Open (Filthy Reverence)
"I'm going to put it in now," Bradley says.
"Yeah, yeah, do it," Colin replies, mouth open against a pillow. Bradley twists his slick fingers in Colin's arse one more time, just to make sure, just because he can, because it makes Colin squirm.
The butt-plug is blue. Simple: tapered, just-wide-enough base, neat little handle. Bradley has to bite his lip as he smears more lube onto the blunt tip and nudges it at Colin's red hole. He's so turned on. He's got one hand hauling Colin's hips up steady so he can press until, god, it's in, flared end snug between Colin's buttocks. Colin's making these fantastic sounds, soft, hurt grunts, eyes squeezed shut, and Bradley can't look away, stares and traces his thumb around the edges of the plug as his cock twitches.
"Col?" he says, sliding a hand up the trembling line of Colin's spine.
"'M okay," says Colin, choked and breathless. "Okay, fuck. God, fuck. Just let me…"
And then, as if this wasn't already Bradley's best idea ever, something occurs to him that will make it all even better. He grins, gropes for his backpack over the side of the bed and drags out his camera.
"This'll be great," Bradley says, placing a kiss on Colin's shoulder-blade. "This'll be fucking perfect, stay just the way you are." He knee-walks to the foot of the bed and lines up a shot that captures the long splay of Colin's legs, all the way up to his skinny arse and back. The sheets (green, rumpled) make an excellent back-drop for Colin's fair skin.
"The fuck?" Colin says, beginning to turn, but Bradley crawls closer, manages to pin his thighs and take another shot, this time focused on the obscene color between Colin's cheeks, the tight, high clench of his balls. He's pink-pale and seems so thin, like the plug shouldn't be able to fit up inside him like that. Bradley licks his lips and clicks again.
"—hell no—" Colin is saying, twisting under Bradley's hands. Whatever he's trying to do isn't working very well, because he keeps twitching and gasping. Bradley thinks of the hard silicone tip shoved up against Colin's prostate, turning every movement into a sexual experience—of how Colin wants so badly to stop him but just can't because it feels so fucking good. It makes his head spin.
He takes one more picture, zoomed-in on skin stretched taut, an image that'd be confusing and unrecognizable to anyone else. But Bradley will know, and he'll have to put his hands down his trousers every single time he looks at it, if Colin doesn't steal his camera and delete them all when he's not paying attention.
Bradley drops his camera and straddles Colin's hips, saying, "I'm going to wank to these for years," while he rubs his cock into the small of Colin's back.
"Oh god," Colin whimpers, hands clenching in the sheets by his shoulders, useless with pleasure. Bradley stretches out and bites Colin's ear, loving the sweat-damp hair under his nose and Colin's skin made slick with his precome. The whole room smells like sex—they've been at this for a while—and despite having come already Bradley's bracing himself on his elbows, grinding down. He's rutting against Colin like some inexperienced teen, but it's hot and lovely and his mind is full to bursting with filthy, wonderful ideas.
"You should wear it while we film. Yeah, we'll get up real, real early and fuck," Bradley imagines the sleep-limp compliance of Colin's body in the dark morning hours, "and then I'll put it in and you, oh," imagines his come trapped inside Colin while he walks around in Merlin's clothes, "see if you can—can go all day without letting on, and then, sometime, when you're Merlin and I'm, ah, Arthur, I'll suck you off—"
Colin presses a hand over his eyes and swears into the pillows, breath pushed out by Bradley's weight. "Jesus, Bradley, you're so—"
Orgasm is so close he can taste it, sweat prickling on his temples and his palms. Bradley tangles the fingers of one hand in Colin's hair, the other reaching up for the headboard, for something to ground him, he's really losing it this time, saying "—and then I'll fuck you again, like that, still open and wet, Colin, Colin—" and then Bradley's coming, spurting in wracked, intense spasms. The world goes blurry at the edges of his vision.
A moment passes in complete, perfect bliss before he comes back to himself and realizes he's messed all over Colin's back and Colin is still writhing, unrelieved. It takes no effort at all to roll them onto their sides, fist his clammy hand around Colin's leaking cock and jack him until he cries out and comes too.
They spoon there, Colin unwieldy and too-long against the curve of Bradley's body, catching their breath, quivering, for a while. It's hot and uncomfortable, but Bradley's never felt better.
"All right," Colin says eventually, strained. "Take it out, I can't…"
"Right." Bradley reaches down and tucks his fingers around the handle of the butt-plug, pulling slowly, mindful of Colin's groans, until it slides free and he can drop it on the side table.
Colin continues to tremble even after it's out. "Christ."
"I came on your back," Bradley says then, because he can't hold it in anymore. "I came all over your back, and you let me."
"I wouldn't be so proud of that, if I were you."
