A Merlin/Arthur podfic. If you’ve come across this fic, please tell me who wrote this? I bookmarked the page where it was, but I had to reformat my computer and I lost all my bookmarks. I am terribly sorry for doing this without permission.
WARNING: Explicit descriptions of homosexual sex. Listen with caution.
Background music is not mine. Story and characters are not mine.
“You’re so beautiful like this.” The Warlock says, his voice sweet.
The dragon gleam in his eyes abates as invisible tendrils. Thoughts made substance, flow over the King’s newly naked body to tie him spread-eagle to the ground. Around them, the expanse of gently undulating wheat is like a golden sea in the sunset.
The King is strong, but against a Warlock his strength is worth nothing. And yet he fights; tries to free himself. The Warlock watches silently as the King’s sweat break, bitter with fear that he does not voice. A King is a beautiful prey, and taking him is like taking down a king stag. It is done out of honour for a worthy opponent, without hate.
The King is as his cornfield is. His mouth is poppy red, and it opens only to snarl a curse at the Warlock, never to beg for mercy. His hair is golden as the ripened corn, brightened by a long summer. His colouring is that of a farmer; skin gold on his face and neck, and on his lower arms. The rest is pale. His body smells of drying hay, of sweaty horse and sweaty man. His eyes, staring daggers at the Warlock, are as blue as cornflowers.
The Warlock knows the ancient mysteries; knows the flow of the seasons, the ever changing cycles of night and day, of the tides, and of the moon. He knows better than any what the worth of the sacrifice is, how the King assures the fertility of the land.
It is harvest-time now, and the King himself is ripe for picking. His manhood grows stiff and flush as the Warlock touches him with a pale, long-fingered hand. A moan escapes the King’s lips, and he bites his lower lip to the red of the fragrant red apples they store for midwinter.
But it is summer now, and the King is summer. He is long days when night is but a shadow between two expanses of light. He is warm waters full of fish, groves rich with deer, fields heavy with wheat and barley, and orchards burdened with fruit.
The Warlock removes his clothes. Underneath, his body is pale and lithe.
He kisses the King’s forehead first, that he will be given the wisdom to rule his people.
He kisses the King’s mouth, that he will be the voice of reason.
He kisses the King’s chest, that all his love will be for this land he was given to.
He kisses the King’s manhood, that his seed will assure fertility of the land, of the beasts and of the people. He kisses the King’s feet at last. That he will never forget to be humble and stand firmly on the ground.
The King swallows, has almost stopped fighting. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” The Warlock says before he runs his hands over the King’s body, worshipping it.
He straddles him, presses his mouth to the King’s mouth. The King stops his fruitless thrashing then, and only his tongue battles the Warlock’s for supremacy.
When the Warlock offers him his fingers, the king licks them greedily, suckles them like a calf would. His eyes are flames, warming the Warlock’s body inside and out.
When the fingers, now wet from the King’s mouth, disappear into the Warlock’s body, the King sighs. He licks his lips at the sight of the Warlock squirming. The fingers move in a steady rhythm, the same rhythm both of them will move to in a little while.
And then, the Warlock takes him in, without a word of warning. It is hot, oppressing; it is a prison of flesh. The King arches his back, wanting further in. The Warlock smiles the impish grin of a disobedient boy. He lifts himself so that only the tip of the King is left in him. And then he lowers himself fully, his face screwing up in pain as the King’s cock wrenches him open.
They stay like that for a few moments, the Warlock breathing in quick, shallow gasps.
They cannot stay still for long. In the night, forces stronger than them are at work, and the Warlock is seized by it. He rides the King as his own pain transforms into pleasure, his hips working tirelessly. The once mighty King lies helpless under the slight weight of the boyish Warlock.
That is when he starts begging, when his lips form the most unbelievable sentences; garbled mess of endearments and promises, threats and curses. The Warlock laughs and laughs, working himself on the King’s strong body. It is only when the King’s climax nears that the bindings give way, and he can press the Warlock down on his back, thrust into him wildly and spend himself there. The Warlock still laughs, even as his own cock jolts and spurts between their bodies.
The King holds him down, kisses him. For it is summer now, and the King is Summer. When the seasons turn, when the nights grow to be longer than the days, the time of the Warlock will come, and he will claim the King with his seed. But it is summer now, and he smiles as the King, his lover, holds him in his arms and kisses him until he dissolves.
Night falls; a deep, rich blue. Grasshoppers play in the corn and a white owl hunts above them, under the pale stars. The King’s seed flows out of the Warlock’s body, onto the soil. The fertility of the land is assured once more.
