Merlin

Twelve years later.

The pestle crushes the contents inside the mortar, stone grinding against stone with a steady, familiar scrape.

Lavender. Hawthorn bark. Ground pearl. Three drops of dew gathered before sunrise.

I set the pestle down and pick up a vial, pouring the ingredients inside. The potion shimmers pale gold as I stir it clockwise, watching ribbons of magic curl through the glass.

Then the laboratorium doors explode inward.

“Merlin!”

The vial nearly slips from my fingers at the sound of Mordred’s shout, voice breaking and filled with both fear and relief.

I turn just in time for him to crash into me hard enough to knock us both against the worktable. Glass rattles. A spoon clatters to the floor. Before I can ask what’s wrong, his arms lock around my ribs with desperate strength. His black hair is a complete mess, his clothes nothing more than the linen he slept in—a loose, wrinkled tunic hanging off one shoulder, the ties at the neck left undone, comfortable trousers, and his bare feet against the cold stone as though he ran the entire length of the castle the moment he opened his eyes.

My arms wrap around him instinctively. He shakes within my hold, practically vibrating.

“Hey,” I mutter, terror gripping me as my eyes rake over what little I can see of him for blood, injuries, anything. “Mordred?”

He doesn’t answer, his face buried against my neck, his breathing broken into uneven, panicked gasps.

“Mordred.”

Nothing.

His fingers clutch the back of my robes like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

A dozen possibilities race through my mind. Arthur, the kingdom, an attack. One of our friends back in that other world. Twelve years is enough time for anything to happen. The only thing keeping me in even a relative state of calm is that if it was urgent, he’d be telling me what’s wrong, not still hiding his face in the curve of my throat.

I carefully set the unfinished potion farther onto the table before it can be knocked over. It’s Arthur’s potion, the one I’ve been making him for years. I’ve been tweaking it each time, making it a little more efficient. Every version lasts a bit longer than the previous one. Every version buys him another few months, another year if fortune smiles on us.

It’s not enough to stop time. But it’s enough to slow it down.

It’s not that Arthur is getting old. Not yet. But this is slowing down his aging considerably.

Morgan had found a way to keep Gawain alive for over a thousand years, but every spell she’d woven had been soaked in blood and stolen souls. I could’ve replicated it. Mordred could’ve replicated it. But that would’ve taken dark magic, and I refused to let either of us use it.

Arthur deserves a longer life, but not one at the expense of all our souls.

Magic has rules, and mine comes with a price I’m willing to pay. Mortality, unfortunately, isn’t one of the things I can negotiate away. Eventually…

Eventually, the potion will stop working.

Eventually, Arthur Pendragon will die a second time.

And I don’t know what that will do to the man clinging to me.

The irony of that has never escaped me. A thousand years ago, Mordred drove a sword through his father’s chest. Now, I spend countless mornings trying to postpone the day he loses him to his mortality.

The thought of that is almost as difficult as when we both think about the friends we left behind in that other world. We’ve gone back several times. Ava and Willow got married, and their wedding was beautiful. Will met a man who helped him get over Mordred, and they have two kids now. We had to start using magic to age ourselves a bit physically, but it’s only ever temporary and more than worth it to see them when we can.

Immortality comes with one painful downside.

We outlive those we care about.

But at least we have each other, and I think that will be the only thing that helps us survive the next thousand years.

“Mordred.” I brush a hand through his hair. “Talk to me.”

A tiny, broken sound escapes him.

He’s crying.

Actual tears.

I’ve seen Mordred angry enough to split castle walls with enchanted steel. I’ve seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. I’ve seen him face armies without flinching.

But it’s when he cries that I know he’s feeling things to the point that they’re so deep he doesn’t always know how to deal with it.

My concern deepens, and I try to ease him back just enough to see his face. He refuses, clinging to me even tighter.

“Mordred.”

“No.”

“I need you to look at me.”

“No.”

Despite the situation, I almost smile. He’s immortal. The future king of Camelot. Currently behaving like a frightened child.

“Come on,” I whisper gently as I guide him across the room to a bench. His arms never loosen their hold even as our feet move. “Sit down with me and breathe.”

We reach the bench, and I manage to situate us on top of it so he’s comfortably in my lap. I don’t rush him, letting him sniff into my shoulder. Several minutes pass before his breathing finally steadies and his grip loosens just enough for me to tilt his chin upward.

His eyes are red, his cheeks damp.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?”

He sniffs again. “I had…” He swallows. “I had a nightmare.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting.

Mordred has had nightmares in the past, usually brought on by memories of the darkness his mother used to subject him to. But I’d make him a potion, and they’d stop. He hasn’t had those nightmares in several years.

“Was it like before?”

He shakes his head and whispers, “No.”

I brush my hand through his hair again. “Tell me, Mordred.”

His frown deepens. “You were dead.”

There’s silence, and then before I can stop it, my mouth twitches at the corner.

“Don’t.” His fists tighten in my robe at my back. “It’s not funny. It felt so real, Merlin. You were just…gone.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and my heart aches.

“I’m sorry. Of course it’s not funny. It’s just…” I sigh as I brush a tear from his cheek. “I’m immortal, my little prince.”