"It's still on you. My jizz, your skin." Bradley feels this is important, and deserves great emphasis.
"And now it's all over you too, you adolescent prig," says Colin, too affectionately to carry the insult.
"Gross," Bradley says, in his my-balls-haven't-dropped-yet voice, and grins into the back of Colin's head when Colin laughs.
"So, the butt-plug," he says after the joke has faded into quiet again, trying for casual instead of nervous, "was it—did you—I mean, you seemed to—"
Colin turns onto his back and looks at him. "Did you?"
"Fucking loved it," Bradley admits.
"Yeah," says Colin, biting at his lips. "Yeah, me too."
Bradley gets an elbow under him, leaning over Colin eagerly. "So about you wearing it out—"
"You're round the bend," Colin says, incredulous. "You can't think I'd actually do that."
Sure he could. "Sure I can. Why not?"
"Fecking lunatic," says Colin, rolling his eyes. "Not a chance."
Bradley kisses him, sudden and deep, kisses him until Colin is stroking a hand lightly down his back and has a happy curl to his mouth, and then Bradley says, "You just know you can't do it. You can act, Col, but not that well."
Colin's eyes narrow. "Not gonna work."
"How about," Bradley makes sure his breath is hot in Colin's ear, "we make a bet?"
"Piss off," Colin says, but looks interested now, predictably.
"You do it, manage a whole day, and I'll tell the world you're the better actor during our next big interview."
"Huh. And if I can't?"
"I get to fuck you in costume. In character."
"Sick," says Colin, but he's considering, weighing up the challenge and the possible win—Bradley knows the interview offer is gold, something Colin can use for years, but he's willing to bite that bullet for the chance to be Arthur fucking Merlin, not to mention the delight of watching Colin squirm on set. He figures his odds of winning are pretty good, from the way Colin barely handled tonight.
"Done," Colin says, then stops Bradley with a hand in the face when he dives for a gleeful kiss. "But! But. But I get another week to get used to it before I go live."
Bradley dodges downwards to lick into the still-flushed hollow of Colin's throat, stubble rough and marvelous on his tongue. "I'm sure I can work with that."
Colin's laugh is amused and winded, one knee already folding up over Bradley's thigh.
The week passes in what, for Bradley, is mostly a blur of filming and sex. It seems every time they get five minutes alone, he and Colin are going at it. It hasn't been this bad since the first two months of their relationship, before the initial 'Oh my god I think I'm gay for you, let me put your cock in my mouth' rush faded into the more stable 'Every other night at least' haze. Bradley's back to tackling Colin behind the catering truck and shiftily avoiding the costumers for fear they'll notice his mussed clothing.
And every night, when they're back in Bradley's hotel room, when he's got Colin naked and hot-eyed in his bed, Bradley presses the butt-plug into Colin's arse. Colin's going for longer and longer, arching and rolling and walking around, pushing his limits. Four mornings into the week, Bradley wakes to find that Colin has put the plug in himself and is bloody showering, bent over carefully and washing his feet when Bradley gets to the bathroom. He makes Colin give him a blowjob under the cooling spray for that, for using it without him. Colin doesn't protest.
By Bradley's count, Colin's been able to keep the plug in for roughly six hours at once, most of that time spent prone. All his research tells him that it takes a pro to wear a butt-plug for an entire day, especially a day of activity—Bradley figures, despite Colin's impressive progress, the odds are still in his favor. He's going to win this bet, and, after Colin fails (and gasps his way off-set), he's going to get to fulfill one of his hottest fantasies.
"So, today," Bradley murmurs into Colin's mouth, happy. It's early: the room is pitch dark, the radio alarm playing bad French pop.
"Today," murmurs Colin, waking slowly to the kisses.
Colin stretches and smiles. "I'd start planning your lines now. I was thinking something like: 'Colin's the most talented actor I've ever met, far more talented than myself, of course. Working with him has been one great lesson after another for me—'"
"See," Bradley interrupts, "I was rehearsing something a little different. Something more along the lines of: 'Merlin, hell, Merlin, you're so hot.'"
"In your dreams, you kinky fuck," says Colin, even as he reaches down and curls a hand round Bradley's cock.
"You know it," Bradley says.
They fuck under the blankets, hot and close, to the rhythm of the tinny, incomprehensible music. Afterwards, Bradley disentwines himself from both the damp sheets and Colin's limbs and switches on the light. He fumbles through the bedside drawer, searching. Finding.
"What're you doing?" Colin asks, charmingly rumpled and blinking in the sudden light.
Bradley drops the butt-plug and lube into Colin's hands. "I want to watch you put it in yourself."
