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marguerite_26time to repost pthon fics!
Title:Don’t Tap the Glass
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marguerite_26
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 750ish
Content Notes: voyeurism, public-wanking (as an art form... idek)
Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
summerpornathon Round 1. (NWS) Image Prompt
Author's Notes: Thank you toeleadore for the beta.
Arthur doesn’t see the artistry in the light fixture made of condom wrappers or the fruit-insertion photography displayed throughout Morgana’s gallery. But he sees it here; this isn’t filth or shock-entertainment – this is art. He’s struck breathless by the beauty of it. The small square of glass is at eye level. His first impression was that it was a video screen, but Arthur’s watched long enough to know with certainty that it’s simply a window. There’s a hole cut through the wall so that the framed glass affords a view into the next room and the head of a bed where a naked man is wanking.
Don’t tap the glass; he’s shy. Arthur smirks at the silver script below this particular piece of performance art. The irony of a shy exhibitionist is exactly the sort of humour Morgana has sprinkled throughout her eclectic collection: Sexuality in Art.
A lit cigarette dangles from the man’s pouty lips as he reaches down and grabs himself and Arthur needs to walk away. He does a quick circle of the exhibit in a futile attempt to pretend he’s not enraptured and because he’s so close to coming at the sight of the smoke and the sweat and the spread of the man’s legs. He’s been watching for far too long now, having seen the man paint his pale chest with come once, wipe himself clean, oblivious to the crowd milling around on the other side of the wall. The man simply poured himself a glass of water and lit a cigarette before lying back on the bed as if he were at home on a Saturday afternoon with nothing better to do than keep his dick in his hand.
Arthur comes back before too long. He leans on a pillar, like the casual stance will make anyone think he’s bored when he knows his face is flushed. The program he has covering his crotch isn’t going to fool anyone. He refuses to touch himself; he’s a counter-point to this exhibitionist’s utterly shameless display. He’s aching to take himself in hand. On the last circuit around the gallery he nearly stopped in the loo, but there were things that just weren’t done. Art gallery loo wanking was pretty much the top of Arthur’s social faux-pas list.
The man’s mostly playing now; his dick’s still soft and floppy from earlier. His loose fist’s working the shaft like Arthur does on a lonely Friday night when he hasn’t decided yet if he wants to wank.
He’s watching something on the ceiling as he strokes himself. Arthur figures it’s porn playing in some big screen TV Morgana installed just for him. Whatever it is, it’s working, because there’s a tight squeeze, and the man’s starting to tug with a bit more purpose. Heat prickles at Arthur’s nape, his hair curling wetly at his ear.
The man’s free hand dips lower; Arthur can’t see but knows the angle well enough to imagine the tip of a finger pushing at his entrance. Arthur squirms, pressing the crumpled program against his throbbing dick.
The area around him is silent. Everyone’s mesmerised by the long, thick cock in the man’s fist, the play of his muscles as he strains closer and closer. Arthur’s breathing has gone ragged and he needs to walk away now if he’s going to save face, but his feet won’t move.
Morgana appears at his elbow and he clenches his teeth in a mix of humiliation and annoyance.
“You have a fan,” she says and hands him a note.
It’s a name and number. He looks to Morgana, a question on his lips, and she points up before he can even get the words out. Arthur cranes his neck and sees the black circle and the tell-tale red light of a recording camera in the rafters over his head.
In the next room, the bloke’s pumping his cock in a frantic, stuttering rhythm; his eyes are wide, staring at the ceiling. Arthur’s balls tighten. He knows exactly who this bloke’s wanking to. Arthur’s losing control in this crowded exhibit with this man watching him.
“Are you going to come in your pants for him, Arthur?” Morgana whispers. “It’ll get him off, I bet.”
He shudders at the thought, bracing himself on the pillar, helpless to stop the orgasm crashing over him. His gut twists, mortified by Morgana’s throaty laugh. He watches the bloke behind the glass arch off the bed and coat his fingers.
