Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the towering glass windows of the Pendragon Capital building, casting long lines across the obsidian surface of Uther’s desk. He sat, perfectly still, in his custom leather chair, staring at the latest investment proposal that had just landed on his desk.
Another biotech startup promising “disruption,” “innovation,” and “the future.” They always said the same thing. Uther grunted softly, unimpressed. He was considering whether to crush the deal with one email when the door opened with a polite knock that wasn’t really a knock — it was George’s knock, and George didn’t wait for permission.
“Morning, sir,” said George crisply, entering with a stack of files and the air of someone who had already had three espressos and half a croissant. “Documents for your signature. Quarterly board notes, revisions to the Singapore pitch, and that French merger draft you requested.”
Uther nodded silently, signing without reading — he trusted George more than most.
“Oh, and sir—” George hesitated only a beat, but Uther picked up on it. “Today is Arthur’s birthday.”
Uther's pen paused mid-signature. His face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. Three years. Three long years since Arthur had stormed out of their house with a canvas roll under one arm and righteous fury in his voice. “I want to live my own life, not yours,” he’d said.
Uther had said nothing. Because if he had, he would have said the wrong thing.
“I see,” he said now, voice clipped. “Thank you, George.”
George adjusted his tie — the signal that he was about to say something mildly inappropriate. “I thought perhaps you might want to—”
“No,” Uther interrupted. “I do not…” He waved George away like a particularly irritating fly. “Fine. Go.”
George gave a small bow and retreated, not unkindly.
Left alone in the silence of his fortress of steel and glass, Uther leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. With a sigh, he opened his laptop and clicked into his email, prepared to distract himself with quarterly reports. But something unfamiliar caught his eye.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
A spam mail, surely.
Uther had been one second away from dragging the email into the abyss of his spam folder and blocking the sender for life. He had little patience for anonymous correspondence. Especially ones that began like a letter from a fan—or worse, a charity.
But something had stopped him. A photograph, attached at the bottom of the message.
Uther clicked on it grudgingly.
And froze.
It was Arthur.
His son’s face was covered in a disgraceful amount of whipped cream. There was even a blob of it on his golden hair, right at the crown, like some ridiculous dairy tiara. He looked absurd—laughing, wide-mouthed and unguarded, caught mid-laugh as if someone had called his name and he’d turned around just in time for the camera to catch him at his most human.
Uther stared.
He had never seen Arthur smile like that.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He had. Once. Maybe twice. When Arthur had been small—five? six?—and had pulled him by the hand out into the yard, insisting they play catch. Arthur had laughed like that when Uther had finally thrown the ball, and Arthur had caught it, wide-eyed with glee, like his life had just begun in that moment.
Uther’s throat tightened. He looked back at the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I’m your son’s partner. Yes, that son. Arthur. Blond, moody, self-righteous. Probably taller than you by now, though I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.
I’m writing to you because, well—today is his birthday. (Just in case you’ve forgotten. I hear you’re the type who forgets such things, but remembers stock prices to the decimal.)
This morning, I made him a cake. A proper one, too. I even sifted flour like some sort of 1950s housewife. But Arthur, in his infinite brilliance, decided that the cake was best enjoyed by weaponizing it.
He hit me with a handful of whipped cream. To my face. My hair , sir. And worse—my suit. A very expensive suit. Which I will now have to get dry-cleaned. Assuming it’s even salvageable.
Naturally, I retaliated. It was war. There were casualties. The floor will never be the same again.
So, I’m going to be late for work. Again. Which is unfortunate, because my boss is a bigger prat than Arthur on his worst day.
This is not a complaint. (It is absolutely a complaint.)
Anyway, I just thought you should know:
- Your son owes me dry cleaning fees.
- It’s his birthday. You might want to wish him something.
- If not, feel free to yell at him on my behalf. I’d be quite touched.
Yours with just enough respect,
Merlin (yes, like the wizard, no relation)
Uther sat back in his chair, unsure whether he should laugh, scowl, or forward this email directly to Cybersecurity Department.
But his eyes kept drifting back to that photo.
Arthur. Smiling. Happy.
“Bloody hell,” Uther muttered, rubbing his temples.
