his release hit the timber frame of Camelot.
Mordred stared at the sight for a moment, before some amused little laughs from nearby had him hastily covering up as he noticed a local whore eyeing him from a few feet away. He immediately recognized her unkempt wild mane of dark hair, and the pale fragile face that smiled sardonically at him.
"If it is not Sir Mordred, my favourite little thief" Morgana teased. "Having a problem there dear?"
"What are you doing here Morgana?" Mordred asked, eyeing the way she seemed to have covered up more than usual, looking almost presentable. Though the last time he had seen her she had been bent over a table and looking extremely bored as a large and rather sweaty man enthusiastically pumped into her from behind. Perhaps when she was not working up she always wore things that made her pass for respectable.
"I wanted to see my brother now that he has joined us heathens of the South shore," Morgan shrugged. "But he's a complete prat like he always is, thinks that he's some great artist now. Only Arthur would still keep an ego after being disinherited, most people would learn some humility from that."
"Your brother works at the theatre?" Mordred asked, unable to hide his shock. It was well-known that Morgana was the bastard child of Lord Uther Pendragon, one of the city fathers. Lord Pendragon was the moral and ethical heart of London, keeping the whores, beggars, gamblers, drinkers, and most importantly the theatres out of the city and quarantined along the southern shore of the Thames. As if the river could wash away the filth before it touched his precious city. It was also well-known that Lord Pendragon had a son. For Lord Pendragon, who always went out of his way to appear proper and beyond reproach, it must have been something drastic to make him toss out his only son.
"Is he working behind the stage?" Mordred asked, for he could think of none that looked like Morgana.
Morgana laughs, and hooks her arm around Mordred's, forcing him to start escorting her down the street.
"You do not know my brother. You hear all those pathetic words being tossed out of the mouths of his actors, that is my brother. He fancies himself a competitor to Marlowe or Shakespeare, he is delusional I tell you. Camelot gets half the audience the Swan or Globe get. And here I am, trying to help him find employment, and he snubs me because Morgause was the one to come up with the idea," Morgana rants. Mordred does not know what to say to that, after all, it was imperative not to know too much when someone was as expendable as he was. "Sorry, I should not bore you with family drama. Do you have enough food? I am sure I could convince Morgause to let you have a meal with us. I worry about you."
"I'm fine," Mordred promised. "But thank you."
"You have always been the politest street urchin. It is a shame you do not find the female form pleasing, I would give you one hell of a discount," Morgana sighed, pawing his arm.
"It is a shame you do not find the male form pleasing, otherwise you might enjoy your job more," Mordred said, causing Morgana to laugh.
"Well, I have Morgause for that," Morgana winked up at him. "Well, speaking of work, I do believe I see some rather randy men stumbling out of that fine establishment. Morgause would not be pleased if I returned empty handed."
"Be careful," Mordred warned, not trusting how loud and obnoxious the men seemed to be as they stumbled down the road. He had seen too many horrible things to really trust strangers.
Smiling bittersweetly, Morgana gently cupped his cheek. "My knight in shining armour. You be careful too sweet. I want to see you keep both those hands."
Watching her saunter away, Mordred looked back to Camelot Theatre, and sighed. He wondered what Arthur would look like, probably dark haired and pale like Morgana, and he felt an insane urge to find him, to see him, to hear him utter the beautifully imperfect words he wrote.
It took five months to determine the Golden Man was Arthur.
It became a habit, going to Camelot, with its smaller crowd, leaving midway through the performance to his favourite spot by the back doorway and relieve the aching hardness of his cock at the thought of Arthur and the magic of his words. Sometimes he would go back in and finish the play, other times the rumble of hunger in his stomach was enough to force him to sneak into one of the more crowded theatres and make his living from the pockets of others.
It was a habit that Mordred had no desire to break. It was the highlight of his days when he would see the unique red flag and white dragon crest fly above the theatre, signaling the play about to begin. Sometimes it would excite him so much, knowing the pleasure he would receive from it, that he would arrive half-hard already.
"Why was your brother disinherited?" Mordred asked, gasping a bit as one of the male whores in Morgause's brothel bobbed up and down, taking him deep down his abused throat. He could barely remember the boys name, Gimmi or Gilli or something else. It was too much to concentrate on anything other than the delicious suction around his cock.
"He was caught in an intimate position with a servant in our father's household," Morgana said from where she was curled naked beside him, petting his hair as he panted from a building pleasure. "Father might have been okay with all of that, if it had been a female servant, but seeing Arthur getting pleasured by another man was apparently too much for Uther's sensibilities."
The man does something with his tongue which has Mordred arching and crying out, so close he feels his eyes start to tear.
