Blood splatters across Uther's lips.

"You can never have my son," he murmurs, chest rattling with bone fragments.

The man kneeling above presses a hand over him, letting his magic soak in, easing Uther's suffering. In a way, he admires his defiance until the very end.

"Arthur Pendragon's already been promised," comes hot breathing into the duke's ear. "You promised him to me…"

Uther dies alone in that corridor, moments before the guards discover him.



Once a deal is struck, it cannot be broken.

Twenty years after Ygraine gives birth, he finally meets Arthur on the hunting range of Tintagel Castle. Arthur's beloved falcon perches on his unshielded arm. He strokes its feathers affectionately, hearing Arthur demand his name.

"Merlin," he answers, grinning with all his teeth.

Arthur fumes, leather-gloved hands fisting. "I'll have a name, and I will have it before I toss you out," he says.

"And I've already told you."

From their short distance apart, he examines Merlin's blue, blue eyes. "Have we met?"

Merlin shakes his head.

"No, I don't believe so," he lies, his eerily charming grin never wavering. "I never forget a face."



Merlin feels his entire body force to a halt.

Beneath him, the painted, interlocking seals of the Key of Solomon and 5th Pentacle of Mars hums dangerously.

"Gaius—really," he sighs, eyes fading glow-yellow. "I just mopped."

The duke's physician appears stubborn.

"I want to know what you're planning, Merlin."

"That's between me and the Duke of Cornwall." Merlin's lips twist up mindfully. "Who is," he says, slowly, "incidentally dead."

"Am I to believe you had no hand in that?"

Merlin reluctantly gestures. "Arthur's not ready to take on the responsibility, so, no. It isn't just me watching him, y'know."

After a long pause, Gaius scrapes the edge of the trap.

"Practicing magic…" Merlin points out, aiming a disapproving stare at the old man. "That's a bit close to the occult, don't you think?"



The more ale Arthur swallows down, the keener he is to prattle on.

Mostly about the subject of Merlin, to Merlin.

This time seems different.

Merlin carefully deposits him onto the bed, yanking off Arthur's boots.

"When we were children—Guinevere and Leon and I—we told stories at night, while our parents were on business. Guinevere was terrified of the stories about the Yellow-Eyed People." From his pillows, Arthur stares hazily at Merlin's confused expression. "Right… right, I had nearly forgotten you're an idiot."

"How flattering," Merlin says under his breath, dropping the last boot on the rug.

"The Yellow-Eyed People would come and snatch you up if you were naughty… and never seen again. The only way to protect yourself was being virtuous and well-behaved. You put a… a ring of salt at the foot of your bed."

Merlin bites on his lower lip, resisting laughter.

"That sounds like complete rubbish," he says, fluffing Arthur's sheets.

"No one actually believes the stories, except the librarian Geoffrey," Arthur drawls, giving a complaining nose as Merlin wrestles the alcohol bottle from his fingers. "He's superstitious or some rot. I always see him fiddling with his cross."

Merlin has noticed that as well. One reason he never particularly liked him.

"Our nanny would shoo us to bed. Never liked her."

"You weren't exactly a peach," Merlin says, a bit too aggravated.

Arthur's eyebrows furrow.

"What was that?" he asks, slurring.

Merlin tells him, flatly, "I said, clotpole… these need a bleach." He holds up Arthur's shirt flecked with ale and morsels of food, only to witness it flung out of his hands as Arthur pulls him down on top of him. He plunges his tongue messily inside Merlin's mouth and grinds their hips.



Everything is tasteless ashes in his mouth.

Everything but Arthur.

He's sweet, delectable and ripe, filling Merlin's immortal belly and straining his cock. It's human essence and want; it's the nudge of fullness, pressure that enters him gradually. The slow, insistent thrusts nearly unhinging his control, building his demonic appetite.

Merlin's heels dug into the mattress, as Arthur's thrusts go deeper, quicker.

The feeding… the sensation of Arthur's orgasm flooding… was vibrations—unlimited, dizzying vibrations on his outsides and his insides, under the skin of Merlin's eyelids, and that borned to the very tips of his fingernails.

But once a deal has struck, it cannot be broken.

Merlin pushes back Arthur's sweat-damp, golden hair, his eyes mirroring the color. He grins with all his teeth, feeling them lengthen.



Are you enjoying your summer of porn? I AM. TWO MORE AFTER THIS. Any comments/thoughts are lovely gimme gimme~