Archive of Our Own ^beta

The war against magic had been long and brutal. Thousands had died on both sides. Camelot’s raids, though strategically sound, had come at a steep cost—many of their best knights lay buried in shallow, unmarked graves. And still, magical creatures across the kingdom grew more aggressive, striking without warning or mercy.

The druids had refused to raise blades, but that hadn’t made them passive. They turned the forests into living fortresses—walls of briar and thorn, impenetrable and unrelenting. These barriers protected their own, yes, but they also cut off Camelot’s access to game, herbs, and wood, slowly strangling the kingdom from within.

It had to end. If peace was to come, it could not be built from ash and blood.

The war’s final breath came on the same day Uther Pendragon died. Gaius had assured Arthur the cause was natural: a mind long corroded by paranoia had finally surrendered to time. Arthur did not mourn as a devoted son might. His grief was knotted with relief. What little distrust of magic he carried was all inherited—the last embers of his father’s fury. His half-sister was magical, after all, and had lived too long in hiding.

Arthur was ready to do what Uther never could: set aside vengeance and choose the living.

When the druids sent word—naming themselves emissaries of all magical people and offering peace—Arthur accepted with the speed of a man too tired to bleed any longer.

The treaty they proposed was strange, but not unreasonable. It would bind Camelot and the magical peoples together under a single accord, forged not in parchment and ink, but in blood and spirit.

The druids spoke of a man in their care. Not merely a sorcerer, they said, but something older. A being of prophecy. They called him Emrys.

They claimed Arthur and Emrys were “two sides of the same coin,” destined not only to rule together but to temper one another. If peace was to last—truly last—a bond had to be forged that no fear, ambition, or betrayal could unravel.

The ritual they proposed was a sacred, arcane union with ancient roots and rigid rules.

It would culminate in a ceremonial consummation. Not symbolic—real. Physical. Binding. Arthur had been horrified when he first heard it could alter the minds of those involved. He had nearly made a fatal mistake, assuming the druids meant to twist his will and turn him into a puppet of their supposed chosen one.

Thank the gods he’d let them explain.

Emrys, it turned out, had offered to serve as the anchor. The one who received the bond. The one who yielded.

This meant Arthur would be free. His mind would remain his own, untouched and unbound. But Emrys—Emrys would be joined to Arthur in ways that made deceit impossible. Arthur would be able to feel his body, thoughts, and intentions, to gently influence his actions if ever the threat of betrayal surfaced. Not mind control—nothing so crude or absolute. Just alignment. Harmony. A tether strong enough to ensure trust without erasing will.

The druids had assumed, correctly, that Arthur would never agree to allow another access to his thoughts. And also correctly, that he would never entrust his people’s safety to a treaty with no teeth.

This bond guaranteed that no treachery would come from the magical side. And astonishingly, they offered no such safeguard in return.

They would trust him on his word alone.

Of course, he had verified everything. Gaius had studied the proposed ritual with rigorous care and confirmed every clause, every consequence. There had been no deception. No hidden snares. The sorcerer—for it had to be a sorcerer serving as the anchor— wouldn’t even be able to use their magic for the duration of the ritual, it being used to hold the magic of the rite in place.

So Arthur had agreed. He framed it to himself as a political marriage—with extraordinary conditions. He had never expected to marry for love; a union that ended a war was, in its own way, noble.

He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. But he would endure. And he would care for his bondmate—his husband—as best he could.

Unfortunately, the only druid men Arthur had encountered were… unrefined. Their clothing was tattered, their speech coarse, their hair unkempt. He was willing to privately admit that Camelot’s policies had likely left them few options—but surely bathing in a river more than once a week wasn’t out of the question?

No, Arthur didn’t expect much from Emrys. He had steeled himself for discomfort, even distaste.

He was prepared to endure.

He was not prepared for what he found when he entered the ceremonial tent, which is why he froze in the entrance of the ceremonial tent, stunned and silent.

Inside, kneeling on a rich carpet of woven forest moss and silk, was an ethereal figure.

He was almost entirely bare, his modesty only barely covered by a bright red loincloth, the same red as his cape

His limbs were artistically bound, ropes crossed all across his body, trapping his long, thin limbs completely. His arms were twisted behind his back, and he was held in a kneeling position, feet pressed to buttocks by loops of rope that formed rings all the way from ankle and hip to knee.

When he lifted his gaze to Arthur’s, there was no fear in his eyes.

He was not what Arthur had imagined.

He was beautiful.

But—he was so young.

This was not what Arthur had prepared himself for. Not even close.

Anger and hopelessness surged up inside him.

Of course it had been too good to be true. Of course peace came with this price.

He would not bed a child. Not even to end a war.

The boy’s eyes tracked him as he strode forward, widening when Arthur pulled a knife from his boot mid-step.

