#comeshots

'When you die and turn into nothing, into less than nothing, you will do so knowing it was at the hand of a friend.'

This is the last thing Merlin hears before passing out, the sleeping spell she cast on him too powerful to resist.

He doesn’t know how he ended up in Morgana’s hovel, face-to-face with his friend-cum-enemy. Somehow, she magicked him out of his bed in Camelot, leagues away from her location, and tied him up.

When he came to, she’d been puttering around, picking up herbs and various dead things and tossing them into a large cauldron in the centre of the room. She’d looked even worse than usual, her dark hair a veritable bird’s nest, tangled and dirty, and her pale face was sunken in like she hadn’t touched food in days. Somehow, Merlin felt pity for her.

That changed when she explained her plan to him: a death at Arthur’s hand, the King completely unaware he’s killed his best friend. Merlin immediately started yelling, yanking at his bindings and cursing the witch. In true form, she only cackled and carried on with her spell, until it was complete. She force-fed him the potion, smirking, and then he’d felt a pull at his navel. Everything enlarged until he was tinier than a thimble, Morgana’s massive face hovering over him.

Merlin doesn’t know what to expect to wake up to - will he be stomped on, fed to crows, drowned? - but it certainly isn’t a tight, wet heat that clings to him, squeezing his tiny body something fierce. His arms are held at his sides, unable to be moved, and his body is positioned upright. He’s naked, as well, so he can feel the wetness everywhere. It surrounds him at every angle, dark and moist and musky, like the inside of one of Gaius’ potions. He can hear a low, grumbling pulse as well. It sounds like a heartbeat, impossibly. The space feels all-encompassing as if he’ll never escape, and the most maddening thing of all is that he doesn’t even bloody know where he is! Curse that blasted witch!

Struggling furiously, Merlin looks up, as that’s the only way to go, and sees a hole as big as him. His anger fades into befuddlement. It’s … gaping? Like a giant mouth, opening and closing to the rhythm of the heartbeat sound.

Merlin tries to wriggle around, to loosen himself, but all that does is make the hot walls of the tube cling to him even tighter. His sides burn at the pressure. Then, impossibly, Merlin hears a moan. A suspiciously loud, suspiciously familiar moan, and all at once it clicks.

You will die at the hand of a friend … Arthur will not know he killed his dearest companion … an eye for an eye …

He’s trapped inside of Arthur’s cock.

The realisation freezes his limbs, his struggling ceasing as he faces the fact that he will die, and Arthur will never know what happened to him. And if he does, it will be because Morgana tells him.

Merlin knows what that knowledge will do to his friend. It will tear him up inside, direct all that anger at himself, the blame for Morgana’s actions turned inwards one hundredfold.

The warlock wracks his brain for a solution. He can feel his magic bubbling under his skin, held back by Morgana’s spell. But when he tries to wield it, force it out of himself, it sputters like a dying fire, trembling and dying. He needs something else. He needs to get out of here before he suffocates in the recesses of Arthur’s prick.

Merlin is knocked from his musings by the undulating walls of the cock. The fleshy, squishy sides squeezing him. Is Arthur wanking? Merlin’s movements must’ve stimulated his cock enough to get it hard.

Merlin comes to an unsavoury solution. Perhaps … perhaps if he pushes Arthur along enough, the man will climax and push Merlin out.

He sees no other option. This seems to be the only way out.

Mind made up, Merlin starts wriggling frantically, twisting his arms and legs and making as much movement as possible. The walls clench around him, and a loud moan reverberates in the tight shaft. The walls move up and down frantically, rising and falling with the motion of Arthur’s hand on his cock.

It forces pre-come to swell up in the hole, getting in Merlin’s mouth, forcing him to swallow. The taste is salty, unpleasant, and altogether overwhelming. It means Arthur’s getting close.

Merlin doesn’t give into his fatigue. He continues to stimulate Arthur’s prick. It goes on for what seems like forever, the clenching walls and clinging wetness and ear-splitting moans and frantic heartbeat, but soon Merlin hears a great rushing sound, like a river breaking through a dam.

It comes from below, rising up the hole until he floods over Merlin in a wave of hot, thick seed. It coats everything as it pushes his small body up, up, up until he’s through the hole and in the air. He falls with the shot of come.

It splatters against a soft surface. It rises and falls to the same rhythm as Arthur’s heart. Merlin feels two more shots of come hit him until his world is covered in white and he cannot see anything else.

He lays there for a moment, in the hot pool, until Arthur’s orgasm ends after the eighth shot of seed leaves his dribbling cock.

He sits up gingerly, hands submerged and feeling disgusting, pulling his way out of the come and crawling forward. He’s on Arthur’s abdomen, in the small divot of his muscled torso.

As he lifts his head to look at Arthur’s face, he sees just how big the man is now. He’s as large as the Citadel, his arms like massive battlements and his chest as wide as the courtyard.

‘Arthur!’ He screams, hoarse. His friend doesn’t notice, too busy recovering from his orgasm. His chest rises under Merlin’s bare feet. ‘ARTHUR!’

With a great feeling of relief, Merlin watches those large, hazy blue eyes lock onto his form. They furrow with confusion before widening in shock.