Tension uncoils from his body. It could be from the reminder or the nickname, but it’s probably both. He’ll always be my little monster, of course, and I still call him that every day. But sometimes, like right now, he needs something a little sweeter.

He leans down, resting his head against my chest, his ear pressed to my heart, listening to it beat.

“I know,” he whispers.

I kiss the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m the one who can perceive the future, remember?”

He melts into me, his body more relaxed. He nods against my chest.

We stay like that for several more minutes, just sitting in silence while I rub comforting circles across his back. Eventually, my gaze moves over to the table, to the golden potion waiting to be finished.

“Mordred?”

He doesn’t move, just makes a questioning noise.

“Do you think maybe it’s someone else’s death you’re actually afraid of?”

I can feel him swallow. His fingers curl in my robes again, and he mutters, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I let out a soft huff because even after all this time, he’s still incredibly stubborn. But I don’t push. It didn’t take me long to learn that sometimes he just needs to sit in the silence before he’s able to voice what’s on his mind.

Sure enough…

“I hated him so much, Merlin.” A quiet, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “Obviously, considering I killed him and all.”

I stay quiet, letting him get this out on his own terms.

“And now…” His voice breaks further. “Now I can’t imagine Camelot without him. I don’t know…how I’m supposed to watch him die.”

Silence settles around us again while Mordred sniffs quietly against my chest. Outside, Camelot slowly wakes with the sunrise. Inside, the potion across the room catches the morning light while I hold the future king on my lap. The son who’s spent the last decade learning that loving his father hurts infinitely more than hating him ever did.

I’ve watched, little by little, as the bitterness between father and son dissolved into something neither of them ever believed they could have. It started awkwardly. Cautiously. Conversations that lasted only minutes. Meals shared in uncomfortable silence. Apologies neither of them knew how to say.

Then one day, without either of them realizing it, they simply…became father and son.

Arthur asks Mordred’s opinion before council meetings. Mordred spars with him every Tuesday morning. They disappear on hunting trips that somehow involve very little hunting and an impressive amount of arguing.

Sometimes I catch Arthur looking at him with quiet pride.

And then when Mordred started calling him Father, well…I think it was easier than either of them expected.

Eventually, I tell him, “You don’t have to worry about that today. Not for a very long time.”

“But someday.”

“Someday,” I agree. “We can’t stop death, Mordred, not for mortals. But I will delay it as long as I can. And when I can no longer do that, then we’ll face that day together. You were both given a second chance, and I want you to cherish it for as long as possible.”

“He shouldn’t have to die twice. He deserves better.”

“He gets to spend the rest of his years with his son. I’d say that’s better.”

His head finally lifts off my chest, and even though his eyes are still wet, his mouth curves into a small smile. “Always my darling light.”

I press my lips to his for a soft, lingering kiss.

“We should get to breakfast,” I tell him when I pull away.

He groans and drops his forehead to my shoulder. “They’re going to have done way too much.”

“Probably. But you know you can’t argue with the queen.”

Arthur married about seven years ago to a woman I made certain deserved him. Queen Elowen had arrived in Camelot from a neighboring kingdom with more kindness than ambition. Arthur was cautious, which was understandable given his history. Even so, he fell for her quickly. Mordred was even more weary, but she never attempted to erase what progress he and Arthur had made. She’s always been gracious and even came to love Mordred as a son.

Another one of those feelings that he’s still not quite sure how to deal with.

I can see it now. The uncertainty and unease behind his shaky smile.

“I wish I could,” he mutters. “I hate how much she spoils me.”

“No you don’t.”

His grin widens, a little more steady. “Okay, no, I don’t.”

I pinch his side, and he squeals, that beaming smile that I missed shining through. “Come on, my prince.”

He steals one last kiss before finally climbing off my lap and letting me lead him toward the door. His hand finds mine, and he threads our fingers together as naturally as breathing.

The nightmare still lingers behind his eyes, but it’s not consuming him anymore.

I squeeze his hand once before opening the door into the castle corridor, where sunlight spills through the tall windows and the sounds of Camelot beginning another day echo through the halls.

Before we step out, I spin him around to face me, brushing my thumb across his cheek. “Happy birthday, Mordred.”

Mordred

I fucking hate birthdays. Well, just mine.

The first one thousand years of my life were miserable. Why would I want to celebrate the day I was born?

As Merlin and I make our way through Camelot’s stone corridors, morning sunlight pours through the narrow windows, painting golden stripes across the floor beneath our feet. Servants hurry past carrying baskets of fresh bread, polished silver trays, and armfuls of flowers destined for the great hall. Somewhere in the courtyard below, I hear knights already beginning their morning drills, wooden practice swords cracking together in familiar rhythm.

The castle is alive like it always is. I still haven’t quite gotten used to the fact that it feels like home, even after twelve years.

Birthdays always make me think too much. About my mother, the way she looked at me like I was never truly her son, only another weapon. About the centuries I spent believing I existed solely to become the villain everyone expected me to be.

And then there’s Arthur. My…father.

I’m still mildly surprised he even acknowledges my birthday considering the nature of my birth. Considering my birth eventually led to his first death, you’d think we’d both prefer pretending the day doesn’t exist.

But things change. Somehow.