The email still glowed faintly on Uther’s screen, even after he’d read it three times. Maybe four. He’d like to think it was for analysis — checking for signs of manipulation, sarcasm, false sincerity.
But the truth was simpler.
He couldn’t stop looking at Arthur’s face.
Uther leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. His hand drifted to his phone, then hovered above it. He pulled it back. Then picked it up again.
No.
Yes.
Damn it.
He unlocked the screen and opened his messages. The last text thread with Arthur was still there, buried under layers of digital dust — a two-line exchange from three years ago. Arthur had said he was leaving. Uther had said, “ Do as you like. ”
Now, he stared at the blinking cursor. He typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
Happy Birthday.
Too cold.
He added a space.
Added a dash.
Deleted the dash.
Added it back.
Happy Birthday – Dad
He stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over send .
It was ridiculous, how hard this was. He was the CEO of one of the most powerful investment firms in the country. He had fired entire departments with less hesitation.
And yet, sending a text to his own son felt like threading a needle with trembling hands.
Finally, with a soft exhale, he pressed send .
The message flew off, delivered in an instant. Uther stared at the screen as if it might explode.
It didn’t.
Instead, the thread sat there, quiet and unchanged. No typing bubble. No reply. Just silence.
The next morning, Uther arrived earlier than usual. It was still quiet in the halls of Pendragon Capital, the only sound the soft whir of the climate control system and George typing away like a caffeinated machine outside the glass doors.
He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop with the precision of ritual, and ignored the dozen urgent emails already blinking in his inbox: investor updates, consulting pitches, acquisition follow-ups.
His eyes went directly to that sender.
The same unfamiliar address. The same strangely formal subject line.
He clicked it open without hesitation.
There was another photo.
He tapped it.
It was candid — clearly taken without Arthur’s knowledge. Arthur sat barefoot on a worn sofa, legs folded loosely beneath him, like he hadn’t even realized he’d sat down that way.
He was wearing a loose, oversized jersey — Number 1. Arthur Pendragon , the name stitched boldly across the back.
Uther recognized it instantly.
That was his old number. From the Cambridge football team.
Uther had been Number 1. Captain. The pride of the field. And then Arthur had gone to Cambridge too, and chosen the same number. Uther had pretended not to notice at the time.
But he had noticed. He had always noticed.
Arthur had grown up trying to walk in his shadow — and then had run from it the moment he realized how heavy that shadow was.
Now, on the screen, Arthur was staring down at his phone, completely unaware of the camera. His lips were tilted in a subtle, unguarded smile. Not the grin from yesterday — no whipped cream, no ridiculous laughter — but something softer. Something private.
Uther knew, with grim certainty, exactly what was on that phone screen.
His message.
His hands curled slightly around the edges of the laptop.
And then he read the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I’m beginning to regret the advice I gave you yesterday.
Clearly, your minimalist fatherly outreach has turned Arthur into a lovesick idiot with the attention span of a stunned goldfish.
This is the eighth time I’ve called his name in the past hour without a single response. I finally had to throw a pillow at him to see if he was still alive.
He's just sitting there. Staring at his phone. Smiling at absolutely nothing like he's in a low-budget romance movie. I'm concerned. Deeply.
So I took a picture. For documentation purposes. Also so you fully understand the kind of chaos you’ve unleashed with your tiny, punctuation-challenged text message.
Congratulations. You’re apparently still his hero.
Yours begrudgingly,
Merlin (still not a wizard, still underpaid)
Uther wasn’t checking his inbox obsessively. He was simply… maintaining awareness. That was his job, after all — staying informed, keeping up with communications, being efficient.
So when the third email from the same untraceable sender popped into his inbox that afternoon, he opened it. Immediately.
Not because he was curious. Certainly not because he was waiting for it.
The subject line was the same: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon.
The attachment — another photo.
He clicked it.
And again, time slowed.
Arthur was painting.
He wore a paint-splattered blue apron, two sizes too big, hanging off one shoulder. There were streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt across his forearms and even his cheek. His hair was messy — more than usual — as if he’d pushed his hands through it a hundred times.
He was completely immersed. His eyes narrow, focused. His mouth slightly open in thought. Uther had seen that look before — but never like this.