He gasped, jerking back, flinching as best he could in his bindings.

“Hey! Wait, stop—”

Arthur ignored him, slipping the tip of the blade beneath one of the knots along the boy’s leg.

The boy froze—but sprang into motion the moment the knot broke, bending his newly freed knee and slamming it hard into Arthur’s side, sending him stumbling back.

“What the hell are you doing!?” The boy had twisted to glare at him over his shoulder, struggling upright.

“I was told I’d be bonding with a druid man named Emrys. Not some boy,” Arthur snapped. “I refuse to have sex with a child. Not even for peace.”

He reached for another knot near the boy’s ribs, but the boy twisted away from him.

“I am not a child!” His face flushed red with fury, making him look even younger.

“You’re certainly too young to consent to this ritual—which I was told was a requirement for it to work properly. What else have I been misled about?”

“Nothing! I am an adult! You’re not even four years older than me!”

Arthur raised a skeptical brow. “You expect me to believe you’re twenty-four? You’d have better luck convincing me you were a woman.”

Something flickered in the boy’s expression—an emotion Arthur couldn’t name—before it twisted into a pout of frustration.

“It’s true. I am an adult. I can consent, and I did. So if you’re too scared to go through with this, say so now so we can try to unravel the magic without killing us both!”

Arthur blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that.

“Right. And I’m supposed to just take your word for it?”

“If you won’t believe me, go ask them!” The boy jerked his freed foot toward the tent flap.

“Fine.” Arthur stood, slipping the knife back into his boot. He strode from the tent, trying to arrange his face into something less enraged.

Outside, a cluster of druids and knights sat gathered around a low-burning fire. Arthur stormed toward them, his stride clipped and furious. He sought out the druid who had performed the incantation—the one who had explained the ritual in such calm, measured tones.

The man rose as Arthur approached, clearly sensing the storm brewing behind the king’s eyes.

“Is everything alright, my lord?”

“No,” Arthur said, voice low and sharp. “You told me I’d be bonding with a man. A powerful sorcerer named Emrys.”

The druid tilted his head. “Well, warlock, but yes, that is correct.”

Arthur pointed toward the tent. “Sorcerer or warlock, that is not a man. That is a boy. You put a child in there and expected me to—” He cut himself off, too furious to finish.

The druid’s expression twisted in confusion. “Sire, I assure you—that is Emrys. He is no child.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “He can’t be more than seventeen. Eighteen, maybe.”

“I understand he appears young, but—”

“Appears?” Arthur barked. “Is this some kind of magical illusion? Some trick to trap me into violating some aspect of the ritual?”

“No, no,” the druid said quickly, hands raised in a calming gesture. “There is no enchantment on his body or mind. Emrys’s appearance is natural—unusual, yes, but not unnatural.”

Arthur stared him down. “Then explain.”

The druid hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. “Emrys’s magic is... old. Deep. It runs through his bones, his blood. It preserves him. Time touches him differently.”

“That sounds like convenient nonsense.”

The druid gave him a long, level look. “You think we would send a child into a sacred rite? Risk our treaty? Risk him?”

Arthur’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond.

“He turned twenty-four this past spring,” the druid said gently. “I officiated his coming-of-age ceremony. We do not treat these things lightly.”

Arthur hesitated. “He says he’s twenty-four.”

“And you think he would lie?” the druid asked, gently but firmly. “He volunteered for this. Offered himself, knowing the risks. Knowing what it would cost him.”

Arthur’s stomach sank. “And…he volunteered?”

“Fully. We asked nothing of him. The choice was his. He believed we would find peace this way. If you wish to back out, it’s…not too late, but we will have to work quickly to undo the ritual.”

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. His shame was spreading now, a slow flush crawling up his neck.

“But if you are still willing, the rite is not ruined, yet,” the druid added, more gently now. “But you’ve likely bruised his pride. He may forgive you, if you return quickly.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “Right,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

He turned back toward the ceremonial tent, the knot of anger and confusion now giving way to something colder. Regret.

He’d made hasty assumptions, as ready to see betrayal as his father had been before him. He’d let his fear blind him and risked ruining the best shot at peace they’d had in his lifetime. If he had any hope of fixing this, he would have to apologize and pray Emrys would forgive him.

He paused outside the tent for a single deep breath, and then pushed the flap open again, and stepped inside.

He was met with a steely glare. Things were already not looking good.

While he was gone, Emrys had struggled himself into a sitting position, and was contorted, trying to pick at the knots keeping his folded leg restrained. His movements had frozen when Arthur walked back in, but it was clear what he had been doing.

“Well?” The boy—no, man. No, Emrys—demanded, “Are you satisfied I'm not some poor victim? That we aren’t trying to have you smited?” His pretty face has twisted into a sneer that makes Arthur’s blood boil.