"That's it, enough talk about stupid Arthur, enjoy my present to you," Morgana whispered, playing with her nipples as she watched Mordred's cock disappearing into another man's willing mouth and one of her hands wandered between her legs. "Come now my Mordred, pour it down his throat, take the pleasure you deserve, let it go. Just think if this was Arthur in front of you, swallowing, taking you deep. Choke him with it. Come on."
Mordred found himself paying less attention to the actors over the following plays. Instead he listened and watched Arthur lean forward, always serious and always so thoughtful. And he would think of his ink stained hands that gripped the banister gripping his cock instead, or that serious tight line of his mouth wide open and gasping as Mordred swallowed him to the base. It was pure torture to imagine, but he could not stay away.
Then he arrived.
He had heard murmurs of a new actor as part of the Knights, but he had paid little attention to it, until Merlin stepped out onto the stage in a purple dress. Camelot had broken the popular trend of female characters, as a struggling theatre they did not have anyone who either could or would play the part of a woman, and all of the plays so far had focused on men. Elyan, being the shortest, would sometimes step in and play the woman for a short time, but nothing like this.
Merlin, playing a timid girl with a horrible secret named Freya, was beyond anything Mordred had ever experienced. Unlike other plays, Merlin did not try to hide his masculinity through an overdone fake-ness or putting on a high-pitched voice that grated the nerves. There was no hideous make-up which made a mockery out of the female face. He played Freya as a man in a dress, but at the same time brought a fragility and humanity to the part that it was easy to see past the outer shell or deep tones of his voice.
He was the other side to the script, bringing a humanity and realism to the words that none of the other actors had managed. For the first time since he came to Camelot, Mordred did not leave midway through to pull out his cock and add another strip of semen to his growing collection against the back wall, but stayed through to the very end.
He was so painfully aroused by the end of the play that the barest hint of his hand rubbing against the front of his trousers had him spending his release within his pants.
After Merlin's arrival, Camelot seemed to swell with people. Those light whispers began growing in fervor and volume. Suddenly, everywhere Mordred went he heard talk of an actor named Merlin and the amazing scripts of Arthur Penn ("Is that not Pendragon?" "Surely not!" "I think it is!" "No, no, it says Penn not Pendragon." "I heard he buggered his servants." "It is not Pendragon, see it is Penn."). Suddenly, if Mordred wanted to see Merlin perform, to bring the dizzying arousing words of Arthur to new heights, he had to fight his way through the crowd.
The growing crowds meant that it was not safe to find relief against the back wall, there were too many people about. And Morgause's whores had picked up on the growing demand around Camelot, and now the alleyways were usually filled with grunts and groans as men and women found pleasure in warm bodies and handed over coin.
It was growing to be too much, it was painful to come and face being in a crowd of people with a hard cock and no way to escape. Yet still Mordred could not turn away, had to see Merlin float across stage in another dress and imagine what he could look like if he just held the dress up. If his cock would be fat and ready, standing proud and reaching for Mordred's mouth. If Golden-haired Arthur would watch, narrate even, use his words like Morgana does, to coax and stimulate and bring Merlin and himself to a sticky release.
It was frustrating to have those fantasies, and Mordred found himself getting careless with his pickpocketing, his mind too focused on Merlin and Arthur.
It was a bad week. Everything seemed to be going wrong and the authorities almost caught him several times. His mind was too distracted, slowing his hand when it needed to be quick, making him less cautious than he should have bee. Morgana attempted to mother him and to feed him enough food to keep him from starving. Morgause had even been there to offer Mordred a chance to work for her, if he found pickpocketing was not providing him with the necessities of life. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation as Morgause curled around Morgana's back and continued to finger-fuck her into oblivion as Mordred ate what food they had provided for him.
"Think about the offer," Morgause said, all business as her fingers moved at a brutal pace that had Morgana cry out and arch back against her.
"I think you have your hands full at the moment," Mordred said, leaving with a full stomach and feeling a bit steadier on his feet.
He now stood back in the theatre, already half-hard from watching Morgause and Morgana. It was then at the end of such a rotten week, with the weight of hunger and empty pockets, that an idea came to him. It was a stupid idea. A horrible idea, but his feet had him moving before he could even stop himself.
It took a lot of maneuvering to press himself the stage, at the very front of the audience, and as the actors came out and started the play, the growing audience, which now packed every nook and cranny of the theatre, pressed forward so that it was hard to breathe.
