C is for crying.
In the shower, on the bus, in a bathroom stall at work. Biting knuckles, choking on sobs, repeating a simple mantra: “Boys don’t cry, boys don’t cry, Merlin, come on, man up”. And instantly hearing, “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin”. The voice is in your head, Merlin. There’s no one around, Merlin. Man up, Merlin.
O is for overshare.
With strangers, at the bar, “But, you don’t understand, we were so close. What do I do now, no, listen, what do I do?”
And you let them touch you, you let them fuck you. So you’d have a reason. You’d be bad enough for him to leave you. Because you are a whore.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’msosorry --” whispering to your knees in someone’s bathroom. Water is streaming down on your head, dropping off your face. You lick your lips.
The water is salty.
M for mornings.
You hate mornings. You open your eyes and curse. Another day of “it gets better”, another “move on”, another “this too shall pass”.
You are rubbish at lying. Everyone knows that.
You know that.
If you could, you’d switch off the sun so there would be no mornings. No getting up, no “facing the day”. Just comfortable darkness over the security of your bed.
You like hiding under the blanket and inhaling the hot air. If you close your eyes and try hard enough - it’s almost like there’s someone else, lying beside you, sharing the oxygen.
E’s for eavesdropping.
It just so happens. You hear them talking about you.
“...have you heard - ...oh, no way...-...but he looks so awful...-...do you think it’s drugs...-...I heard he’d drown a kitten...-...I heard he has a gun...-...so she told me...-...who...-...yes, and not just that...-...maybe he’s a satanist...-...don’t look, don’t look...”.
It’s not as if you care.
Once you bring a voodoo doll in your bag and it accidentally falls out.
The stop talking to you at all.
B is for beer.
You’re lucky you are such a lightweight.
You have never liked drinking, but these times - these times you race yourself: first bottle in ten gulps, second bottle - in six, then collapsing onto the bed, letting your mind wander while drunkenly wanking - no finesse, no lust. Simply to exhaust your body to such an extent so the numbness is all that’s left, in order to have blessed five hours of unconsiousness.
Just to open your eyes to a headache, heartache and another of those M’s.
A is, oddly enough, for Arthur. Cruel, gorgeous Arthur.
“You can’t have me, Merlin”, he was laughing in your hair.
He was always laughing while driving you mad with want.
“Arthur”, you were choking on air, forgetting, forgetting, the only thing left in your mind being the exact pattern on his fingerprints, because they are all over, all over your body. Your body is a crime scene now, thus it is not truly yours.
“I’m sorry, Merlin, but you can’t. Do you want to? Do you want to have me?” Arthur was whispering in your ear, his fingers running up and down your hard cock, making you delirious.
“Yes, yes,"you are trying to make him grip you tight, but he only grabs your hips and scratches, clawing into your skin, burning. You are burning.
(Burning is the substitute for loving, they say. Arthur has built a pyre and is fucking you against the wooden pole, and you know what comes next, you know what comes next. Sparks are falling from his eyes on the dry hay, but you don’t mind. The fire is your doing, and Arthur is just-- )
“You are mine though, Merlin. You are giving yourself to me, aren’t you?" he pants in your ear, and yes, he is going to claim you, he is already shoving his fingers inside your mouth, moving his thumb along your lower lip, nipping at it with a blunt nail, causing blood to form in the corner of your mouth.
You just moan and lick, lick at his fingers, pressing your spine to his chest, arching like a cat, shutting your eyes only to see blinding dots, dancing in the dark and mocking at you.
And then he moves the crime scene inside you as well, evidence in the form of his fingerprints, in the form of you shouting and gasping and biting your lips only to cause the taste of iron mix with saliva, and you are trying to swallow, but your throat is too busy vibrating with sounds, and then there’s Arthur’s soft voice, going “Shhh, shhh, my sweet boy, relax, oh Merlin, Merlin, ‘m going to make you fly”, and then he’s chuckling, and sucking at your neck, his fingers so deep in you, oh so deep, and your heart has gone mad, and you are not that far from following it, and all you can do is chant “Please, please, please Arthur please” and then he is biting your neck and you are going to, you are going to...