He’s never been particularly good at being criticized.

“Maybe you people should have warned me!”

“Warned you?!” Emrys spat. He thrashed uselessly against his bindings.”About what, my face?! Should we have sent a warning letter? ‘Dear Camelot, our prophesied savior happens to look like a choirboy, please don’t panic on sight.’” Emrys is plainly mocking him now.

Arthur took a step forward. “You look barely sixteen!”

“I’m twenty-four!”

“You look barely grown! I thought I was walking into a sacred ritual, not a bloody crime scene!”

“Oh, how noble,” Emrys hissed, “King Arthur, defender of the innocent, savior of the unwilling. Must be exhausting, parading around like you’ve got a conscience.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tone.”

“Or what? You’ll scowl at me harder? Maybe throw me back to the druids and tell them I’m not good enough for royalty?”

Arthur closed the distance between them in three angry strides. The warlock doesn’t flinch, even when Arthur towers over him, using one hand to grip Emrys’s chin and force his head to tip back, exposing his neck.

“I came back to apologize,” Arthur said, voice low. “You’re not making it easy.”

“Oh, no?” Emrys said sweetly. “Was I supposed to swoon? Thank you for not defiling me before asking my age? Truly, what a gift. You must be so proud of your—”

Emrys breaks off in a gasp when Arthur bends down slightly to deliver a heavy slap to his rump.

The man jerks forward, would have fallen if not for the grip Arthur had transferred to his hair.

Emrys is blinking rapidly, clearly stunned.

That's fine.

Arthur is done with apologizing.

He uses his grip in Emrys’s hair to jostle the man's head, trying to get his attention back. “Your leg. Do I need to call your camp leader to redo the knots?”

“I— No— It’s fine, they are—they are just tradition, not required for the magic.”

“Good.” Arthur straightens, a hand on Emry’s elbow, forcing the man to stand as well, precariously balanced on his one unbound leg.

He drags Emrys over to the bed, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the way the man is forced to awkwardly hop beside him, one leg still folded, held bound with the heel tied to press up against his buttock.

Arthur tips the man backwards once they reach the bed, sending him crashing down on his back, further trapping his arms.

Finally, finally the little warlock is starting to look at him with a bit of trepidation, showing that he’s feeling even a tiny fraction of the fear and uncertainty that has been consuming Arthur whole for days.

Arthur’s fingers find the tie of the loincloth, and he tries to undo it, a task made difficult by Emrys’s squirming.

“Wait! Hold on! At least cut my bindings first!” He’s trying to twist away from Arthur’s grip, but between the rope and Arthur’s own strength, he doesn’t have a chance to get far. Arthur stills him by placing a hand on his lower stomach and pressing down, pinning the smaller man to the bed.

“No, I think I’d rather leave them, actually.” And then he is peeling the loincloth away, leaving the man beneath him bare.

Emrys twists, trying to bring his free leg up to cross over his privates and shield them from view, but Arthur won’t let him; moves his free hand to pin down the shifting limb.

He’s delighted.

Emrys’s cock is a little thing. He’s only half hard, but even so, he’s scarcely half the length of Arthur’s little finger. A cruel twist crosses Arthur’s lips

“Wait! There’s something you need to know—ah!” Emrys shrieks, trying to curl up into a ball to protect his little cock, which Arthur has just harshly pinched the tip of between two fingers.

Arthur pets down Emrys’s flank, a sort of mocking apology, before he returns to the man’s cock and begins gently rolling it in his hand, grinning as it hardens quickly.

Emrys’s head flies back, shaking back and forth against the sheet as he sucks in harsh breaths.

The man is unusually responsive; it took less than a few seconds of gentle handling to reduce him to a trembling puddle. At least Arthur won’t have to worry about ensuring the man is satisfied by the end of this.

Now that the warlock is no longer trying to escape from his grip, Arthur releases the man’s leg and uses his free hand to collect the precum from the tip of the man’s cock, smearing it down a finger to slick it.

He uses the wet finger to trace down, intending to begin preparing him for penetration, but stops cold, freezing in his motions as he encounters—wetness?

Arthur shifts his hand to lift Emrys’s cock and balls up, baring the skin between his cock and asshole.

He stares.

Where there should be a stretch of unbroken skin, instead sits a shiny, slick slit.

Above him, Emrys seems to have caught his breath since Arthur stopped moving. “I—I was trying to tell you…”

“What exactly is this?” Arthur trails a finger up the outer lips, smearing the wetness that has been leaking out, “You are not a boy, and now you aren’t even a man?”

Emrys glares down at him, outraged, “I am a man!” He tries to kick Arthur, a move so broadcast that Arthur has no trouble catching the ankle and pinning it to the bed.

He shifts closer, scooting up on the bed until he is pressed between the man’s knees.