The press of wood against his chest was worth it when Merlin came out. This time he wore a lavender dress, that swirled up when he moved, to show lean calve muscles and the dark coarse leg hair. Once or twice Merlin's gaze would rove out over the audience and would catch Mordred's gaze before moving on. Every time it was enough to make his cock jump in anticipation, even though it would have nothing but his own fist to take pleasure from, or one of Morgause and Morgana's whores if they were feeling generous.
As they entered into the fourth act, Mordred could not take it any more, the hard press of wood against his straining erection was driving him crazy. Closing his eyes against the sight of Merlin and focusing instead on the words of Arthur, he started to palm his hard and leaking cock through his trousers.
He became exceedingly aware of the fact that there were hundreds of people crowded around him, how their bodies pressed against his, and that if anyone just glanced at him it seemed to Mordred it would be very obvious what he was doing. Yet he could not stop. The pleasure was building too fast and before he realised it his hands were down his trousers and moving fast and furious.
That is when it happened. Merlin's gaze landed on him and for the first time Mordred had ever seen, he faltered. A deep red crossed his face and he blinked, watching as Mordred, unable to stop, gave a quiet gasp and came from the force of Merlin's eyes.
Merlin straightened himself, coughed, and then continued on, stepping back into his role effortlessly.
The part of Mordred that was still functioning after that mind-numbing climax, knew he should run for it. He would never be able to show his face at Camelot ever again. It would be an end of an almost year long obsession. The one thing in his life he had ever gotten attached to and here he was being caught in the act. Yet his feet refused to move and he stood completely still as the cast began the last act of the play.
His mind, now racing from the possibilities of what might happen, almost missed the fact that Merlin did not seem as graceful as he usually did on stage. Glancing at him, he watched as Merlin spun around and for a second, he was almost sure that the outline of a hard and erect cock was visible in the folds of the dress. Wishing that Merlin was in the same skin-tight tights that Gwaine was wearing as he pretended to court Merlin, Mordred viciously eyed Merlin's crotch trying to see if he was imagining or not.
As Merlin turned slowly away from Gwaine, Mordred could tell there was no mistake. Merlin, the famous actor Merlin, was hard and erect under his fancy dresses in front of hundreds.
Mordred's spent cock twitched with excitement at that knowledge.
As the play wrapped up, Mordred could barely wait to get to the back door and find a second release. A private place where he would be able to imagine what Merlin's cock would look like. What it would be like to bunch up the material of the skirt and have everything on display. If the audience would watch, as entranced by Merlin's performance as they were when he was fully clothed, enchanted by the spell he cast over them.
As the final bow was taken, Mordred met Merlin's eye for the third time. The dark and lustful property was enough to bring him to full hardness. Licking his lips, he felt a thrill of victory as Merlin blushed a tiny bit, seeming more bashful than anyone who could act in front of hundreds of people had any right to look.
It took too long to get to the back door. The crowd of people, jammed into the yard, were in no hurry to leave. Finally as he squeezed past the wooden doors and made it out into the smoky haze of the street, he quickly parted from the crowd and made his way into the back alleyway. Luckily none of the whores or drunken lechers were about, and without ceremony, Mordred dropped his trousers around his knees and started to pull his cock, playing with the foreskin a bit to get him back to full hardness.
A cut-off groan broke through the pleasure, and Mordred froze. There it was again, a groan of stifled ecstasy, and it was not coming from the alley, but the door itself.
"Arthur!" a voice cried, and there was no mistaking it. He would know those deep tones anywhere.
Mordred pressed his face against the door and peered through the cracks. It was not the best angle, but he could just barely make out Merlin, still in his dress bunched up around his waist, and the golden Arthur thrust into him from behind.
"That's it," Arthur said, and it shook Mordred to the core. He had never heard the man speak, though he had imagined it so many times. Imagined how the words he wrote would sound from his lips, and it was nothing like Mordred had imagined.
In many ways it was a come down. He had pictured it deep and throaty, like sex and rough - dirty without mercy. Instead it was lighter, polished and upper class. He sounded like every other noble who sat in the higher tiers of the theatre and looked down on the peasants such as himself.
Still, the way his muscled buttocks clenched with every thrust, every push into Merlin, was enough to bring Mordred to the cusp of an orgasm on sight alone.
"He was here again was he not," Arthur whispered, forcing Mordred to pay attention or else lose what it was that was being said. "Your street urchin, the one with the eyes of fire and ice. You always are more of a slut after he comes."
"Yes, yes," Merlin murmured, pushing back and Mordred wished he could see where they joined, could make out Merlin's leaking cock, but his view was blocked.
"Are you thinking of him now?" Arthur demanded, and quickly pistoned his hips so fast, so hard that Mordred had to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from crying out. As if he were the one being pounded into and stuffed with Arthur's cock.
