torch, flambeau@strangeplaces.net
February 13, 2012
Disclaimer: I blame the magic. Written for porn battle XIII. The requests I combined here were Gwaine/knights, prompts gangbang, magic and sore, and Gwaine/Merlin, prompts rely, strength. Do not archive without permission.
all the strangers came today
Gwaine's head was filled with a white roaring froth, like a waterfall he'd seen once, all motion and noise, drowning out everything else. Everything but the pounding need in him, he could barely walk for it, he was staggering and hands caught him and that touch, skin on his own, felt so good it was nearly painful.
He probably knew these people. He could see concerned faces, sharp eyes, broad shoulders and strong bodies and they kept touching him, and all he could do was clutch them back and say "Fuck me, oh please, fuck me."
Those had to be the right words. He could barely speak; everything in him was hard and shaking, driven, reaching out desperately.
Someone tried to wrap a blanket around him, and he whined, cut off from the skin touch that he needed, that he needed more of. His clothes were long gone, why were they all dressed? "--don't know how this could have--"
Gwaine threw the blanket off, tried to press himself closer, but they kept slipping away. Concerned brown eyes caught his. "...have to do something."
Yes, he agreed with that even through the overwhelming rush of lust, do something. Touch me. Fuck me. The sunshine was warm on his skin, but nothing like hands or mouths would be. "He is obviously affected by magic," someone said, in a voice clearer and more authoritative than the others. "We must aid him."
A hand slid down his spine. An oiled finger breached him, and Gwaine's head dropped forward and he shivered. "Sssh," someone else said, "It'll be--"
"--not what I meant!" That voice was upset now, but Gwaine lost track of the words. They weren't important, not the way the finger inside him was important. Fingers. He was down on the ground, on the blanket, flashes of grass and sunlight and armor and faces and finally, finally someone pressed into him and he was filled and complete.
Hard. Fast.
"Yes," he said, "yes," as stars of white fire pulsed up his spine with every thrust. He clutched at the body of the man fucking him, arched his back, pushing into the hot golden burn. "You have to, I need..." A hand wrapped around his cock, and he hissed, because it felt good, but that wasn't it.
"I can't," the man groaned and came.
And in that moment, Gwaine convulsed with pleasure, great waves of white and yellow and gold curving through his body, frothing and hissing. The sunshine on his face was like a caress. Then the man pulled out, and Gwaine whined, because now his body knew, and he wanted, craved, needed. "More."
Several voices spoke at once. The words weren't important, only the way they sounded, and Gwaine caught the low, throaty pitch of lust swirling around him, knew what would happen when new hands gripped him and turned him over.
He noticed distantly that the blanket smelled of horse, and then the second man thrust into him in a long rush of gold that had green in it, thick and rippling. Gwaine sank into it, green like glass, like water, it closed over his head and sealed him into pure sensation, green and close and with the coils of gold spinning through it faster and faster, until the second man came and Gwaine screamed with pleasure, the golden coils winding him up and wringing him out and leaving him open for the hardness and heaviness of the third man.
After that, he lost count. Everything was gold and euphoria; he was filled and fucked, fucked and filled, and though ecstasy ripped through him again and again, still the craving was never satisfied but kept drawing him on, spinning him out, stretching him thin, until his self was nothing but night-old ice over the sea of deep green desire.
The voices around him were faint now, and made no sense; they buzzed against him like insect wings, quick light taps of sound, secret signals that meant nothing to him. Nothing seemed real except the wanting, except the absolute imperative of more.
Then new hands touched him, and new gold tendrils started to wind through him, pushing, seeking, finding him and wrapping him up tight. Gwaine shuddered as he was drawn back from those green depths, as he was filled and steadied, as this new warm gold shone pure as sunshine, as the sunshine on his face -- there was sunshine on his face--
He blinked, and everything came into clear focus. It felt like waking up. His mind was his own again, and he was on his back once more on the scratchy horse blanket, and Merlin was fucking him, staring intently at him with golden, glowing eyes.
Also, he was terribly sore.
"You -- you found me," he gasped out. He didn't know how Merlin had done it, but he was here now, all of him, in a way he definitely hadn't been before.
"Of course I did," Merlin said, looking almost offended. "I just couldn't get to you before the knights--" Merlin's eyes changed color. "I'm sorry, I'll stop, this must hurt."
Gwaine wrapped his legs tight around Merlin's hips, holding him in place. "No. I want you to finish."
It didn't take long. Merlin thrust carefully, and then not so carefully, his face squinching up as he came. And nothing happened. There was no crashing wave of yellow and gold, no green depths to fall into, just their sweaty bodies pressed close.
Gwaine smiled. "Oh, you're good," he said. And winced.