“If you are a man, why do you also have a woman’s parts?” Arthur’s finger reaches the top seam, where the lips come together, and digs his finger in, searching.

He is rewarded by a loud cry and a sudden harsh jerk of Emrys’s hips. The warlock's legs try to snap shut to protect his most vulnerable spot, but cannot with Arthur sitting between them.

Arthur harshly rubs the little nub of Emrys’s clit just to hear him scream for a few moments. Alas, he must let off if he has any hope of the man below him forming a sentence.

“It’s…I don’t know.” Emrys is harshly panting, already sounding wrecked, “No one does. I was just…born like this. But I am a man!”

Arthur soothes him, petting down his hips and leaving a slick trail down one of his sides. “Alright, that’s fine.” He lets a smirk crawl onto his face. “So, do you touch yourself here often?” He returns a hand to the wet folds, dipping his fingers between the inner and outer lips.

“No! Of course not!”

“No? Why ever not? I imagine it must feel amazing.” His blunt nails scrape across the delicate skin, sending a full-body shudder through Emrys.

“It’s not allowed! Not outside of the blessing rituals that require it, and I’m not allowed to participate in those yet.” Arthur would not have thought the druids would be so…reserved, given that they spent so much time prancing half-naked through the woods.

“Truly? Never?” He tries to affect an aghast tone, but he's beyond delighted. If this man has never pleasured himself…well…Arthur has always enjoyed being a generous lover, and someone without any experience will be…responsive.

Arthur returns a hand to the man’s lower stomach, pressing him down at the same time he presses two fingers to Emrys’s clit.

His reaction is instantaneous. Arthur’s calloused fingers, skin tough from years of sword work, must be unbearable against that sensitive nub.

He uses another finger to carefully pull back the hood, fully exposing the nerve to the torture he inflicts on it.

Emrys lets out a gorgeous wail and thrashes against him, desperately trying to wriggle away. He, of course, fails; Arthur is far stronger than him. When he can’t escape that way, he starts trying to kick Arthur, to knock him away. Arthur just ignores him, pressing down harder and rubbing faster.

Under his hand, he can feel the warlock's abdominal muscles clenching and releasing. When Emrys lets out a particularly loud wail and those muscles go taught, Arthur pinches the man’s clit between his fingers and harshly rubs it back and forth.

Emrys’s whole body goes rigid, and he screams, loud and desperate enough that Arthur is sure the druids would have burst in by now to rescue him if there wasn’t a silencing charm on the tent.

The man’s body convulses for several long moments before he slumps bonelessly against the sheets, breath coming in rapid gasps.

Arthur lets him have a moment to lie there, panting, as he rearranges himself. He sits flat on the bed and then reaches down to pull Emrys up into his arms, using the ropes across his chest as leverage. He moves him so that Emrys’s back is pressed to his chest, arms pinned between them, and twists his own legs around the warlocks, pinning them, spread wide, to the bed.

He returns his hand to the man’s core, sliding past his cock to return to the clit. He wastes no time this round, instead pressing directly back to the nub.

The man’s whole body jerks against his as he tries to twist his hips away.

“Wait! I can’t—” He gasps out, turning to press his face into Arthur’s neck.

Arthur ignores him, grinning, and carries on with his ministrations until he works Emrys through another release.

Then, he finally relents, pulling his hand back and waiting out the man’s tremors.

When he has finally stilled, Arthur leans forward, folding them both over as he reaches into his boot to grab his knife. He puts a hand to Emrys’s shoulder to keep him tilted and makes quick work of cutting his arms and then his leg free.

The ropes fall to the bed, and Arthur makes quick work of pushing them to the floor. He slips the knife back into his boot and then turns Emrys around, spinning him so that he can press his mouth to the warlock's.

The younger man is clearly just as inexperienced at kissing as he is at pleasure, but he makes up for it with his enthusiasm. He is messy and demanding, biting at Arthur's lips and jaw. With his newly freed hands, he presses against Arthur’s clothed body, tracing up his arms and across his chest until he can push Arthur down to lie flat.

The warlock climbs up his body, sitting heavily on his chest and bending down to keep sloppily kissing him.

Arthur matches him, licking and biting into Emrys’s mouth with as much force as he thinks the smaller man will tolerate. He lifts his hands to run them down Emrys’s sides, but a sudden sensation forces every muscle in his body to turn rigid.

There's a knife pressed against his throat.

Emrys has abruptly pulled away, and his expression has turned cold.

Arthur cursed himself. He had become distracted in the other man’s body and hadn’t even noticed when the warlock had stolen the knife from his boot.

“What is this?” Arthur holds as still as he can, wary of the motion of his throat pushing into the blade.

He should have known. This had been too easy. He had allowed his guard down, and he was about to pay with his life.