On the easel in front of Arthur was a large canvas. The subject: the naked back of a slender, pale man. The figure’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his posture intimate, vulnerable. His back muscles were defined, but not exaggerated — elegant, subtle. He had messy, black curls.
The figure’s face wasn’t visible, but the affection in the brushstrokes was.
Uther stared.
And his memory betrayed him — dragged him back, uninvited, to the last time they’d spoken about art.
It had been in the dining room, a space so cold and echoing it might as well have been a boardroom. Arthur, twenty-two, tan from summer football, had placed his portfolio on the table. He had wanted to switch his major — from economics to fine arts.
Uther hadn’t even opened the folder.
"You’re wasting your time," he’d said. "You’re not a child anymore."
"And I’m not your clone, either," Arthur had snapped. "I don’t want your firm. I never did. I want to do something that actually makes me feel alive."
"Feel alive? What does that even mean?" Uther had stood then, hands clenched. "You think feelings will pay your bills? Will give you a future? You’re a Pendragon. Act like it."
Arthur’s eyes had burned. "I am acting like one. You built this empire from nothing, right? So let me build mine."
"You walk out that door," Uther had said, low and deadly, "don’t expect to walk back in."
Arthur had walked out.
And he hadn’t come back.
Uther had waited. For months. Then a year. Then longer.
He thought Arthur would return when the money dried up.
But Arthur had Uther’s stubbornness.
And he had never returned.
Uther blinked. The present swam back into focus.
He looked again at the photo. At Arthur, painting like nothing else existed.
Then he read the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I don’t know if he was like this when he lived with you, but I have to say — your son Arthur is usually very loud .
He teases. Constantly. He talks over movies. He starts arguments with doorframes. His laughter could scare off wildlife. There’s a reason I invest in noise-cancelling headphones.
But when he paints, he goes silent. Completely. And it’s the only time I remember, without frustration, that I’m wildly in love with him.
So I thought I’d share.
This is painting-Arthur. Warrior-Arthur. His brush is his sword — dramatic, I know, but that’s who he is. You probably understand that better than anyone.
(Not that I’ve ever said this to him. And kindly keep it that way. I have a reputation to maintain.)
Side note: he claims the model in the painting is me. Which is ridiculous. I am not that gangly. I’ve been working out recently and have gained very real, very firm muscle.
Arthur says it’s not muscle — just decorative bone structure — and that he has the real muscle. I say he just eats too much.
Yours insincerely,
Merlin (who is apparently art now , thank you very much)
Uther closed the email slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way they hadn’t in years.
He didn’t know who this Merlin was — not really — but he was starting to suspect something important:
Arthur was okay.
Arthur was more than okay.
The emails had become part of his morning routine.
Coffee. Briefing. Aggressive disappointment in the financial news.
And those emails.
He’d never replied, of course. That would be... absurd. Inappropriate. But he read every one.
Arthur in the studio.
Arthur at the farmer’s market, failing to pick a ripe avocado.
Arthur asleep on the sofa with a cat he insisted wasn’t his curled on his chest.
Arthur refusing to eat broccoli “on principle.”
Arthur painting through the night, shirtless and splattered in color like some deranged Greek myth.
The emailer — Merlin, allegedly not a wizard — had become a narrator of a life Uther no longer had access to.
And Uther had come to rely on it. Not emotionally, of course. That would be ridiculous. He was simply... collecting data.
So when the inbox stayed quiet for one day — He didn’t notice.
Two days — He noticed. Slightly.
Three days — He opened his inbox with genuine urgency.
Four —He checked his spam folder.
By day five, he was checking during meetings. Pretending to be reading pitch decks. Pretending the silence didn’t make his chest ache like he’d run a mile in the wrong direction.
He told himself Arthur had probably gone on a trip. Or broken his phone. Or had finally smothered Merlin in a fit of broccoli-fueled rage.
Still —Uther found himself opening a blank email.
Staring at the blinking cursor. For an hour.
He told himself it was about clarity . If something had happened to Arthur, he had a right to know. That was all. It was his duty.
Finally, he typed.
Subject: (none)
Text: You’ve been quiet.
Not that I’m keeping track.
If you’ve grown tired of these unsolicited updates, that’s your choice.