Colin smirks, turns onto his back and kicks the blankets away, and Bradley's breath catches a little, like it does every time he sees Colin naked and gorgeous and obedient. His cock twitches again, impossibly, when Colin spreads lube on the plug with a tight fist, works it expertly into his fucked-open hole—it doesn't take a lot of effort, Colin's still slick inside from Bradley's come. He shifts around, adjusts to it, closing his knees and sighing, and it's getting ridiculous, how many different fantasies Bradley can come up with; how many things he wants to do to Colin that he still hasn't done.
He leans down and kisses Colin hard. "Shower?"
The ride to Pierrefonds is harrowing; watching Colin not shift around or moan or otherwise let on in any way that he's got a butt-plug in his arse, but still knowing that he does, he does, makes Bradley shudder. This secret, this hot, filthy little thing just between them, it's better than he ever expected.
Bradley closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the window, wishing to hell it weren't high summer, and he could have a breeze, some rain, to cool his sweaty skin. The image of Colin sliding on his pale blue thong (meant to be practical, to hold the plug in, not a turn-on in and of itself, god damn it) flashes through his mind, and Bradley sucks in a deep breath. Meanwhile, Colin's sitting almost too-close next to him entirely unaffected, the smug bastard.
It's a good thing that they're filming separately for most of the morning, because Bradley doesn't know how much longer he can keep up this level of arousal without medical attention. He's already getting worried looks, and they haven't even reached the set.
Colin grins, a taunt and a promise, and walks away without a hitch, and Bradley isn't worried, not at all. Colin's a good actor but not that good, he tells himself again, and yet distraction and nerves make him fumble his lines until even Anthony is looking irritated. Finally Julian calls a wrap, finished scene, and they break for a late lunch.
Bradley grabs a sandwich and wanders over to where Colin is filming, some typical, blundering incident between Merlin and Gwen outside the tournament set. Extras bustle around, the cameras are rolling, and suddenly the past few hours of anxiety are worthwhile, because Colin sees him and stutters to a halt, ruining the whole thing.
Colin looks like a disaster, glassy-eyed and twitchy and flushed. Angel, irritated and concerned at once, touches his elbow, and Colin jumps like he's been electrocuted. He must be over-sensitized by now, his whole body a jumbled mess of nerve-endings, bordering on pain.
Bradley smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich, pleased beyond all reason.
Colin scowls at him.
There's conversation amongst the crew, and they seem to come to some sort of mutinous decision that it's lunch time or bust. People disperse in every direction, and Bradley's an actor, he knows a cue when he sees one, has a great sense of timing. Tossing his sandwich in a nearby garbage can, he saunters over to where Angel is still plying Colin for an explanation.
"I just—" Colin is saying when Bradley interrupts.
"Need a break?" he offers.
The defeat in Colin's eyes is sweet, sweet joy to Bradley. "Yeah."
"Let's get lunch," Angel says.
Bradley grabs Colin by the bicep and smiles his most winning smile at her, says, "Excuse us," and hauls Colin away towards one of the rarely-visited trailers, used mostly for storing expensive equipment when the weather gets bad. It's perfect today, no one will venture close. Hopefully.
His blood tingles at the thought of someone, maybe one of the girls, straying near enough to hear, to see—
"Rude," says Colin. His cock is tenting his linen trousers.
"I won," Bradley retorts, which is really far more important.
"Admit it, I won. I saw you squirming back there, you're not fighting me off now." Bradley rattles aside the thin metal door and fumbles for the light; he wants to see every detail of this.
"Well, you're being bloody caveman about—" Colin begins.
Bradley's not having any of that, he's been hard off and on all day and his cock is about to wilt forever if he doesn't get some relief. He swings Colin against a shelving unit and kicks the door shut, crowds in close enough that he feels Colin's chest rising and falling, quick. Says, "Go on then, fight me off."
It's a short battle. Colin's not even trying, just making an arbitrary effort because he can't resist rising to a challenge like that. Bradley uses his body to hem Colin's limbs in, get him trapped against the hard shelves.
Colin retaliates by looking at Bradley through his eyelashes and sliding his shaking hands down Bradley's leather vest. "I want you to fuck me right now, so hard I can't work for the rest of the day."
"Yeah," Bradley says. "Admit it, admit I won." He winds his arms around Colin's waist, squeezes his arse with both hands, pulling the cheeks apart just to hear the hissing sound Colin makes in response.
"Say it," Bradley demands, shoving his thigh up between Colin's legs.
"Ah, you won," Colin grunts. "You won."
"And you know what that means," says Bradley.
Colin's rubbing his cock against Bradley's hipbone, he's working himself over with the butt-plug in his arse and the pressure of Bradley's body, clenching his fists in Bradley's hair, so close to undone he's almost beyond speech. It's worrying; Bradley wants this to last.
"It means," Bradley continues, "that from now on you're Merlin and I'm Arthur. Right, Colin?"