“You really thought my people would forgive you so easily? For all the pain and fear you’ve caused us?” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. At least Morgana would make a good queen. Perhaps when there is a magic user on the throne, there can be peace.

“My father’s mistakes are not mine.”

“No? What about the raids you led? The innocent people you slaughtered by your own hand? Are you absolved of those, too, because your father told you to?” Emrys’s words are biting, full of rage.

“I am trying to make amends, now. I do not wish for this war any more than you do.” Arthur tries to placate him.

“The war will end with you dead.” Emrys hisses at him.

“Will it?” Arthur wants to shake his head at him, but he can't risk it with the blade so close, “or will it make the war ten times worse? What do you think my people will do when they find out I was murdered by the druids? I'll tell you. They will muster every man and weapon they can find, and they will hunt you down.”

“No! They will finally leave us alone!”

“Emrys—” Arthur flinches as the blade cuts a thin line into his neck.

“Merlin. My name is Merlin!” Apparently, this is a touchy subject.

“Merlin? Your name isn’t even Emrys?”

“Emrys is the stupid name the druids call me. They think I'm from some dumb prophecy, in which we are partners or ‘sides of a coin’ or something like that. It’s bullshit. You and I are nothing alike. My mother named me Merlin before you bastards killed her.”

Despite himself, Arthur feels a pang of guilt. “Emr—Merlin, I am sorry, and I do want peace. Please just think about what happens here if you kill me. The war will never stop.”

The warlock's lips tremble, and he draws the knife back, just a fraction of an inch, but it's enough. In an instant, Arthur has his hand clamped on the man’s wrist and is jerking it back, away from them both. He uses his other arm to grip the warlock's thigh, lifting and twisting it to throw the man off him.

He follows the motion, flipping himself on top of Emr—Merlin so that the man's slighter body is trapped between him. Merlin is fighting like a hellcat, using his free hand to claw at Arthur’s face and neck and arms.

But Arthur is a knight, and a damned good one at that. He has little difficulty physically subduing the smaller man.

“Let go of me! Let go!”

His legs are kicking widely, beating at the backs of Arthur's knees and thighs.

Arthur has finally had enough when one of Merlin’s fingernails catches at the corner of his eye. He squeezes Merlin’s wrist—the one holding the knife—hard, until it goes limp and Arthur can knock the blade from the bed. Once that’s dealt with, he makes quick work of containing Merlin’s other arm, bringing it up to be pinned with the first.

He transfers both wrists into one hand and then uses his own newly free one to gently rest against Merlin’s throat. Not choking, not yet, but threatening to. Finally, the warlock goes blessedly still, no longer screaming and thrashing, but he can’t seem to prevent the tears leaking down his cheeks or the sobs escaping from his chest.

“Hush. It’s ok, I understand, just breathe.”

Arthur himself needs a moment; the adrenaline is fading from his body, leaving him feeling shaky. He lets his head drop to rest against Merlin’s shoulder, ignoring the way the warlock tries to flinch away.

When he feels steady again, he lifts his head to look directly at Merlin. He shifts his free hand from the man's throat to his jaw, forcing his head to turn towards him so he can look into his eyes. “What were you thinking?” He jostles Merlin’s head using his grip, “You would have condemned every one of your people. They wouldn’t stand a chance against my knights. If they found me dead, tomorrow, they would slaughter this entire camp.”

That seems to shock Merlin out of his daze, “Please! They didn’t know! It was only me!”

“Merlin—”

“Please! Don’t hurt them, I didn’t tell anyone what I was going to do!”

“Merlin—”

“They deserve freedom! I promise! None of them wanted to—”

“Merlin!” Arthur jostles the man roughly, trying to get his attention.

Merlin freezes, his panicked pleas falling blessedly silent.

“I’m not going to hurt them, I promise. I know they didn’t know. My advisors looked over the ritual. I know it wouldn’t even have started if they had. Which does beg the question, how exactly were you able to participate?” Arthur lifts his eyebrow at the man beneath him.

Merlin tries to turn his face away, but Arthur won’t let him. A deep flush rises to his cheeks.

“Well?” Arthur demands.

“I…It only fails if…if you are unwilling. I…I was willing to bond. I just didn’t think you’d still be…alive…to do so.”

“Good.” Arthur nods decisively and pushes himself up, releasing Merlin and standing from the bed.

“What are you—” Merlin cuts himself off, freezing when Arthur bends to retrieve the knife. Arthur glances at him and realizes that the man has gone a sickly pale. He realizes, belatedly, what it looks like to Merlin that he went directly for the knife.

He raises his free hand in a gesture of peace, “It’s ok!” He makes quick work of crossing the tent, dropping the knife as far away from the bed as he can get it. Then he starts stripping, peeling his shirt off, kicking his trousers away, and stepping out of his boots.