Somewhere between awkward conversations, reluctant forgiveness, and more hunting trips than I can count, that look in Arthur’s eyes that saw the man who murdered him faded little by little.

And I stopped looking at him like the father who never wanted me.

That still catches me off guard sometimes.

Merlin bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “You’re brooding again.”

“I never stopped.”

He laughs quietly, and the sound loosens something in my chest. “I know.”

By the time we reach the royal dining chamber, the smell reaches us before the doors even open. Fresh bread, honey, roasted apples dusted with cinnamon, ham, eggs, porridge topped with berries, several kinds of cheese, enough pastries to feed half the kingdom. It’s almost as if it doubled from last year.

I stop in the doorway and freeze, my insides all tangled up.

“Merlin…”

“I warned you.”

“This is absurd.”

The doors swing open wider, and Father looks up first.

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “We were beginning to wonder if Merlin had hidden you away.”

“I considered it,” Merlin answers with a grin.

Elowen laughs from beside Arthur as she rises from her chair. She crosses the room without ceremony and cups my face between warm, soft hands before I can protest.

“Happy birthday, Mordred.”

Then she kisses my forehead.

I sigh.

“I’m over a thousand years old, El.”

“And?”

“And I’m crown prince.”

“And?”

“I command armies.”

Despite my grumbling, she offers her gentle smile. “What’s your point?”

I sigh again. “You’re going to keep doing this, aren’t you?”

“For as long as you’ll let me.”

There’s that twisted-up feeling again, and I really fucking wish it would’ve gone away over the past decade. But I’ve never been great with affection. Well, with receiving it anyway.

Giving it isn’t quite as difficult. I can kiss Merlin without thinking about it. I can hold him, touch him, tell him I love him. Somewhere along the way, he managed to teach me that loving someone doesn’t always mean handing them a weapon they’ll eventually use against me. Like my mother did.

But being loved in return, actually loved, still makes something inside me seize.

Maybe it’s because since I’ve started experiencing it—which, compared to the length of my life, has been only recently—affection has felt like a question I don’t know how to answer. Someone says something kind to me, touches me gently, looks at me like I actually matter to them, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of every inch of my own skin. My chest tightens. My stomach knots. Half of me wants to lean into it while the other half wants to recoil before whatever warmth they’ve offered has the chance to burn.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

I suppose growing up with a mother and father who both hated me screwed me up. Okay, it definitely did. By the time I left Camelot, I didn’t expect affection anymore. I didn’t even know how to want it.

Hatred, I understood.

Cruelty made sense.

Give me someone who despises me, and I’ll know exactly where I stand. I’ll know which parts of myself to protect and where to put the blade when they inevitably show me who they really are.

That’s why I was so drawn to Merlin in the beginning. His hatred was familiar. It was home.

Now, his love is the easiest for me to accept.

I desperately wish I didn’t tense when Elowen kisses my cheek or touches my hair. I wish Father’s hand landing on my shoulder didn’t make my first instinct something dangerously close to panic before my mind catches up and reminds me that he doesn’t wish me harm. I wish every casual embrace didn’t leave me wondering whether I’ve held on too long or not long enough. Whether they can feel how badly I want to sink into it despite every instinct I’ve spent centuries building tells me not to.

Because I do want it.

Fuck, I want it.

There’s still some pathetic part of me that hoards every scrap of affection I’m given like I might never receive another. A hand on my shoulder. An arm around my back. Elowen calling me sweetheart. Father calling me his son. Merlin reaching for me simply because I’m within reach.

Twelve years of this life should’ve been enough to convince that part of me that none of it is about to disappear. But a thousand years left a lot to unlearn.

So the feeling remains. That awful twist beneath my ribs whenever someone loves me openly and expects nothing in return.

The urge to pull away.

The stronger urge to stay.

And the quiet, humiliating wish that someday staying will be the first instinct instead of the second.

I clear my throat and try.

“Thanks, El,” I tell my stepmother with a warm, shaky smile.

She smiles back with unmistakable satisfaction before guiding us toward the table.

I hadn’t expected to love Elowen. Truthfully, I’d expected to resent her. When Father married her seven years ago, I’d been convinced they would have children together. Children who hadn’t murdered anyone. Children Father could raise correctly the first time.

Children he’d love more than me.

The thought had eaten at me for months before I finally admitted it aloud. Father hadn’t laughed like I thought he would. He simply looked at me with the sort of quiet understanding I’d come to recognize over the years.

Then he said, “I don’t want another child.”

I asked him why, and his answer has stayed with me ever since.

“Because I’d spend every day wondering if I was trying to replace what I had lost. What I ruined because of my own pride.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “You are my son, Mordred. I don’t want a second chance. I want to do better with the first one I was given, even if I’m a little late.”

I don’t think he realizes how much those words changed me.

Arthur waits until everyone is seated before he clears his throat. “There will be guests arriving this afternoon.”

I groan.

He grins and adds, “And I’m sure there will be lots of gifts as well.”

I look away in a weak attempt to hide my own grin.

“But I have one I’d rather give you now before the castle becomes crowded, while it’s just family.”

Family.

My throat is a little tight as he reaches to the corner of the table and lifts a small wooden box that fits in the palm of his hand. My stomach twists yet again, but I accept it carefully.