Title:Don’t Tap the Glass
Author:
marguerite_26Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 750ish
Content Notes: voyeurism, public-wanking (as an art form... idek)
Summary: Written for
summerpornathon Round 1. (NWS) Image PromptAuthor's Notes: Thank you to
eleadore for the beta. Arthur doesn’t see the artistry in the light fixture made of condom wrappers or the fruit-insertion photography displayed throughout Morgana’s gallery. But he sees it here; this isn’t filth or shock-entertainment – this is art. He’s struck breathless by the beauty of it. The small square of glass is at eye level. His first impression was that it was a video screen, but Arthur’s watched long enough to know with certainty that it’s simply a window. There’s a hole cut through the wall so that the framed glass affords a view into the next room and the head of a bed where a naked man is wanking.
Don’t tap the glass; he’s shy. Arthur smirks at the silver script below this particular piece of performance art. The irony of a shy exhibitionist is exactly the sort of humour Morgana has sprinkled throughout her eclectic collection: Sexuality in Art.
A lit cigarette dangles from the man’s pouty lips as he reaches down and grabs himself and Arthur needs to walk away. He does a quick circle of the exhibit in a futile attempt to pretend he’s not enraptured and because he’s so close to coming at the sight of the smoke and the sweat and the spread of the man’s legs. He’s been watching for far too long now, having seen the man paint his pale chest with come once, wipe himself clean, oblivious to the crowd milling around on the other side of the wall. The man simply poured himself a glass of water and lit a cigarette before lying back on the bed as if he were at home on a Saturday afternoon with nothing better to do than keep his dick in his hand.
Arthur comes back before too long. He leans on a pillar, like the casual stance will make anyone think he’s bored when he knows his face is flushed. The program he has covering his crotch isn’t going to fool anyone. He refuses to touch himself; he’s a counter-point to this exhibitionist’s utterly shameless display. He’s aching to take himself in hand. On the last circuit around the gallery he nearly stopped in the loo, but there were things that just weren’t done. Art gallery loo wanking was pretty much the top of Arthur’s social faux-pas list.
The man’s mostly playing now; his dick’s still soft and floppy from earlier. His loose fist’s working the shaft like Arthur does on a lonely Friday night when he hasn’t decided yet if he wants to wank.
He’s watching something on the ceiling as he strokes himself. Arthur figures it’s porn playing in some big screen TV Morgana installed just for him. Whatever it is, it’s working, because there’s a tight squeeze, and the man’s starting to tug with a bit more purpose. Heat prickles at Arthur’s nape, his hair curling wetly at his ear.
The man’s free hand dips lower; Arthur can’t see but knows the angle well enough to imagine the tip of a finger pushing at his entrance. Arthur squirms, pressing the crumpled program against his throbbing dick.
The area around him is silent. Everyone’s mesmerised by the long, thick cock in the man’s fist, the play of his muscles as he strains closer and closer. Arthur’s breathing has gone ragged and he needs to walk away now if he’s going to save face, but his feet won’t move.
Morgana appears at his elbow and he clenches his teeth in a mix of humiliation and annoyance.
“You have a fan,” she says and hands him a note.
It’s a name and number. He looks to Morgana, a question on his lips, and she points up before he can even get the words out. Arthur cranes his neck and sees the black circle and the tell-tale red light of a recording camera in the rafters over his head.
In the next room, the bloke’s pumping his cock in a frantic, stuttering rhythm; his eyes are wide, staring at the ceiling. Arthur’s balls tighten. He knows exactly who this bloke’s wanking to. Arthur’s losing control in this crowded exhibit with this man watching him.
“Are you going to come in your pants for him, Arthur?” Morgana whispers. “It’ll get him off, I bet.”
He shudders at the thought, bracing himself on the pillar, helpless to stop the orgasm crashing over him. His gut twists, mortified by Morgana’s throaty laugh. He watches the bloke behind the glass arch off the bed and coat his fingers.
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no subject
Date: 2012-09-11 12:10 am (UTC)