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The moment he's naked, Arthur's no longer as sure about this as he thought he was.

A cool hand trails down his spine, and Arthur's muscles twitch.

“You are as magnificent as I'd imagined,” Morgause all but purrs. “Lie still; I'll tell you when to move.”

Arthur rests his head on his folded arms and tries to breathe through his nose, determined not to let her see his misgivings. At forty, Morgause is a little over twice his age, but he's hardly a blushing virgin. He tells himself he's ready for whatever she wants to dish out.

The fact that she's somehow related to his half-sister Morgana should bother him, he supposes, but she's not directly related to him, and she's got thighs that can crack walnuts, and she's the only person who can best him at fencing. When she made it clear she wouldn't mind fucking his brains out, he wasn't going to pass up that opportunity.

Still, the fact that she's completely taken over, watching fully clothed from a chair while he stripped for her, then ordering him face-down on her bed, has made him a little apprehensive about just what he's gotten himself into.

“Shhhhh,” she says, as though reading his mind. The mattress shifts, and then he feels her bare knees – when did she take off her clothes? - pressing against the insides of his calves. “Spread your legs now, sweetling.”

Arthur tenses for a split second, then forces himself to relax and obey her. Morgause makes an approving sound, and her hands caress the backs of Arthur's thighs as a reward.

“Tell me about Merlin,” Morgause says casually, as though they're sitting outside on the lawn having tea.

“Merlin? What about him?” Arthur says, forcing a nonchalance he doesn't feel. He's sure she can see the pulse leaping in his neck.

“He's the butler's boy, isn't he?”

“Grand-nephew,” Arthur corrects automatically, then winces when he feels her shift above him.

“My apologies,” she says, a clear smile in her voice. “He's lived here for some time, hasn't he?”

“A few years,” Arthur says. Merlin had moved to the Pendragon estate when he'd won a scholarship to Arthur's secondary school, and was currently visiting for the summer after his first year of art college. He spent his days in the wood, sketching the trees or the squirrels or God knew what. He had a new haircut and had finally grown into his gangly limbs, though his ears were still ridiculous, and why the fuck were they talking about Merlin? “I'm sorry, why the fuck are we talking about Merlin?”

Morgause chuckles, the low sound going straight to Arthur's cock. “Oh, darling, Merlin is the point of this,” she coos, and trails one finger down the cleft of Arthur's arse.

Arthur jerks and twists round to look at her. “I don't – I'm not –”

“Shhhhhh.” Morgause runs a soothing hand over Arthur's left buttock; it isn't soothing at all. “There's no harm in this. Secretly, you want to know.”

“Know – know what?”

Morgause smiles wickedly. “If you'll like it,” she murmurs, leaning down to lick a broad stripe where her finger has just been.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur groans, burying his head in his arms. He shudders, once, as she spreads him open and breathes hotly over his hole, and then he lies still, every muscle bunched and screaming at him to flee.

The first touch of her tongue is anything but tentative, and it nearly sends Arthur rocketing off the bed. His cock is swiftly, painfully hard, and as she laps at him, setting up a rhythm, it's all he can do to keep from shouting. He begins rocking against the mattress mindlessly, but her hands are suddenly firm on his hips.

“None of that,” she tells him. “I want you to last.”

“I'm nineteen, for fuck's sake,” Arthur snaps, which earns him a stinging slap against his arse.

“You can learn control, and you will,” Morgause tells him. “You wouldn't want to come just as Merlin's working his cock into you for the first time, would you?”

Arthur can't help but picture it: Merlin on his knees, pushing into him slowly, sliding deeper with every – no, fuck, no. “That'll – never happen,” he grits.

“Even though you want it to?” Morgause drawls. Arthur feels the teasing scrape of her teeth against the sensitive skin between arse and balls, and he gasps. No one's ever touched him there before. “I see the way you look at him; it isn't subtle, Arthur. Close your eyes.”

“I – ”

Another nip, this time right on his bollocks; Arthur's jaw clenches around a yelp. Jaw twitching, he obeys her command.

Morgause leaves him for a moment, and Arthur feels his stomach roil as he considers his options. It's not as though he can't just get up and leave, call the whole thing off. He'll still see her at the odd family function, but it isn't as if they were going to have some great love affair. This was essentially an experiment, and clearly it was an ill-conceived one, but he doesn't have to see it through –

The mattress dips again between Arthur's legs, and suddenly something is pushing its way into his –

“God, oh, God,” Arthur hisses, as her slickened finger breaches him.