Merlin has calmed, and his eyes seem glued to the sight of Arthur’s cock, half hard and already notably larger than his own.

The warlock swallows thickly and retreats up the bed as Arthur returns, pausing only briefly to pick out some of the longer lengths of rope that survived his haphazard cutting.

“What—?”

Arthur leans forward across the bed, catching one thin ankle and yanks on it, pulling Merlin until he's lying flat on the bed, instead of curled up near the headboard. Arthur loops a length of rope around his ankle and then secures it to the support post of the bed. He repeats the process with Merlin’s other leg, leaving him tied open, unable to close his legs.

Then he takes a third rope and fashions it into a set of rough handcuffs, which he then uses to trap Merlin's wrists together and finishes it off by securing those cuffs to the headboard, leaving his warlock fully at his mercy.

“What are you doing?” This time, Merlin gets the question fully out, silly as it may be.

“What am I doing? Well, I'm finishing the ritual, of course.”

“What!?”

Arthur doesn’t see why this should be a surprise to the little warlock.

“You know, the whole reason both of us are here?” He arches an eyebrow down at the squirming man.

“But—” Merlin doesn’t finish his statement, eyes glancing uncertainly over at the knife.

“But you weren’t actually intending to finish the ritual, and were planning on just assassinating me instead?”

Merlin flushes deeper and presses his lips together, turning his head away.

“Well, as it happens, I don’t really like that plan, as it goes for achieving peace. And, as the rite determined, you are willing to complete it. So why don't we stick with the original plan?” Arthur stares down at the bound warlock, waiting until he stops squirming against the ropes to climb onto the bed himself.

He straddles the man, sitting heavily on top of his hips as he reaches forward to pluck cruelly at his nipples.

“You’re just going to—going to ignore this? What I tried to—ah!—tried to do?”

Arthur pinches a nipple roughly, enjoying the bitten-off cry.

“Ignore? No. I will remember your desperation for peace,” He pauses, switching for a moment to torment the other nipple instead, grinning at the whimper this action causes, “and it’s certainly good to learn how…impulsive…I can expect you to be, early on in our marriage.”

“Marriage!?”

“Well, yes, what else would you call this. We are to be life partners, are we not?”

He moves on to flicking at both of Merlin’s nipples at once. The small nubs are clearly highly sensitive, if Merlin’s writhing and whimpering are any indication.

“I—It’s not—I don’t—” Merlin can’t seem to come up with a response to his question, so Arthur will answer it for him.

“We must be husbands, for I would do this for no other.” He releases Merlin’s nipples and slides down his body, refusing to waste a single second more, before his face is buried in Merlin’s juices.

Merlin positively shrieks above him. For someone who has never masturbated before, a mouth on their privates can be nothing but an overwhelmingly, torturous, pleasurable sensation.

Arthur fashions his tongue into a point and hunts through Merlin's fold for his clit. He licks at it, running his tongue across it as quickly as he can, even as Merlin’s thighs try to clamp down on his head, thwarted by the ropes holding him open. Every now and then, Arthur backs off, nibbling along Merlin's lips and scraping his teeth along the soft flesh.

He repeats the cycle again and again, lavishing Merlin’s clit with attention and then moving down and back up his slit, until Merlin has been reduced to a constant stream of pleas.

Arthur ignores him, but does turn his full attention to the sensitive little nub. He turns his tongue into a spear, roughly licking, poking, and flicking across it. When he finally introduces his teeth, oh so gently scrapes the nub between his front teeth, he is rewarded by a keen, Merlin’s whole body seizing up.

But Arthur does not stop, not even when Merlin begins sobbing, thrashing as best he can in his pinned state. The overstimulation seems to be too much for the warlock to bear, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care.

He deserves it, after all, for trying to kill him, unsuccessful though he was.

Arthur slips a finger between the man's folds, gently pressing it through the ring of muscle to sink deep into his velvety heat. There’s so much slick leaking from the opening that Arthur doesn’t even think Merlin feels the finger, until he begins crooking inside him.

He slips the finger in all the way, pressing as deep as his hand can go. Merlin is tight around him, muscles fluttering in a rhythm Arthur can’t find. Arthur cannot wait to find out how this feels pressed around his cock.

He will have to be patient, however.

Merlin has never taken anyone before, he reminds himself, and Arthur's size is substantially above average. He takes his time, carefully wringing two more orgasms from the warlock as he slowly introduces two more fingers and stretches the man's opening as gently as he can.

He fucks Merlin slowly with his fingers, searching around until he can find that small spongy spot on the front wall of his channel. Arthur knows he’s found it when Merlin jerks forward, managing a yelp in between the constant stream of whimpers.

Arthur targets the spot with precision, digging his fingers in as firmly as he can at the same time as he seals his lips onto Merlin’s clit. Merlin howls, legs violently trembling as a fresh wave of release slicks his channel.

