I'm writing some long and angsty things which I can't post yet, and needed a porny outlet. Enter The Summer Pornathon 2012!
There are 75 participants, each writing a 500-750 word fill every week, over seven weeks. Entries are anonymous and are voted on at the end of the week.
We are currently voting on Week 3 entries.
Go here if you'd like to check out the other anon entries: archive of our own dot org forward slash collections forward slash summerpornathon2012anon
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Prompt: Image Prompt #12 - Naked man with stripes of black paint on his body.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
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Arthur knows these stairs so well, he normally takes them three at a time, but not tonight.
He's dreading going up to the studio, but goddamn it, he's never backed away from anything in his life. He's not about to start now. Especially not now.
From above, Rage Against the Machine pounds through the double brick, and Arthur feels it inside his chest like a punch to the lungs; Merlin only plays that shit when he's livid.
Climbing up to the mezzanine takes too long and not long enough, and he wants to burst through the door and sneak in unnoticed, just to gauge how bad things are.
The volume from inside indicates DEFCON 2, one step away from open war. If Merlin's rage was directed at Arthur, he'd be expecting to have his eyeballs gouged out with a rusty spoon and mailed to his mother in time for Christmas.
Merlin is an easy-going person, open and mild. But when he loses his shit, it's Godzilla style.
Arthur sets his jaw and slides the door open, the wall of noise slapping him in the face.
Inside, it's carnage. Arthur's stomach crawls into his throat. "Fucking hell," he groans, unheard over the eardrum annihilation.
Merlin's beautiful, colourful canvases lie strewn all over the place like trees uprooted by a typhoon, as though Merlin punted them across the warehouse, not giving a shit where they land. They're scattered everywhere, turned into projectiles by Merlin's rage. Arthur's eyes slide over the debris, mind flipping through ways to torture and maim arsehole art critics.
Movement against the far wall attracts his attention and he stops in his tracks, noting several important elements.
Merlin is painting.
Directly onto the wall.
In black.
He's completely starkers.
Arthur assesses silently. Merlin's naked body stretches like a tightly coiled spring as he throws himself around, following the lead of his angry brush. He's sinew and bone, ridges and angles, but there's power in his strong shoulders and back, and beauty in the tensile harmony of it all.
Broad, vicious strokes drip paint everywhere, all over the floor and all over Merlin, but it's the deliberate brush strokes all over his body which have all of Arthur's attention; stripes of black rage adorn wiry limbs and narrow hips, dragged carelessly across his skin. Stepping carefully around the canvases, Arthur nears, thinking himself unnoticed. He has no time to react when Merlin spins, splattering a rough brush across Arthur's chest, dividing him in two with a thick, black median.
Arthur feels Merlin's savage eyes deep and low in his belly and doesn't back down. He shows Merlin his teeth instead.
He seizes Merlin's wrist in his large hand and flicks it to slap the paintbrush hard on his own cheek. It's cold and startling, and he loves it. His mouth falls open as he drags black paint over his chin, his throat, his expensive shirt.
Merlin's dark hawk's eyes track each flicker of emotion like prey. He grasps a handful of Arthur's shirt, then forces his hand between buttons to worry a tight nipple between dirty fingers. It's like holding a lit match to Arthur's tinder.
He takes Merlin's mouth the way he takes everything he wants, thoroughly, brutally, vaguely amazed at how fast-how always-Merlin makes him flare, and catch, and burn. Within moments, they're on an upturned canvas on the floor, smearing each other with fistfuls of black, Arthur's shirt torn open and flapping, breath ragged in the cold. The acrylic is an acrid icepick through his nose but his mind is hot and frenzied, full of Merlin's wild eyes, black hands and white stomach, the rigid insistence of his cock against the juncture of Arthur's thigh.
Sucking bitter paint from Merlin's nipple, Arthur slides his solid body between Merlin's legs, pinning him down, filthy fingers tracing the cleft of his arse, painting Merlin slippery black inside and out to match his mood.
He works his big fingers the way Merlin likes, with the edge of hysteria making it raw and primal.
Merlin pants through his nose and grunts through gritted teeth until Arthur's thick cock, glistening black with paint, splits him open. Arthur drives himself in and in and in, and fuck, it's tight, hot and sweet Jesus, until there's nothing in Merlin's eyes but Arthur's reflection, and nothing on Arthur's mind except fucking the rage out of him, easing down the snarling, black fury.
I've got you, Arthur thinks, hips deliberate and rough, just so. I'm here. I've got you.
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A/N: Thanks for reading.