But if something has happened to Arthur, I expect to be informed. Immediately.
—U.P.
He hovered over send .
Then, with a grimace like someone forcing down unpleasant medicine, he hit the button.
And for the first time in over years, Uther Pendragon waited for someone else to write back.
The boardroom was filled with voices. Projections. Strategy charts.
Uther wasn’t listening.
His phone buzzed in his lap.
A familiar chime.
He glanced at it.
1 new message.
Sender: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
He stood. Abruptly.
The room fell silent.
“I have to take this,” he said curtly. And without waiting for permission — he walked out.
Let the junior partners speculate. Let them panic.
Let them learn that Uther Pendragon never explained himself.
But he did leave meetings when his son was involved. Apparently.
He marched down the hallway, ignoring George’s raised eyebrows, and locked himself in his office.
Closed the blinds. Sat down. And opened the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
I know I once told you I’m your son’s partner.
I’m afraid I need to correct that now. I am no longer your son’s partner.
Because your son is an absolute dollophead .
Uther frowned. Dollophead? That wasn’t a real word. Was it?
He kept reading.
A curator contacted Arthur. They’re hosting his first solo exhibition .
That’s the good news.
If this goes well, Arthur might finally stop calculating how many tubes of ultramarine blue he can afford this month. (Which, by the way, are criminally overpriced . I’m starting to suspect oil paint is infused with powdered unicorn.)
Arthur’s been working like mad for this show.
Three years of effort. Sweat. Possibly tears — although he’ll never admit it. This exhibition means something to him.
And I made the foolish mistake of suggesting—
“Hey. Maybe you should invite your father.”
Guess what happened next?
He yelled to me. Apparently, I have “no right” to comment on his relationship with you.
I said maybe someone should , since clearly neither of you know what the hell you’re doing.
He told me to leave. So I did.
And he didn’t follow.
(That part, I suspect, he learned from you.
He said when he left your house, you didn’t chase him either.
Congratulations. He’s truly your son.)
So now I guess we’re done.
I left my keys. I took the cat.
But—if you care.
If you still care.
The invitation is attached.
To the gallery. To his work. To his heart, really.
Go see it. See him.
You’ll be stunned. He’s extraordinary.
Sincerely, or maybe not,
Merlin (currently not speaking to your son, but still in love with him, which is annoying)
Uther stared at the screen.
He didn't move for a long time.
The attachment blinked at him silently.
An invitation to his son’s life — offered not by Arthur, but by the one person who had somehow made Arthur’s laughter reach him again.
He clicked the file.
Uther didn’t know why he was here.
He told George he had an offsite meeting.
Told himself it was just curiosity.
That he was evaluating potential investments in the arts sector.
(He almost convinced himself.)
But none of that explained why his hand was trembling slightly as he accepted the exhibition brochure.
Or why his throat felt tight as he read the title:
“Arthur Pendragon — Becoming ”
Solo Exhibition
The gallery was flooded with light.
Soft murmurs.
Clicking shoes.
People holding wine glasses and pretending they weren’t emotionally compromised by oil and canvas.
Uther walked among them, alone.
He saw a few glimpses of Arthur’s style — bold, unapologetic brushwork. Saturated with color.
Each painting a quiet rebellion, a story he had never been told.
And then he stopped before a painting.
His own face stared back at him.
But not this version of himself.
Not the CEO. Not the stiff-collared patriarch.
He was in armor. A deep crimson cloak over broad shoulders. A gold crown resting gently on graying hair.
Lined face. Piercing eyes. Regal. Severe.
But there was something in the eyes.
Softness, buried beneath command.
Not just a king —A father.
Uther felt his chest tighten.
He leaned forward and read the plaque beneath the painting.
My Hero
The words struck him like a blade to the ribs.
He stepped back.
The detail was impossible.
Every crease in his brow.
Every tension in his jaw.
But painted with affection .
Not flattery — truth.
Arthur had been watching him.
All these years.
Every expression. Every frown.
Every moment Uther thought he’d gone unnoticed, discarded, forgotten —
Arthur had seen him. And loved him.
Uther swallowed hard.
His hand curled at his side.
He had never looked at his son the way Arthur had looked at him.
He moved on, breath caught in his throat—And then he saw it.