Arthur finally becomes aware that Merlin is begging, “Please, please, please!”

He might be begging for Arthur to stop, or for him to keep going. He has no way to know, and he can’t stop. Not now, before they have sealed the ritual, and certainly not before Arthur has felt that tight channel around his cock. Arthur pulls his fingers out, a long string of slick chasing them out.

He lifts away from Merlin's core, coming up along his body to gently wipe away the tears that have formed rivers down his cheeks, soaking the sheets on either side of his face.

“I’ve only even used my fingers and my mouth, and already, you are such a mess.” Arthur clicks his teeth, teasingly mocking the warlock, “How do you think you are going to handle my cock?”

He lets his hand return to Merlin’s cunt, gently petting along the folds. Merlin jerks and tries to twist away, and Arthur decides to have mercy for the time being and relents, choosing instead to entertain himself with Merlin’s neglected cock.

He was right, even in its fully erect state, it’s not even half the size of his own. He can almost hold the whole thing in a single hand.

Merlin is instantly humping into his hand, desperate for the friction. Arthur strokes up and down with his slick hand, occasionally pausing to dig his thumbnail into the slit or to press the pad of his thumb into the underside of the cock.

Merlin’s reactions are extremely gratifying; he sobs and howls with nearly anything Arthur does to him. Arthur has never fucked a virgin who was this responsive, although he has not exactly met very many 24 year old, fully untouched virgins before.

It takes very little time before Merlin is spilling into his hand, cock jerking in his grip. Of course, as Arthur has discovered, he is not satisfied with causing only one orgasm, so he continues.

He keeps the pace, roughly stripping his hand up and down Merlin's cock, preventing him from ever fully softening. Merlin is crying again, as is expected, and he seems beyond pleading at this point, simply lying there and letting out weak whimpers as the tears leak down his face.

He feels as though he could satisfy himself this way forever, just switching back and forth between Merlin’s nipples, cock, and hole forever. But alas, he must remember they are there for a purpose.

Outside, he can hear the sounds of the night beginning to fade, making way for the creatures of the morning. He will have to make haste, then.

When Merlin finally spills again, this time silently and with nearly nothing leaking from his cock, Arthur releases him from his hand. He leans forward to the head of the bed, plucking up a pillow and petting up Merlin’s side as he does so.

“I am sorry, Merlin,” and he truly means it, but there’s nothing to be done, “this will hurt, but I will be as gentle and slow as I can be.”

“Wha—” Merlin’s expression has gone bleary, and Arthur thinks he might no longer be fully aware of his surroundings.

Perhaps that is for the best.

He slides the pillow under Merlin’s hips, tilting him forward just the slightest bit to have better access.

Arthur presses the head of his cock to Merlin’s enterance and presses slowly, savoring the way Merlin’s muscles fight against him. It does feel good when Merlin does that, but in the end, that will only hurt him more.

“Merlin, you have to relax.” He brings his hands up to stroke across Merlin’s flanks, trying to soothe the quivering muscles.

“I can’t, it hurts!”

“I know, I know, but it will only hurt worse the more you fight it!”

“How am I not supposed to fight it!?”

This isn’t working, Merlin is only squeezing tighter, so Arthur changes tactics, one hand moving back to Merlin's cock to stroke across the head and another slipping between his legs to toy with his clit.

Merlin hisses, arching against him, but it seems to help as only a few seconds later, Arthur's head pops past the tight ring of muscle and sinks the first few inches deep.

Merlin’s pained gasp cuts through the haze of pleasure overtaking Arthur, but he can’t stop—not only because the pleasure is overwhelming for him, but also because to stop now and start again later would only prolong Merlin’s pain.

“Wait! Please!” Merlin begs, but Arthur knows it won't be better in the long run, so he ignores him.

Finally, what feels like years later, Arthur is fully seated, hips pressing to Merlin’s ass. Arthur holds there, keeps that position as he continues torturing Merlin’s cock and clit. Several long minutes later, Merlin's inner channel begins rippling, tightening rhythmically around Arthur’s cock, as he comes again.

Arthur shifts, just the tiniest bit, and Merlin lets out a low grunt, “Just get it over with already!”

Clearly, Merlin is reaching the end of his rope, so Arthur wastes no more time, pulling nearly all the way out only to push back in smoothly. He tries to be gentle, but he only has so much self-restraint, and he’s already used most of it up today.

Still, though, he searches, carefully rotating his hips until one thrust causes Merlin a full-body jerk. He makes sure that all his future thrusts are at a matching angle, but he does speed up, quickly working himself into a slamming tempo, forcing punched-out cries from Merlin every time he pushes in.

He returns his hands to Merlin’s clit and cock, treating both more harshly than Merlin would ever be able to do to himself. The whimpering and whining is music to his ears.

