Written for Camelot_Drabble on Livejournal. Prompt #6: Whispers in the Night.
Merlin wasn't usually one to indulge. What with his days full of chores, and court life, and saving Arthur's arse all the bloody time. So really, he couldn't be blamed for wanting a little time to himself at the end of the day. A little time to relax. A little time to forget about destiny and royal prats who make him much out their stables day in and day out. A little time to get in touch with his magic most of all. Some days it was like a being in itself, demanding to be let out.
It'd only been a few years or so ago that Merlin had discovered the delights of wanking, and even less than that when he'd discovered that magic—apart from being very much part of him, and therefore reacting quite spectacularly when he had an orgasm—was also quite wonderful to have when it came to fulfilling some of his more base instincts.
With a whispered word he could feel fingers trailing over his skin. He could feel the faint impression of hands running over his chest, his stomach, his thighs. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine they belonged to him.
And then there was another whisper. A rather naughty spell he'd come across in the old spell book, though he was sure Gaius couldn't know about it. At least he hoped Gaius didn't. It wouldn't bear thinking on anyways, because then there was another sensation; a phantom mouth trailing wetly across his collarbone, heading downward.
Merlin gasped, arching on the mattress as he felt the ghostly mouth swallow his erection. Once he'd tried this with a maid who worked in the kitchens. It had been nice—of course it had, what prick wouldn't feel good with a hot, wet mouth around it—but it was nothing compared to this. For some reason, feeling his magic encase his hard shaft was a thousand times better than the experienced maid's tongue. It was like his magic was pulling the orgasm right out of him, over and over.
Sometimes, not always, but sometimes it was like the magic took control. There came a point when he'd stop with the spells and the magic would just keep going. It would wind itself around his body, teasing and stroking. And if he was ever clear-headed enough to listen closely, he could faintly hear it whispering back to him. Strange pieces of a language that he was unfamiliar with, but was comforting all the same.
And there were times when he was just reaching the peak, about to tumble over the edge, when he could swear that the magic was cradling him in its warmth. Like it understood his need to be held. And when it was over and he lay spent on his lumpy mattress in his tiny cupboard of a room. When his eyes felt heavy and he started to drift. Well sometimes then, the magic would pull his blankets over his naked, twitching body. And it may just be his imagination, but sometimes he could swear that it would brush over his cheek. A ghost of a kiss from phantom lips.