"Can't say anything," Merlin gasped once Arthur slowed his pace back down to allow Merlin a chance to speak. "You are the one who brought him to my attention. And today ... oh god ..."
"What of today?" Arthur asked, and his voice was deeper, rougher and his hips losing some of their controlled movement, and becoming erratic. "Tell me what caused my best actor to stumble like an amateur. Did you think no one would notice the swell of your cock under the folds of your skirts? That perhaps they would not be able to see how desperate you were, how you leaked against those precious fabrics like a common street whore? Tell me the cause. Come on, Merlin, tell me what the street urchin did."
"He touched himself," Merlin gasped and Mordred's brain was filled with buzzing. He could not tell what was being said. They were speaking of him. They were using their words, precious words that had been tormenting Mordred for months, and they were pleasuring themselves with them through him. Through his boldness, through his obsessions, he was the one making Arthur lose his rhythm and Merlin arch back like one of Morgause's workers.
Mordred came with a blinding speed and as he struggled to calm his breathing he leaned back against the door. Peering in, he could see that Merlin and Arthur had also finished. Though, unlike the whores he had seen, they did not separate and make themselves presentable. Instead, Merlin had turned around and they hugged each other close, petting at their arms and backs and calming each other in a way that seemed more intimate than fucking.
"You okay?" Arthur asked.
"Yes, yes, that was perfect," Merlin muttered, kissing Arthur's jaw.
"Are you sure you still want me to write you as a woman? You do know it was a jest the first time," Arthur muttered.
"I like how it gives you pleasure, and besides the fans expect it," Merlin said, laughing slightly as if there was some joke in there that Mordred was not privy to.
"Mmm, at least it is not my step-mother's dresses any more," Arthur laughed, fingering the folds of Merlin's dress. "Lady Catarina was not amused that they kept disappearing. And I had such a lousy servant he could not find those dresses anywhere."
"Oi, I was a wonderful servant," Merlin protested.
"You are the messiest person I know," Arthur scoffed.
"You love my mess."
"No, just you," Arthur said softly, cupping Merlin's cheek. "Just love you."
Mordred felt something hard break in his chest, and suddenly everything felt too much. This was too intimate, he should not be seeing this. More than fucking, than touching, than anything else Mordred had no right to see this moment. He was a nobody, the dirt of the street, and he knew that men like him did not find happiness like this. Pulling his trousers back on, he did not look where he was going and stumbled over a few barrels that had been stored in the back alley.
The crash of the barrels were deafening, and Mordred took off at a run, only barely aware of the back stage door opening and a voice yelling after his retreating form.
Morgana found him one week later deep in the city in one of his favourite alleys.
"Mordred?" She asked, squatting down to his level where he was curled against the hard brick. She said nothing, simply took his hand in hers and held on, giving what little comfort she could.
"When was the last time you ate?" She asked a while later. Mordred shrugged, the gnawing pain of his stomach was a constant presence, what little scraps he had managed to find barely making a difference. "You cannot live like this. Mordred I am worried about you."
"I am sorry," Mordred said, because the last person he wanted to hurt was Morgana. The one person who fed and watered him, looked after his needs and protected him.
"Pickpocketing was fine when you were a child, but you cannot live like this. It is only a matter of time before you are caught. I have found a job for you," Morgana said hesitantly.
"With Morgause?" Mordred asked.
"No, no ... I had noticed how you seemed to love the theatre and I spoke with Arthur. They have need for stage hand," Morgana said.
"I cannot go back to Camelot," Mordred whispered.
"Why? Were you caught?" Morgana asked, and Mordred felt his face flush as he thought of what he had been caught doing. He touched himself. Merlin had said that. He had seen. There was no way he could go back. "Arthur would not care about that. Despite his many and unending faults, he does not hold peoples professions against them even if they are ... morally questionable."
Mordred said nothing.
"Fine. How about this? If you go right now, and speak to Arthur about this job, no matter what he says, I will have Morgause feed you each meal for two days. That is worth more than you could pickpocket in a week," Morgana said smugly, petting his hair as if she had already won.
The deep pain in his stomach brought his defenses down. Arthur would turn him away, he might even be humiliated and belittled, but at least there would be food. Mordred had definitely put himself in worse situations for far less.
"Very well."
Upon entering back into the theatre, Mordred found it eerie to be there with no people. He felt as if there were ghosts in every seat, staring at him, judging him for entering this magical sanctuary. Arthur stood on stage and waited for him.
Mordred was surprised that Arthur did not seem shocked to see him.