Inside rests a signet ring with the Pendragon crest, the same one tattooed on my chest. The gold has softened with age, tiny scratches worn into its surface by decades of use. Set into each side is a deep red garnet, each carved with a P, edges imperfect from centuries of wear.

I can’t seem to swallow down the lump in my throat.

“It belonged to my father,” Arthur says. “And his father before him.”

I just barely manage to force the lump down before I look up.

My father stands, walks around the table, and takes the ring from the box. “It’s passed down only when the King is absolutely certain that his heir is ready for the throne. I knew you were ready before now, Mordred. Don’t think I doubted you. But I wanted to give you as much time as I would’ve given you had I done things the right way.”

He holds his hand out for mine, and I give it to him. He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.

There’s a sting that starts in the bridge of my nose and quickly travels behind  my eyes. I blink against it as I stare down at the ring.

“It’s not a gift because you’re crown prince,” he adds. I keep my eyes down because I can’t look at him. Not yet. “It’s a gift because you’re my son.”

Those words hit harder than his sword did almost a thousand years ago.

I laugh once, a shaky, embarrassed sound that turns into something dangerously close to a sob. Without thinking, I stand and pull him into a hug. He returns it without hesitation, strong and certain. The sort of embrace I spent centuries believing I’d never deserve.

“Thank you, Father.”

“You’re welcome, Mordred.”

When I finally pull away, Elowen is smiling through bright eyes, and Merlin is watching me with that infuriatingly fond expression that says he knew exactly how this would affect me.

I return to my seat, but I can’t seem to stop glancing down at the ring every chance I get. There’s too much warmth in the room. Too many smiles directed at me. Elowen reaches over to squeeze my arm. Father looks happier than I’ve seen him in days. Beneath the table, Merlin’s hand settles on my thigh.

None of it should feel overwhelming. It’s been twelve years. Twelve years of learning to be loved, learning what family is supposed to feel like. Twelve years should be enough for something as simple as affection to stop making me feel like my skin is stretched too tightly over my bones.

But apparently a thousand years of damage takes a little longer to undo.

So I smile. I eat. I make some sarcastic remark when Father tells me how many people are coming tonight, and everyone laughs. I pretend I don’t keep twisting the ring around my finger beneath the table. I pretend my chest doesn’t feel too full, like everything they’ve given me this morning has been shoved inside with nowhere to go.

And when Merlin’s hand finds mine, I hold on a little tighter than necessary.

Merlin

The door closes behind us, and Mordred comes apart.

It doesn’t happen immediately, more like a slow unraveling of whatever was holding him together all day now that we’re alone. One moment, he’s beside me as I seal the chamber door with a flick of my wrist, and the next he’s standing in the middle of our sitting room like he’s forgotten what he was doing.

His back is to me. I watch as his shoulders rise with a deep breath. Then another. His hands flex at his sides.

“Mordred?”

“I’m fine.”

I almost laugh, but I manage to hold it in.

He’s been saying that all day. He said it after breakfast when his father gave him the ring he hasn’t stopped touching since. He said it when Elowen presented him with an entire fucking feast at midday and kissed both his cheeks in front of half the court. He said it when the knights he’d trained with raised their cups to him. When servants wished him happiness. When children from the village gave him flowers they’d picked themselves. When Arthur stood before the entire hall tonight and toasted not his heir, not the crown prince, but his son.

Every time, Mordred smiled. Every time, he made some sarcastic comment. Every time, he found my hand beneath the table and squeezed. Hard.

He’s been buzzing since this morning. I don’t know another word for it. There’s been too much energy beneath his skin, too much emotion with nowhere to go. And I’ve watched him contain it hour after hour because Mordred has had centuries of practice at containing things.

Hatred.

Rage.

Pain.

Those, he understands.

Love is another matter entirely.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” I point out.

“I know.”

He starts walking. Not with any kind of purpose, just walking. Across the room, across the end of our bed, past the hearth where the embers still glow beneath a charmed flame. Then back toward the windows overlooking Camelot.

I lean against the door and watch him.

Our chambers haven’t changed much over the years. It’s home, the one we made together. A few of his swords rest beside the table where my books and spell texts are scattered. The crimson sheets on the bed are still disheveled from Mordred leaving them in such a hurry this morning. One of his cloaks hangs over the back of a chair despite the wardrobe being approximately four feet away.

As he continues pacing, his hand goes to the ring. Again. He turns it. Once, twice, three times.

“Mordred.”

“Don’t.”

I go quiet as his breathing gets faster. The energy I’ve felt radiating from him all day has changed now that we’re alone. There aren’t a hundred eyes watching him. There isn’t a father to smile for or a queen to reassure or a court to entertain.

There’s only me.

And Mordred knows he never has to pretend with me.

His hands begin to shake.

Fuck.

I straighten and take a step forward. “Mordred.”

“I said don’t.”

“And I’m ignoring you.”

“Of course you are.”

His voice is sharper now, holding a bite that I recognize. I’ve heard it before. Not for years, but I remember. I remember swords and blood and Stonehenge lit up with magical energy. I remember how we despised each other. Me more than him probably, but the animosity existed on both sides.

There was a time when Mordred could enter a room and anger would ignite inside me before he even opened his mouth. We knew exactly where we stood with one another because hatred made everything wonderfully, brutally simple.

