marguerite_26 | FIC:A King and his Sword: A Love Story (Arthur/Excalibur) NC-17

Title A King and his Sword: A Love Story
Author:

amythystluna
Summary: As he slid it from the stone, the friction of rock on metal reverberated up the handle, though his arm and settled deep in his groin.
Rating: NC-17 (+ NWS ART)
Pairing: Arthur/Excalibur
Warning: no object insertion. Have you seen that hilt? OUCH!
Word Count: 470
Author's notes: This was written for the Merlin Wankfest Thanks to

amythystluna for the excellent beta advice and then for liking it enough that she drew gorgeous art to go with it (included at the end of this piece).

A King and his Sword: A Love Story
The sword belonged to him; it sang to him. As he slid it from the stone, the friction of rock on metal reverberated up the handle, through his arm and settled deep in his groin. From the moment he’d hoisted it above his head, he’d been hard. He’d looked at Merlin then, sweat prickling his nape and gasping for breath, and he’d grinned at the brilliance of it all.

The tingle of magic that had twisted itself around Arthur, had braided itself in his veins, didn’t abate throughout the journey back to Camelot. Adrenaline carried him through the crowded streets, past the cacophony of cheers; it kept his face aglow with pride and his arm lifted in triumph. It carried him through the ceremony Merlin had insisted on, and the wine helped him endure the feast that followed.

But now, finally, he’d barred his door and was alone in his chambers. He’d waved off the young servant waiting to ready him for bed, impatiently shooing the boy out as soon as he’d entered; struggling with the latches and buckles of his armour was more than worth the pleasure of solitude, at last.

He stripped down efficiently, though his hand trembled as he fought the knot in the laces of his breeches. He hissed with every brush of his knuckles against his straining erection. Only when he was entirely divested did he breathe again.

The sword was already on his bed, glittering in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the deep red of his quilt. It was a thing of beauty. He’d never seen its equal; he doubted one existed. He trailed a finger across the blade, dangerously close to the edge. Power burst under his fingertips and he couldn’t help the moan that tore from his throat.

Unable to stave off the temptation another second, Arthur’s hand shot down to his cock. The other wrapped around the hilt of his sword -- the sword of magic that had been made for him, the sword that would unite Albion. The weight of that knowledge -- his destiny -- surged through him.

Without thought to rhythm or speed or what might afford him the greatest pleasure, he let the power urge him on. He let go, giving in to the primal, ancient pull of the dragon’s magic. With a choked cry he emptied himself, coating his knuckles as they clutched the hilt. A line of come slashed across the blade and dripped onto the blanket beneath.

He fell to his knees, spent and yet more alive than he’d ever felt before.