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Mordred tried to tell himself that the thing with Arthur and Merlin of two Fridays past was just that: a thing. Just a memory to be drudged up from the recesses of his brain when the other imagery in the wank-bank wasn't working. But his brain wasn't listening.
On the street and in shops, every blonde man reminded him of Arthur. He thought of Merlin each time a laugh wafted his way. He couldn't look at a sandwich without reliving that evening. One morning, he'd taken one look at a donut, still warm and with glaze dripping into the hole at the center and fled the bakery in mortification that someone might be able to read his thoughts.
He'd composed and deleted hundreds of texts to Arthur, let his thumb hover over the call button more times than he cared to count, and had changed his sheets at three times thanks to pleasant dreams.
Finally, Mordred's compulsion outweighed his inhibitions. He thumbed in a quick text and shot it off before he could stop himself.
Any good cases lately? Miss me?
Within minutes, he had his answer. A picture text of Arthur's cock poised in front of Merlin's arse. Wish you were here.