The painting. That painting.
He’d seen it once, unfinished, in a photo attached to an email written in sarcasm and love.
Now it hung in the center of the gallery. A spotlight illuminating it like a cathedral relic.
The man’s back was bare, slender and pale, dipped in warm light.
Lines of muscle and bone, graceful and strong.
Dark curls tumbling down his neck.
The figure stood with his back to the world, vulnerable and beautiful.
No name on the plaque.
No title.
But Uther knew. And so did Arthur.
He saw his son then.
Arthur stood in front of the painting, hands in his pockets. Looking.
At the man in the portrait, the man he had loved, the man he had pushed away.
And in his blue eyes—
Not pride.
Not defiance.
But sorrow. Regret.
Love.
Uther remained where he was, hidden in the edge of the room.
He watched his son watch the painting.
And for the first time in a long time—Uther truly saw him.
Uther didn’t hesitate.
He walked through the gallery crowd with the same steady command he used to close million-dollar deals.
But his heartbeat—It was faster than any boardroom negotiation.
He stopped just behind Arthur, where his son stood staring at the portrait that had once been just brushstrokes and an email attachment.
Uther lifted his hand—
And rested it gently on Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur flinched, turning in surprise.
“Father!” he blurted. “What—how—”
Uther looked at him. Really looked.
The same boy who had once dragged him outside to play catch.
The young man who had stood, furious and trembling, in their living room with a sketchbook and a suitcase.
Now, older. Wiser.
Still stubborn.
And still his son.
“Maybe I should’ve said this years ago,” Uther began, his voice lower, rougher than usual. “But, Arthur… you’ve done well. You’ve done brilliantly .”
Arthur blinked. His mouth opened slightly.
Uther pressed on.
“You’ve always been my pride. Even when I didn’t understand you. Even when I disagreed with you.”
He glanced toward the portrait again. “And clearly… I never really saw how much you understood me.”
Arthur’s face twisted—half disbelief, half emotion. “I—” he tried to speak, then gave a small, shaky laugh. “I thought you hated everything I was doing.”
“I thought I was protecting you,” Uther said quietly. “And in doing that, I pushed you away. That was my failure, not yours.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Thick with years of anger, disappointment, love.
Then Arthur took a breath and said, softer now, “But… how are you even here? I never sent you an invitation.”
Uther gave a small smile. One of the rare ones.
He pointed to the painting of the dark-haired man. “He invited me.”
Arthur stiffened. “Merlin?! How do you—how do you know Merlin?”
Uther sighed. “That’s… complicated. It involves quite a few mails...”
Arthur looked utterly confused. “What—what mails?”
Uther waved a hand. “Later. I’ll explain everything later.”
Then he stepped closer, lowered his voice. “But for now, go find him. Do what I should’ve done three years ago.”
Arthur stared.
“Go get him back,” Uther said, firm but kind. “Because if you let him go…” He narrowed his eyes slightly.“…then you really are a dollophead. Even if I still don’t know what that means.”
Arthur burst out laughing—real, bright, breathless.
Then he nodded, determined. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll find him.”
And with that, Arthur turned and ran— Out of the gallery, i nto the street, and toward the man who had always been his home.
The morning was quiet.
Too quiet.
Uther Pendragon sat at his usual place by the wide window, a cup of black coffee in hand.
His computer pinged.
A new email.
From that address.
He clicked it immediately. Faster than he probably should’ve.
And as always, the subject line read: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
It’s me again—Merlin.
(You may have guessed. I doubt anyone else would bother with this kind of dramatic nonsense in your inbox.)
By the way, I’m your son’s partner again.
Because yesterday, your absolute idiot of a son ran all the way from the gallery to my apartment—panting like a dying llama, mind you—because apparently, he forgot that transportation is a thing.But wait, it gets better.
He dropped to one knee right on my porch, pulled out a ring, and proposed .
While my mum was sitting in the living room.She nearly fainted.
It was chaos.
He said a whole mess of things—apologies, thank-yous, emotional gibberish—while holding onto me like I was the last biscuit on Earth. And yes… he cried.
(And I might have cried too, but we don’t talk about that.)
I said yes.
So I guess now you’re about to have two sons.
He said he’ll bring me to meet you properly this weekend.
