Pale skin. Gleaming eyes. Red lips, swollen. Broken nails worn and chewed. Strong hands that claw and grab and beg. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin. Hushed breaths. Begging breaths. Cries and chants that fill the air. Dark hair that sticks to the forehead as the body arches up. Another cry. Please, please, please.

He sits up straight, his back snaps at the sudden movement but he can't flinch, he can't feel it. His eyes look down at his lap where the covers are tented and he groans but dares not touch it. It's wrong; he can't be thinking these things, dreaming these things. He moans loudly as the images flash in his minds eye again. Perfect arse… He hates these cruel taunts; it's like being shown something you can never have. But he wants it. Needs it. Has to have it. Again the image burns his brain and he feels like crying at the injustice of it all as he finally brings his hand down to touch himself, hand wrapped tightly around the offending organ and wishing for it to have been his hands. His hands were always warm, soft despite the over use. He groans; it feels good though it could have felt better; he wants to hate him for doing this. But he finds no matter how hard he tries to pry the image of the beautiful creamy skin from his mind, it creeps back in, looking better than ever: Delicious to taste. To touch. To kiss.

Merlin.

Before he can stop himself he spills the name from his lips, he wished it felt foreign in his mouth like this, it would mean this was all new. But it felt like always, like every night and every second he had to spare. Sounded exaggerated, begging and a Prince should never beg. He should command and get but Merlin never picks up his hint. Never picks up on the way Arthur stays too close, just to feel that warmth.

He spills, his own hand now wet and sticky, his skin sweaty but there is no body to meet his, no lips to attack his own.

He feels like crying at the injustice of it all…

Please, please, please.