Then it stopped being simple.

That hatred transformed into desire, and desire became something I had a difficult time putting a name to. At least at first. It eventually became easier. At least, for me.

Because even after Mordred began letting me love him, there were moments when it became too much. When tenderness frightened him more than cruelty ever had. He would cast jabs. Prod, taunt, push. Sometimes he’d simply ask.

Hate me.

And I always gave him the same answer.

If that’s what you need.

It rarely was. But sometimes, it turned out to be exactly what he needed. Sometimes he needed a language he understood. Sometimes he needed to return somewhere familiar before he could find his way forward again.

Watching him pace now, I realize this is one of those times.

“You’re staring at me,” he snaps.

“I am.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

He turns and narrows his eyes. There’s color high on his cheeks, and his hands are visibly trembling now. “You’re fucking infuriating.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“Merlin,” he snarls.

“Mordred.”

His jaw clenches, and I grin. That makes him glare harder, his nostrils flaring.

There you are, my little monster.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing.”

“You’re fucking smiling like you know something I don’t.”

My grin only widens.

“Fuck you!”

“Eventually, perhaps.”

His mouth falls open. Then snaps shut. He turns away from me with a growl and resumes pacing, throwing a few insults under his breath. I nearly laugh at the way he’s trying so hard, waiting for me to bite. Waiting for the Merlin who once wanted to strangle him to emerge.

But that man doesn’t exist anymore.

At least, not without invitation.

“You know,” Mordred says, “for the most powerful sorcerer who’s ever lived, you’re remarkably fucking useless sometimes.”

“If you say so.”

He whirls around again. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

“Frequently. Usually when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

His eyes flash. But beneath the irritation is something else. Frustration. Desperation. His fingers find the ring again and turn it. Another turn, another.

“He shouldn’t have given this to me.”

Something inside me tightens. “Mordred—”

“Maybe Arthur was wrong. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’ll never be ready.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“How would you know?!”

I don’t flinch when he raises his voice, but I do frown. “Because I know you.”

He laughs bitterly. “You thought you knew me before.”

My jaw tightens. He sees it before I can hide it. He found the bruise, and now he presses on it.

“You were wrong about me for centuries, Merlin. All you ever saw was Morgan’s pathetic little weapon. Which, to be fair, that’s exactly what I fucking was.”

“Enough.”

“You wanted me dead.”

I sigh. “I remember.”

He leans forward, jaw trembling, eyes wet. “Maybe you should’ve finished the fucking job when you had the chance.”

Magic erupts before conscious thought catches up with it.

The ivy climbing the stone outside our windows bursts through the open casement. Mordred barely has time to turn before thick, green vines whip around his wrists. Another catches his waist, and one curls around each ankle.

“M—”

They pull, and Mordred is jerked backward, arms drawn apart as the vines wind around him and hold him firmly against one of the carved wooden posts beside the bed.

Then there’s only silence except for his heavy, erratic breaths. His chest heaves as he stares at me. It takes only a few seconds before his breathing slows, his lips part, and the smallest breath leaves him, filled with something familiar.

Relief.

I stay where I am for now, staring back. My jaw is tight, and I loosen it before I speak. “Don’t you ever say something like that to me again.”

His eyes drop to the ground, and I know the fight has bled out of him when he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

I cross the room, grab him by the chin, and lift his face until his gaze is back on mine. “This is what you wanted.”

It’s not a question, but I don’t think he would have answered it either way.

“Say it.”

He swallows. “No.”

The vines tighten around him, and his breath catches.

“You’ve spent the last half hour trying to provoke me.” While he doesn’t deny it, his eyes flick to the side, so I tighten my grip on his jaw. “Look at me, little monster.”

He doesn’t want to, but he does anyway.

“You know I don’t hate you. That I can’t hate you.”

Something in his expression cracks. “I know.”

“You know nothing you said tonight will ever change that. You know Arthur loves you. Elowen loves you. And I love you so fucking much that sometimes I don’t know what to do with it.”

His chin trembles in my grasp.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

His eyes squeeze shut. The answer comes in a whisper. “Yes.”

My grip on him loosens even though I see it clearly now. He can’t take another gentle thing, not tonight. I stroke my thumb once across his jaw anyway. He shudders.

“Tell me what you need.”

His eyes open, and there’s something close to shame in them. “I shouldn’t need it.”

“I didn’t ask what you should need.”

“It’s been years. I should be better at this by now. Twelve fucking years, Merlin.”

“And a thousand before them.”

That shuts him up.

“You survived on hatred for a millenium. You don’t have to apologize because twelve years of love haven’t completely taught your body another way to breathe.”

His eyes grow wet again, and his forehead drops forward until it rests against mine.

“Tell me,” I whisper in the space between us.

For several seconds, there’s nothing but his breathing. Then, “I need you to hate me. Like you used to.”

“Are you sure?”

Of course, there’s no way in hell I could ever hate him like I used to. But, for him, I can pretend.

His gaze meets mine again. This time, there’s no shame there, only trust. “Hate me, Merlin.”

I let it happen. Not true hate, but the shape of it. The memory. It unfurls inside me like magic, the language we spoke before either of us knew how to say I love you.