It’s only a short time later that Merlin starts violently trembling, and then fluid begins leaking down into Arthur’s lap. He pauses, briefly confused, and pulls back to look, finding a thin stream of liquid pouring from Merlin’s body.

He’s squirting.

Arthur grins and returns to his task with vigor, pounding harder and harder even as the bedsheets beneath him become soaked. He is pretty sure Merlin doesn’t even know what just happened, dazed from yet another orgasm.

Arthur takes the opportunity to twist to each side, undoing the knots that hold Merlin’s legs down, and grabs a second pillow. Once free, he flips the man over onto his stomach, placing the second pillow on top of the first to prop his hips up even further.

He slides back in, the new angle allowing him to reach even further into the man beneath him. He starts as powerfully as he’d stopped, pounding the helpless man beneath him through another orgasm. The groan that accompanies it is inarticulate and entirely too endearing.

Arthur plasters himself tightly to Merlin’s back, letting his own weight intensify the force of his thrusts, as he reaches around to toy with Merlin’s cock again.

“No! It’s too much!” Arthur ignores him and instead strips his hand up and down more forcefully than he had intended.

It takes a longer time for Merlin to come; perhaps he is truly reaching the end of his rope this time.

Even still, as soon as Merlin is shuddering through his orgasm, Arthur simply moves his hand lower, to the man’s clit, and begins rubbing there.

His legs kick out weakly on either side of Arthur’s hips, but there’s nothing he can do to stop Arthur, bound as he is.

“Please—Please, I can’t!”

“You can. And you will.” Arthur will make it so.

Under the stimulation, it's inevitable when Merlin comes again, but even then Arthur refuses to stop, relentlessly stripping away at Merlin’s clit. He drives into Merlin's hole with as much force as he can muster, enjoying the noises caused by the slick channel sucking onto his length.

This time, Merlin’s orgasm sounds nothing more than painful, he's screaming, entire body seizing as his muscles clamp down on Arthur’s cock. Arthur fucks him through it.

“Stop—No more!” Merlin is sobbing, but Arthur can’t stop just yet; the ritual hasn’t been completed. “Please! Don’t—”

Arthur gentles his hips as best he can, but time is of the essence at this point. He angles away from that spot that makes Merlin jerk, but even so, the man has a full-body tremor every time Arthur presses in. Arthur works his speed back up slowly, petting down Merlin’s sides, until Merlin comes once more, hole fluttering weakly around Arthur’s cock. This time, it’s enough to push Arthur over the edge, too.

Instantly, magic washes over him, sinking through his skin and into his core. He’s faintly aware that Merlin is crying beneath him, but he can barely think past the heady buzzing that fills his entire body. He feels swept away in it, as though there’s a river of magic sweeping around him, carrying his soul away.

And then just as suddenly as it started, it's gone, leaving him collapsed bonelessly on top of Merlin.

Merlin!

Arthur can feel him, his soul pressed into the space next to Arthur’s heart.

He would bet anything their hearts now beat in tandem.

Arthur is now, finally, sated, and he can feel the aching pleasure knocking around inside Merlin now. He grins, reaching up to tweak one of Merlin’s nipples just to see what happens.

He is able to feel Merlin’s body as though it’s a second skin, resting just beneath his own—and ouch, he has really done a number on him, huh.

Even still, as he slips out from Merlin’s body, he can’t resist letting a hand sneak down and dip into the man’s puffy rim, feeling the swollen, angry flesh and the combined slick and semen leaking from his body.

Merlin whines and shies away from the seeking fingers, and Arthur has mercy, withdrawing his hand.

“Rest now, for a short while.” Arthur reaches up to untie his warlock's wrists, and then rolls them over—away from the wet spot—to curl around him.

“When you wake, we will ensure the bond takes, and then we can get started on ensuring peace between our peoples.”

Merlin grunts into his neck, an inarticulate noise, but then manages to lift his head slightly, “Ensure the bond takes? I can feel it, it’s fine.”

Arthur smirks and trails a hand down his body to tap at Merlin’s asshole.

Merlin's eyes go wide, and his jaw drops open, “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, little warlock. Was this ritual designed for someone who has both sets of genitalia? We must be certain the rite takes, and I can think of only one way to be absolutely positive.”

“You can feel it, can’t you! You know it's already established!” Merlin pushes at his chest, but Arthur just draws him closer, tucking his body flush against his own.

“Mmm, Maybe, even still. We will take all steps necessary to be certain by daybreak.”

Arthur grins as Merlin throws his head back and groans, clearly none too taken by the idea.

He just pats Merlin’s rear comfortingly and tucks the smaller man’s head under his chin. He started this whole situation determined but dreading the outcome. Now…he finds himself looking forward to what his new life will look like, with his husband by his side.