To be a “Bad boy!”, and Arthur is squeezing his hand around your cock, and you feel the fire licking at your skin, you are swimming in the hot air, you start wishing you were a phoenix instead of a simple merlin, so you could bring yourself back from the ashes and burn under Arthur’s touch over and over again.
He is sliding his hard cock into you, one hand still on your dripping prick, holding you across the chest with another, his elbow digging in your hip, nails skimming along your neck, leaving hothothot red marks.
“Merlin,” he is biting at your earlobe.
“Merlin.” So deep and still inside you.
“Merlin...” his whisper so loud in the silence. “Relax, you are going to fly now," he is smiling against your cheek, kisses it, and starts moving.
You knew the burning is a very long process.
When he moves his right hand up and down your cock, just once, you come. Arthur is there before you, and he lays your head on his shoulder, holds you through the aftershocks, and you do feel like flying.
“My sweet Merlin,” he kisses your temple and the only word you remember is “Arthur”, because it is written all over you now. It’s not as if you mind.
C is for crawling.
On your knees to the toilet when drunk, flushing down all the shame, all the weakness, leaving yourself with dull pain somewhere near the lungs.
Up the walls when sober, cutting the gruesome reality with desperate pleas, leaving the tips of your fingers bleeding, sore, damaged. You feel the pulse in them - it reminds you that you are still alive.
On your bed when it hurts so much, all you can do is double up, hugging yourself, and howl quietly in attempt to stop the emptiness from consuming your insides.
You’d be glad to crawl back to him. To hide your face in his lap, winding your hands around his shins, let him pet your hair and call you his “sweet Merlin, such a lovely boy. Mine.”
You’d love it to be “Kiss”, but the truth is - “K” is forever seared in your brain, inseparable with the feeling of pain and humiliation, snaking its way up your veins when he Kicked you out of his life.
“I told you from the very beginning: you can’t have me, Merlin.” his voice cold and calculated, his gaze bored.
Your eyes start to sting, and you suddenly find the ceiling utterly fascinating.
“But.” you stumble through the words. You feel so bitter. Doubtlessly, the reason being your throat, full of choler. If you inhale a bit deeper, you are going to choke on it.
You swallow, instantly feeling sick, and try to breath through your nose.
“I’m yours.” you manage.
He looks up at you then. Stares. His eyes are wandering all over your body.
“I know.” he says, like the spoilt prat he is. “The thing is - I don’t want you anymore.”
He keeps staring at you, curious, waiting for a reaction.
You feel strangely like falling.
T is for temptation.
To call him, to “accidentally” meet in a pub, on the street, to ask Gwaine to bring Arthur along some time.
Only you promised you wouldn’t.
“I need your word, Merlin.” Arthur’s alien eyes are piercing you, aiming for the heart. There’s nothing you can really do, except
“You have my word.”
Thus “T” for temptation, for torture, for tragedy.
Oh, but you should have crossed your fingers.
And then there’s another
Actually, there are lots of them.
"O" for oranges Arthur loves eating so much. His lips are especially juicy after - you can’t help but lick and suck on them, thirsty.
"O" for obedience.
“Shut up, Merlin, and do as I say.”
You wanted to come up with some extremely witty response, but then he kissed your neck and told you you were being a good boy, and O for Once - you listened.
"O" for ostentatious.
“Arthur, is it possible for your head to be any bigger?” - you laughed at him. You thought you were being funny.
He told you to behave, and when you didn’t, he made you whimper with desire, rasping “Please, please, Arthur, I will behave” and Oh oh oh that was good.
He made you come twice in one hour, and yes, it was possible for his head to become bigger. But you really didn’t care anymore.
"O" for overdue.
You should have known better than to get addicted to the taste of his skin. You were doomed, but you realised that too late.
M is for melancholy.
"I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush
through me and it never made any sense, anything."
— Richard Siken
Enormous black hole inside you.
Echo instead of words.
To mend the Emptiness would be so
Elementary, to be honest.
c.o.m.e. b.a.c.k. t.o. m.e.
p.l.e.a.s.e. j.u.s.t. c.o.m.e. b.a.c.k.