My expression hardens, and my grip tightens once more. Mordred’s eyes go heavy, and his breathing changes, relief flashing across his face that’s almost painful to witness.

“You’ve been insufferable all fucking day, little monster.”

“It was my party,” he shoots back.

“Careful,” I growl.

“Or what?”

I lean closer, my mouth hovering half an inch from his. “You really want to find out?”

His smile is small, but it’s fucking beautiful. “Show me your worst.”

I kiss him, and there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s feral and vicious. Mordred surges against the vines to meet me, all that frantic energy finally finding somewhere to go. His bound hands strain instinctively before he remembers they’re not going anywhere, and the realization pulls a breathless sound from him.

He still has his tongue pierced after all these years, and the metal is a contrast to the softness of his mouth.

Drawing back just enough to look at him, I’m met by the sight of his pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed. The panic gone. For the first time since we entered this room, he’s here with me and not back in that place he’s still learning to exist—where affection and unconditional love have teeth instead of comforting hands.

One of these days, he’ll have to learn to be okay in that place without this, without regressing to the point his body needs hate to survive.

But tonight, we’ll return to the first language we ever spoke fluently.

Mordred

Merlin’s mouth is on mine again, and I’m so fucking hard.

The vines dig into my wrists as Merlin claims my lips with his. It’s the furthest thing from gentle. The rough bark scrapes against my skin, digging in tight enough to bruise as Merlin’s magic hums through them like a warning. Like a threat. My heart pounds against my ribs, but for the first time since breakfast—since Father’s hand on my shoulder, since Elowen’s kiss, since the whole fucking court sang my name—my chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to crack open.

Merlin doesn’t let up, grinding against me as he deepens the kiss. I can smell him. Lavender and ozone and something darker.

When he finally pulls back to grant me air, his eyes have gone hard, the way they used to when we’d face each other across battlefields, when he’d look at me like I was the worst thing that ever happened to Camelot.

I want that look. I need it.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. His hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding it possessively. “To be tied up like the traitor you are?”

The words hit like a physical blow, and I arch against the vines without meaning to. “Fuck you.”

Admittedly, I didn’t expect him to take us back to the time he hated me in that way, by pretending so thoroughly. But I have a feeling that’s the only way Merlin can give me what I need right now. He’s not a vicious man by nature. Of course, he has his demons, and judging by the look in his eyes, they’re about to come out to play.

He laughs, and there’s no warmth in it. “Not yet, little monster. You’ve been waiting for this all day. You can wait a little longer.” His thumb traces my jaw, rough, almost cruel. “Did you think I’d forget how to hate you?”

I should be ashamed of how badly I want him to keep talking like this. After a thousand years of my mother’s voice echoing in my head, telling me I’m worthless, of my father’s disgust at the nature of my existence, I learned to crave cruelty because at least it made sense. At least when someone hated me, I knew what they wanted.

Love still terrifies me. But this?

This I understand.

Merlin’s hand drops from my throat to my chest and drags lower before shoving my tunic up, his palm pressing against my bare skin. His fingers find the scar there, the one from Arthur’s blade a millennium ago.

He digs in enough to make me hiss.

“You killed him,” he murmurs, almost thoughtful. “Your own father. The man who just gave you his father’s ring. Who called you his son in front of the entire court of Camelot.” His nails drag down, leaving burning lines. “Do you think he knows what you really are? What you still want?”

I jerk against the vines, but they hold firm. Merlin’s magic has always been stronger than mine, and he knows exactly how to use it. How to use me.

“He doesn’t know,” I manage, my voice rough and already a little breathless. He doesn’t know how badly I need this, how badly I need the hate because my father’s love is too much for me to handle sometimes. “No one does.”

“Except for me.”

Merlin closes the small space between us, his body pressing against mine, pinning me to the post. I can feel him hard against my hip, and the knowledge that he’s affected—that he’s playing this role for me, that he cares enough to become someone cruel—sends heat spiraling through my gut.

“I know exactly what you are, Mordred. A little monster who believes he doesn’t deserve any of it. And, just for tonight, I’m going to agree with you.”

“Good. Then punish me,” I whisper. And I don’t think I’m pretending anymore. The need is real, visceral, coiling tight in my gut. “Because I don’t deserve it. Because maybe I never actually changed. Maybe I’m exactly who I’ve always been.”

Merlin’s eyes flash, and for a moment, I see the man he used to be—the wizard who would’ve destroyed me without hesitation. Who wanted to, once.

His hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head back, making me whimper. “You think you can provoke me into giving you what you want? Into making this easy for you?” He leans forward, his mouth brushing my ear, his breath hot. “I should leave you here. Tied up and desperate while I go to bed alone. Let you think about what you’ve become.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. The threat of abandonment cuts deeper than any wound he could inflict.

I thrash against the vines, not because I want to escape but because I need him to see how much I need this, how much I need him. I hate that he knows me so well, that he’s learned the shape of my darkness so perfectly he can hold it up to the light and make me look at it.

“No.” The word comes out with a sob, and I hate how broken I sound. “Merlin, please—”

“Please?” He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and his smile is as sharp as a blade. “The crown prince begging? The man who killed Arthur Pendragon begging me for mercy?”