“That's it,” Morgause croons, her other hand rubbing circles on the small of his back. “Take it, sweet. I know you can.”

Arthur's own teeth bite into his forearm, and when Morgause's fingertip brushes something deep inside, they nearly break the skin. He makes a whimpering noise he's sure he's never made before.

“Oh, yes,” Morgause is saying, “you want this. You're thinking of him right now, aren't you?”

Arthur shakes his head violently, but he's shivering so hard he knows she'll see it for the lie it is. She doesn't laugh this time, though; instead, she begins pushing the finger in and out, softly.

“He's such a gentle boy,” Morgause murmurs. “He'd take you so slowly. Opening you up carefully, checking to make sure you were all right.”

Arthur's cheeks flame; he's thought about it, but his fear – of the pain, or perhaps of liking the pain too much, of what it might mean about him – has always held him back. It's as though Morgause has a crystal ball and can see right into his soul. It should be frightening, but he's surprised to find it somehow reassuring, to finally be able to share the truth with someone.

Morgause pulls out and returns with two fingers, and this time Arthur lies still and allows himself to be (say it, say it) fucked, his only movement being to spread his legs wider.

“Oh my, that's pretty,” Morgause says approvingly. Arthur blushes even hotter.

By the time Morgause has three fingers in him, Arthur is sure he's never stayed this hard for this long before in his life. His arse feels full and stretched but not sore, and he's actually anticipating what might come next with more excitement than trepidation.

What comes next is a few moments of nothing – just some soft, unidentifiable sounds (or perhaps Arthur doesn't want to try to identify them), and Arthur closes his eyes and wills himself not to look back at what she's doing, because it's probably better not to know, and oh fuck, oh fuck, is he really going to let her just –

Her fingers are at his entrance again, sure and strong; they circle him once, twice, then part him, and then Arthur feels the touch of something wider and cooler than her fingers.

“That's it,” Morgause whispers. “Slowly, now, the way he would –” and the dildo enters him so gently, Christ, it's true, he would, he would be the same –

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, hips rocking back to take more, more, more –


Merlin presses his forehead against the wall beside the door. His skin feels like it’s burning, and he can't seem to stop shaking. The sketch book nearly slips from his fingers; he clutches it to his chest just in time.

Come to my room at three, Morgause had said, I'd like to see some of your work. She knew a gallery owner in London, she'd told him, and he was always looking for new talent. Merlin had thought it ridiculous – he was still in school, and there was so much he had yet to learn – but she'd been insistent, and an opportunity was an opportunity. He arrived promptly at three, and raised his hand to knock on the door when he heard Morgause telling someone to spread their legs.

Oh, Christ, Merlin thought, and began to back away from the door, because obviously this was not the time to be talking about art – and then he heard her say his name.

Followed by the unmistakable rumble of Arthur's voice.

From that point on, he was riveted to the spot. The door was open just enough for him to hear most of what they were saying, but not enough for him to see anything. Not that this was a problem – Merlin's imagination, honed by years of fantasising about His Pratliness Arthur Pendragon, was more than sufficient to paint the scene in vivid colours. He could see the fine sheen of sweat on Arthur's back, the fine tremble in his limbs, the ruby red of his stupidly gorgeous mouth.

God, Arthur. He’s moaning Merlin's name constantly now as she fucks into him, and the edges of the sketch book bite into Merlin's palms as he resists the urge to just walk in there and finish what Morgause started. He won’t do that, though; Arthur’s clearly just getting used to the idea of wanting a man, of wanting Merlin, and if he knew that Merlin was listening to all of this, he’d never let Merlin anywhere near him again. And fuck, but Merlin wants to be near Arthur, he wants to touch him in all the places she’s touching him, wants to be over him and in him and Jesus Christ, he’s going to come in his pants right here in the hallway just from the broken, breathy way Arthur is chanting Merlin’s name

Arthur makes a choked, sobbing sound, and Merlin bolts, his blood roaring in his ears and his breath short and panicked. He runs up the stairs to his attic room and barely gets his hand down his trousers and around his own cock before he’s coming, head thudding back against the door, mouth open and desperate for air.


Morgause smiles as she hears Merlin’s footsteps pounding down the hall as he flees. Arthur, still trembling from the aftershocks, gives no indication that he’s heard.

Perhaps, if she’s persuasive, they’ll let her watch.