Summary: Colin loves Bradley's simpleton!Arthur trousers.
“I looked the bomb in that costume.”
Colin nearly spat out his morning tea onto his keyboard; instead he swallowed it down, sputtering through his laughter and trying not to choke.
He’d come across an article on Merlin Series Four during his early morning email correspondence and had been tempted into reading by the headline. Meet King Arthur: the Idiot. They’d interviewed Bradley, asking his opinion on the ridiculously tight trousers and midriff-baring top he’d worn for the simpleton Arthur episode, and this is what he’d come out with.
I looked the bomb. What a dork. Who even said bomb anymore? Colin sniggered, wondering what the reporter who’d written the article would think if she knew the whole truth of that day.
When Bradley had first opened his trailer door dressed in his new costume, Colin had been sure he was dreaming. There it had been at eye level, impossible to ignore. Bradley’s cock. A perfect bulge, outlined by the thin cotton material to leave nothing to the imagination. From Colin’s perspective–which was close, very close—he could even see Bradley’s bits. Jesus, was he even wearing pants? Bradley had hopped down and opened his arms, twirling.
“How do I look?” Bradley had asked. The crew was milling around, as were some of the other actors. Eoin seemed particularly interested in Colin’s response, the nosey git.
“Um . . .” Colin had flushed to from head to toe.
“Awesome, right?”
“Yeah, mate,” Eoin had chimed in, since Colin still couldn’t find his voice. “Nice arse, by the way. Have you been working out?”
That was when the absurdity of it all had hit Colin. The little shirt, Bradley’s belly, the trousers so tight on his round arse . . . it was too much. Colin had burst out laughing, clutching his sides, tears wetting his cheeks.
“Thanks, Cols,” Bradley had said once he’d finally gotten ahold of himself. He came close and whispered in Colin’s ear. “I’ll remember this.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Colin had said, fighting his residual giggles. “You’re just . . . it’s . . .” He looked down again, eyes latching onto the bulge.
Bradley regarded him with a bemused expression. “You like what you see?”
Eoin was still within earshot, so Colin kept his voice low. “You know I do. I’d like to get a closer look, in fact.”
“Later.”
The rest of the day was torture with Bradley in those tight clothes and Colin unable to touch him. He finally managed to get into character, though, and not to ogle Bradley—much—until they finally broke at half-seven. Everyone was exhausted after the shoot, but Colin had things other than sleep on his mind as he and Bradley headed back to their trailers.
He slipped inside after Bradley and the door behind them, wrapping his arms around Bradley’s waist and pressing up against his back.
“Is that for me?” Bradley asked, wriggling his arse.
“It is.”
“Well then, let me get out of these pesky clothes.”
“Um,” Colin said, hands drifting down and around to press on the bulge that had been tormenting him all day, now hardening under his hand.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
Colin's Favorite Trousers
Date: 2012-03-26 07:47 pm (UTC)“I looked the bomb in that costume.”
Colin nearly spat out his morning tea onto his keyboard; instead he swallowed it down, sputtering through his laughter and trying not to choke.
He’d come across an article on Merlin Series Four during his early morning email correspondence and had been tempted into reading by the headline. Meet King Arthur: the Idiot. They’d interviewed Bradley, asking his opinion on the ridiculously tight trousers and midriff-baring top he’d worn for the simpleton Arthur episode, and this is what he’d come out with.
I looked the bomb. What a dork. Who even said bomb anymore? Colin sniggered, wondering what the reporter who’d written the article would think if she knew the whole truth of that day.
When Bradley had first opened his trailer door dressed in his new costume, Colin had been sure he was dreaming. There it had been at eye level, impossible to ignore. Bradley’s cock. A perfect bulge, outlined by the thin cotton material to leave nothing to the imagination. From Colin’s perspective–which was close, very close—he could even see Bradley’s bits. Jesus, was he even wearing pants? Bradley had hopped down and opened his arms, twirling.
“How do I look?” Bradley had asked. The crew was milling around, as were some of the other actors. Eoin seemed particularly interested in Colin’s response, the nosey git.
“Um . . .” Colin had flushed to from head to toe.
“Awesome, right?”
“Yeah, mate,” Eoin had chimed in, since Colin still couldn’t find his voice. “Nice arse, by the way. Have you been working out?”
That was when the absurdity of it all had hit Colin. The little shirt, Bradley’s belly, the trousers so tight on his round arse . . . it was too much. Colin had burst out laughing, clutching his sides, tears wetting his cheeks.
“Thanks, Cols,” Bradley had said once he’d finally gotten ahold of himself. He came close and whispered in Colin’s ear. “I’ll remember this.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Colin had said, fighting his residual giggles. “You’re just . . . it’s . . .” He looked down again, eyes latching onto the bulge.
Bradley regarded him with a bemused expression. “You like what you see?”
Eoin was still within earshot, so Colin kept his voice low. “You know I do. I’d like to get a closer look, in fact.”
“Later.”
The rest of the day was torture with Bradley in those tight clothes and Colin unable to touch him. He finally managed to get into character, though, and not to ogle Bradley—much—until they finally broke at half-seven. Everyone was exhausted after the shoot, but Colin had things other than sleep on his mind as he and Bradley headed back to their trailers.
He slipped inside after Bradley and the door behind them, wrapping his arms around Bradley’s waist and pressing up against his back.
“Is that for me?” Bradley asked, wriggling his arse.
“It is.”
“Well then, let me get out of these pesky clothes.”
“Um,” Colin said, hands drifting down and around to press on the bulge that had been tormenting him all day, now hardening under his hand.
“Let’s leave these on . . . for now.”