His hand slides down my neck, fingers pressing against my pulse as if measuring the fear racing through me. I tilt my head back further, offering him more access, more control, trying to ignore the way my body is shaking, trembling against the vines. I don’t know if it’s from need or shame or the relief of finally, finally, being seen as something other than worthy of love.

Even if it’s make believe.

“I don’t want mercy,” I admit on a whisper.

“What do you want?”

I swallow hard. “I want to feel like you hate me.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not softening, exactly. But his brow furrows in that way that makes it obvious he doesn’t particularly like my request.

I’m really going to have to make this up to him later.

“Turn around,” he orders.

The vines shift, spinning me to face the post. My cheek presses against the carved wood, and I feel him behind me, his chest to my back, his mouth at my neck.

“You don’t get to look at me. Not while you’re like this. Not while you need me to be someone who despises you.”

I nod, frantic, grateful. The position makes me feel smaller, more vulnerable, and that’s exactly what I need.

Merlin’s hands slide down my sides, rough, impersonal, until they find the laces of my trousers. He doesn’t bother being careful. The laces tear, and I hear fabric rip as he shoves them down my hips. The air is cold against my exposed skin, but then his hand closes around my cock, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. He doesn’t stroke, just holds, fingers wrapped firm around the base of my shaft, thumb pressing just below the head, careful of the piercing there.

Like hell I’d ever get rid of all the metal in my dick when Merlin loves it in his ass as much as he does.

I thrust forward involuntarily, chasing friction, and get nothing but the unyielding pressure of his grip.

“You’re already hard,” he observes, voice flat with something close to disgust, like he’s noting a stain on the floor. “From being tied up? From being treated like you’re worthless?”

“Yes,” I choke out, hips jerking forward again, fucking into the tight circle of his fingers even as shame burns through me. “Yes. Fuck, yes—”

He finally strokes me. It’s a slow, deliberate drag from base to tip, thumb smearing the wet bead that leaks from my slit and catching on the Prince Albert, pulling a muffled cry from me. Then his hand drops away entirely, and I whimper before I can stop myself. He laughs, low and dark.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs.

Then I feel the unmistakable sensation of his saliva dripping down the crease of my ass where it quickly turns into something more slick by his magic. He shifts behind me, and I hear the soft sounds of him slicking himself as well.

“It excites you, doesn’t it, Mordred? To know I’m going to use you. To be reminded that you’re nothing more than what I allow you to be.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My whole body is wound tight, forehead pressed to the rough wood of the post, wrists straining against the vines—

One finger presses against my hole and pushes inside without warning. I gasp, my body jolting against the vines. The intrusion is sudden, yet my cock twitches traitorously. He works it deeper, twisting, tearing a sound out of me that’s half a gasp, half a sob.

“Quiet,” he says, not unkindly, but with the firmness of someone who expects to be obeyed.

I bite my lip until I taste copper.

I thrust forward again, the metal of my piercings grinding hard against the wood of the post. The sensation is sharp, almost too much, and I hiss at the sting of it, making Merlin laugh darkly again.

“I know you like it, little monster. A little bit of pain with the way I fill you like no one and nothing else ever has.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

A second finger joins the first, then a third. The stretch is obscene, made worse by the way he crooks his fingers and drags them along the inside of me like he’s searching for something.

When he finds it, I nearly scream.

He withdraws his fingers, and I’m left clenching around nothing, panting.

And then his cock shoves into me in one hard thrust, no preamble, no easing in, and I cry out against the post. The burn is immediate, sharp, a deep ache as he fills me all at once, my body forced to take him. It hurts. But it hurts exactly the way I need it to, the way that strips everything else away—every thought, every failure, every weight I’ve been carrying—until there’s nothing left but the stretch and the burn and him.

Merlin’s breath is ragged at my ear. “You’re mine, Mordred. Which means even when you need this, when you need to feel like a broken fucking toy, then I’ll fuck you senseless until you’re put back together again.”

He pulls back, then drives forward once more, setting a brutal pace from the first stroke. Each thrust slams me into the wood, vines creaking. His hips snap forward, again and again—the slap of skin loud in the otherwise quiet space—and all I can do is take it, rocking with the force of him, incoherent noises spilling from my lips.

His hand finds my hip, fingers digging in like he means to leave marks.

I fucking hope he does.

His other hand wraps around my throat, again just holding me possessively, a promise.

“You feel that?” he growls. “Your pulse is racing against my palm, your life in my fucking hand. This is what you are to me. A thing to be used. A weapon that failed its purpose and now exists only for my pleasure.”

I nearly come untouched.

Fucking hell.

Even if I didn’t need his hate right now, I think those words would bring me to the edge anyway.

I fucking love being used by Merlin.

I moan loud, wrecked, beyond caring. His grip tightens just enough to make my vision dim at the edges, every sensation narrowing to a pinprick. The wood against my cheek, his cock splitting me open, his ownership plain in the way he holds me.

“Say it,” he demands, his rhythm intensifying. “Tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” I gasp out, the word torn from somewhere deep inside. “I’m yours, Merlin.”

“Not good enough.” He thrusts harder, deeper, until I see stars. “Tell me what you deserve.”