"Right," gasps Colin. "Yeah, right, whatever, fuck, I can't stand it. Please, please."
Bradley drops to his knees and nuzzles the outline of Colin's cock with his cheek, blows a hot stream of air out on his breath even as he says, "Don't come."
Colin shudders. "Tease."
"Shut up." Bradley bites a little at the outline of Colin's cock, not too rough, and works open Colin's belt, the thin corded one that they give him for his Merlin costume. It slithers into his hands, all sorts of bad—Bradley's getting ideas again. He'd like to tie Colin up in those fancy Asian ropes, bondage as art. Colin would look so damn sexy with a ball-gag in his mouth.
Later. At the present Bradley's popping open the buttons of Colin's fly and jerking his trousers and thong off. It's an awkward, tangled moment dealing with his boots as well. Colin's cock is as beautiful as always, richly veined, the head a wide flare. Bradley tongues at it, pressing into the slit to tease out more precome. Colin's fingers spasm in Bradley's hair.
"Don't," Bradley licks a slow, wet trail from base to tip, "come."
"Mnnn," Colin whines, jerking against his chin and cheek. "Suck me."
Bradley's good at this, getting better with every attempt. He flattens his tongue over his bottom teeth and sinks onto the rigid length of Colin's cock. He braces Colin's hip with one hand and draws one of Colin's knees over his shoulder with the other, and it's awkward but it gives him access where he needs it.
Bradley twists the base of the butt-plug and swallows and Colin cries out, does it again when Bradley draws the plug slowly out of his body. Bradley wishes he could see the needy grasp of Colin's arse, see it give under the pressure of Bradley pushing the plug back in. Distantly he hears the sound of Colin's head slamming into the shelving.
He fucks Colin with the plug and his mouth, doing his best to time the motions. He fucks Colin until Colin literally can't take it anymore, a living wire of arousal. His leg gives way; Bradley just barely catches him, dropping the butt-plug in the process. He can't spare a thought to finding it.
"Please," Colin says, grinding desperately against him.
"No," Bradley says, and makes Colin stand with him, just for another moment.
"Bradley," Colin groans as Bradley bends him over a table and shoves his knee up, up, so he can see his come—come from that morning—slide a bit, slowly, from Colin's open hole.
"Arthur," says Bradley, and slaps Colin's pale arsecheek.
"Oh, hell," says Colin.
"Get it right, Merlin," Bradley commands, using that condescending tone that Arthur loves so much, feeling himself slip into character like his cock into a condom: eagerly, tightly, easily.
"Arthur," says Merlin, breathy, "I need, ah—give it to me—"
Arthur smacks his hand against Merlin's arse again and grins. "I'll give it to you when I feel like it, Merlin."
Which is, conveniently for Merlin, immediately. One look at that tightening, empty space makes Arthur's head swim. He shucks his vest and yanks his breeches down to his knees, good enough, because he needs to be filling Merlin up five minutes ago.
His cock slips into Merlin's body so easily. Arthur pauses to savor it, this perfect, familiar heat, until Merlin shoves back against him, saying, "If you don't—"
Arthur moves, gets right to the hard and fast without the warm-up. Merlin is writhing, fucks into it, mouth a red-bitten blur against his fist. Arthur wraps a hand in his neckerchief and tugs it taut around Merlin's throat, braces his other hand on the table and bends over Merlin's back. His hips pump forward, brutal thrusts that make the table creak underneath them. Merlin's teeth gleam, he's gasping for air. Arthur isn't sure how his body can take so much for so long: systematic pleasure bordering on torture. If Merlin could open his eyes, Arthur knows they'd be dilated completely black.
Arthur's watching his cock drive in and out, in and out of Merlin's body, past the slick circle of his hole. The sight is hypnotic; he's in a place of something pure, all thoughts rendered into so much chattering nonsense, water rushing through his mind. He feels—
Merlin comes with a strangled wail, shaking, nails scrabbling against the table.
Arthur forces him over it and down the other side, doesn't give up his pace for a moment. It might be even better this way, Merlin fucked-out limp and compliant, moaning weakly. Arthur wants to play with him a bit, circle his cock around the sore little clench of Merlin's arse, maybe use his fingers until Merlin's wrecked from it—until Arthur is his whole world.
Orgasm blindsides him too soon, hitting him like a blow. He collapses along Merlin's body to mouth filthy reverence between his shoulder-blades.
They pant together; it fills the silence.
"What time is it? You never even…they're all going to kill us," Colin says eventually.
"Worth it," grunts Bradley.
That night they're in Bradley's room. Colin's passed out asleep already but Bradley's clicking away at his laptop. He's doing research.
When he finds it, he doesn't hesitate. He orders the perfect ball-gag.
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