"I thought perhaps you were the pickpocketer that Morgana spoke of," Arthur said, apparently reading Mordred's face like an open book, as Mordred joined him on the stage. "I am pleased that you managed to come. You have been missing for three of our performances. We were worried something had happened to you."
"We?" Mordred asked, feeling wrong footed and completely lost by the conversation.
"Merlin and I," Arthur said idly. "We saw you retreating from the back alley the other day, and we were worried you would never come back. When Morgana came to plead your case, we hoped it would be enough to bring you once again to our humble abode, and it seems fortune has smiled on us indeed."
"Morgana said you had a job?" Mordred said quietly.
"Yes. Stage hand, would you like it?" Arthur asked.
"Yes."
"Very well, it is yours. First rehearsal is tomorrow morning. Gwaine has insisted he fall through the trap door during the battle scene. You will hide beneath the stage and once you hear the cue, you will release the door and help Gwaine get back onto the stage in time for the next scene."
"Thank you sir," Mordred muttered, bowing hesitantly and made to leave the stage.
"Where are you going?" Arthur demanded, sounding vaguely amused.
"I was just ..." Mordred trailed off, unsure how to respond.
"We still need to discuss the second arrangements," Arthur said as he strutted forward. "Tell me, Mordred, have you ever been with a man in an intimate situation?"
Mordred felt his cock twitch, and swallowed thickly.
"Yes," he said truthfully.
"Have you been with two men at the same time?"
"Yes."
"Good," Merlin said, as he came out from one of the stage doors, in trousers and a tunic, which seemed odd and completely out of place. It was hard to see Merlin without a dress on. "Arthur and I would like it very much if you would join us as we, ah, merry-make."
"Really Merlin, merry-make?" Arthur scoffed. "We can all be thankful that you are not the writer. Otherwise you would be having the Knights say ridiculous things like turniphead, or clotpole."
"You love my words," Merlin retorted, and Mordred felt his breath catch as Merlin boldly cupped this front bulge of his pants and rub sensually against it.
"And what would you call it?" Arthur asked, and when had he moved to stand so closely behind Mordred. He appeared there, his breath playing over Mordred's ears and his words caressing him.
"Fucking," Mordred groaned, as Merlin pulled his cock out, fully on display. Arthur traced one finger down Mordred's neck and every nerve tingled in response. He was now painfully hard within his trousers.
"And are you good at fucking?" Arthur whispered into his ear. "Do you enjoy it? Do you get hard and leak from the mere thought of it?"
"Yes," Mordred whimpered, eyes unable to leave where Merlin's fist lazily stroked up and down.
"Then, if you would not mind, show us. Show us how good you are at fucking," Arthur prompted.
It was all Mordred needed to fall to his knees and take Merlin in his mouth. Everything was too much, the empty theatre with those invisible eyes watching him gag when he got too eager, whimper as Arthur's spit-slicked ink stained fingers lowered his trousers and played with his hole.
Everything came to him in snippets of sensation. The rough material of Merlin's trousers pressed against his face, the dark smell of Merlin's arousal, the way Arthur's fingers still caught the skin of Mordred's arse as they pried him open. Suddenly there was a blunt tip, so much larger than the finger and he knew what the audience would see now. They would see him, pierced and stuffed like a roasting pig. His cock leaked its precum and he could not contain the groans he let out, even though they were muffled by Merlin's cock.
Shock poured through him as two hands, one shorter and blunter, the other long and spindly, met on his cock and brought him to pleasure so intense he cried out against Merlin's cock. Still the hands milked him for more, demanded more, kept him pulsing until he was too sensitive.
Finally Merlin pulled out and Mordred felt his release hit his slack face. Arthur was not too far behind, choosing to remain in the tight embrace of Mordred's arse to spend his seed in.
Afterwards, as Mordred's senses came back to him, he noticed the soothing feel of fabric cleaning off the mess on his face. He tried to turn his head, instinctually not trusting the kindness being shown to him.
"Let him," Arthur commanded, wrapping his arms tightly around Mordred's smaller frame. "Let us take care of you."
It felt odd, to be naked and held, to be stroked and petted and for no other purpose than to offer comfort.
As Merlin wiped the last of the semen from his stomach, he reached up and gently took Mordred's mouth into a gentle and hesitant kiss. He had never been kissed before, never known the slide of lips against his. As Merlin pulled back, Mordred let out a small whimper, before Arthur cupped his jaw and kissed him softly.
Mordred felt some unknown emotion emerge, it was small and painful and bright and terrifying. He had never felt it before and could not name it.
"We have a room, not far, come stay with us," Arthur offered.
And that night, sleeping curled between Merlin and Arthur, a roof over his head and one full meal in his stomach, he realised it was hope.