“Nothing,” I choke, tears pricking my eyes, and they’re not from pain. “I deserve nothing. I’m nothing. Please, Merlin, please…”

“Please what?”

“Please let me—”

I sob, broken and messy, but I don’t care. The release I need isn’t physical. It’s this. Being stripped down, made to say the things I believe in my darkest moments so he can hear them, so he can see them, and still choose to stay.

“Let me be yours anyway. Even though I’m…even though I don’t…”

He makes a sound behind me, rough and desperate, and his thrusts become erratic, losing their careful cruelty. His hand on my throat loosens, slides down to grip my shoulder, and he pulls me back against him, still moving inside me, but differently now. Still hard, still rough, but not detached in the way he was before.

“You are,” he breathes against my neck, his voice cracked, the hatred falling away like a mask. “You are mine, Mordred. Not because you deserve nothing. Despite what you think you deserve. Do you understand?”

I nod, crying harder, and his hand finds my cock again, stroking me in long, firm pulls that match each thrust of his hips—deep, rolling, hitting that spot inside me that makes my thighs tremble.

“Come for me,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear. It’s almost gentle, almost kind. But the vines are still tight, I’m still bound, and it’s enough. “Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

His cock fills me completely on the next thrust, and I clench around him without meaning to, a broken sound tearing out of my throat. I break apart with a sob, my release hitting hard and fast. He strokes me through every shudder, and then his rhythm falters. He buries his face in my neck and groans my name like it’s the only word he knows, his whole body shuddering as he spills inside me.

For a long moment, we stay like that. His cock still seated deep, his chest heaving against my back, his heartbeat slamming hard enough that I feel it through my spine. His arms wrap around me, keeping my legs from giving out entirely.

Then, slowly, the vines begin to loosen. They retreat through the window, leaving faint red marks on my wrists, and I slump forward against the post. Merlin catches me, turning me around and guiding us both to the bed.

He lays me down with something close to reverence and stretches out beside me, both of us on our sides facing each other. He pulls the warm, thick blanket over us both. His fingers thread through my hair, slow and steady, and I press closer, tucking my face against his chest.

I can still feel the wetness between my thighs, the ache, the fullness that lingers.

I don’t want it to fade.

He tilts my chin up and kisses me. Soft this time. Nothing like before. His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache in a different way entirely, and I kiss him back as his thumb brushes against my cheek.

“Hey,” Merlin murmurs, pulling back to look into my eyes. His are soft now, all the sharp edges gone, his demons back inside their cages. “You okay?”

I nod, but my throat feels tight as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For making you…” I swallow, searching for words that don’t sound pathetic. “For making you hate me again. I know you don’t…I know that’s not…” I shake my head, frustrated. “I’m just sorry.”

“Mordred,” he sighs, cupping my face in both hands. His eyes are so warm I could drown in them. “I will always give you what you need. Always. If that means being the person you can fight against, the person who speaks your language when the soft stuff is too much, then that’s what I’ll be.”

A tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t think it’s one of sadness.

It’s relief.

His thumb brushes it away. “But I hope that one day you won’t need that anymore. That you’ll believe you deserve the gentleness and affection without needing to bleed for it first.”

My lips twitch, something like a smile fighting through the exhaustion. “But we could still do it for fun?”

Because honestly? It was fucking hot.

He laughs, low and warm. “Sure, just for fun.”

I let myself sink into him again for a moment, breathing him in.

“For the record,” he whispers, “I love you so much more than I ever hated you.”

I let out a breath of laughter. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Because I hated you just that much,” he acknowledges. “But that just goes to show you how much I love you now.”

Pulling back, my hand finding his hip. “Turn around.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Turn around,” I repeat, nudging him gently, guiding him onto his other side, facing away from me. “I want to sleep with my dick in your ass.”

He huffs a soft laugh, more amused than surprised. “Well, that’s quite the one-eighty.”

“You proved I belong to you.” I press against his back, my spent cock already stirring against the cleft of his ass. He shivers from the contact of the metal. “Now I want to prove you belong to me too.”

He exhales, shifting to give me better access. “Then take what you need.”

I press my fingers to his lips, and he opens up, letting me dip them inside his mouth. He sucks on them, a little sleepy but eagerly. Withdrawing them, I let my magic turn slick to slicker before pressing two fingers against his entrance. He groans, pushing back onto me, and I work him open with slow strokes, feeling him relax, feeling him want this.

“More,” he breathes.

I add a third finger, scissoring them inside him until he’s loose and ready and begging for it.

Removing my fingers, I guide my cock, already hard for him again, and push inside slowly. He gasps, his head falling back against my shoulder. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him flush against me.

“This okay?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, breathless, covering my hand with his own where it rests over his heart. “Yeah, it’s okay. More than okay.”

I press my face against the back of his neck and whisper against his warm skin, “I love you, Merlin.”

“I love you too, Mordred.” He threads our fingers together. “Now sleep. I’ve got you.”

I settle deeper, my cock buried to the root, our bodies tangled together. I close my eyes and let the warmth of him pull me under.

I don’t understand how he ever managed to forgive me. I may never understand it. But he holds me anyway. Claims me anyway. Loves me in spite of it, or because of it.

My last conscious thought as the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand reminds me that he’s mine, that I get to keep him, is that love is more powerful than hate.