Now, technically, I already know you—but I suppose it’ll be different this time, now that I’m not hiding behind secret emails.
(I do hope you’ll go easy on me. Though I’m not afraid of a little sparring.)
Oh, and one last thing:
Please confirm that I do have more muscle than that portrait of me Arthur painted.
Yes, it sold for a good price—hurrah and all that—but the idea of someone hanging a nude of me in their study is honestly… unsettling.
See you soon,
—Merlin (Your Future Son-In-Law, Apparently)
Uther let out a long breath. He stared into his coffee.
Then his eyes drifted toward the living room—
To the wall where one particular painting now hung.
The same portrait Merlin had just mentioned.
Back turned. Soft skin. Wild curls.
Delicate, vulnerable, and undeniably loveable .
Uther took another sip, lips twitching to a smile.
He was, surprisingly, looking forward to the weekend.
And—if the boy dared to argue muscle mass again—maybe a polite arm-wrestling match was in order.
Notes:
Chapter 2 is fan art—the portrait Arthur drew of Merlin. There's a lot of skin showing, so it's not safe for work.
Chapter 2: [Art] No title.
Summary:
Arthur’s painting of Merlin’s nude
Chapter Text
No title.
—A.P.
Notes:
Inspired by the TV series Humans
Chapter 3: Dear Mrs. Hunith Emrys
Summary:
Hunith was enjoying her movie night when, just as Colin Firth was proposing in his delightfully broken Portuguese, another proposal was unfolding on her porch.
Notes:
I hadn’t planned to write this part, but since we already have Uther’s perspective, why not add Hunith’s too?
If you'd like to see more awkwardly adorable chaos, leave a comment and let me know <3
Chapter Text
Hunith was curled up on the worn-out corner of her couch, one hand clutching a lukewarm mug of tea, the other wiping a tear that wasn’t entirely real. The television cast a soft glow over the room, bathing everything in that familiar December-in-London warmth. And there he was—Colin Firth, in his awkward, wet, lake-swimming glory.
Hunith sighed dreamily. Again.
This was, by her estimate, the 117th time she had watched Love Actually. It never got old. Colin never got less charming. Romance never felt less tragic.
Ding dong.
The doorbell sliced through the room like an angry knife.
She blinked.
Ding dong.
Again.
She blinked harder. No. No no no. Not now. Not when she was emotionally invested in Colin’s slow, bashful proposal to a woman he had barely spoken to.
"Merlin!" she called without looking away. “Be a love and get that, would you?”
No answer.
"Merlin!"
Still nothing.
“Merlin Emrys!” She shouted toward the hallway. “Get the door!”
From the bedroom came the shuffling of someone who’d been horizontal for hours and had no intention of changing that. Eventually, her son emerged, wrapped in a fleece blanket, looking like a depressed burrito. His black cat with a weird name Kilgharrah, trailed behind him, tail flicking with similar attitude.
Merlin squinted at her. “You’re really sending your heartbroken only child out to face the cold cruelty of the world… while you’re swooning over some movie star again?”
Hunith didn't look away from the screen. “It’s Colin Firth.”
Merlin crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, scowling. “So your son’s emotional collapse means nothing to you?”
“Oh, please,” she snorted. “You’ve been moping around like an abandoned golden retriever ever since you and Arthur had your latest ‘not-a-breakup’ spat.”
“It was a breakup,” Merlin muttered.
She waved a hand dismissively, sipping her tea. “"You say that every time you fight with him."
"This time—this time it's different!" Merlin raised his voice. “He basically told me I had no right to talk about fathers when I never knew mine.”
Hunith paused, turned her head slightly. “He said that?”
"Nahh... but close," Merlin replied. "He said something about 'staying in my lane' and 'not understanding how complicated his father is.' He also said I had no right to judge his relationship with Uther—when he has no idea that I’ve been—"
The doorbell rang again, this time more urgently.
“Go see who it is,” Hunith said, resuming the movie.
“You’re unbelievable,” Merlin snapped. “I'm heartbroken now and—and you don’t even ask if I’m okay.”
Hunith raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he huffed, “but it’s too late for that. You’ve already emotionally sided with Colin Firth.”
“He belongs to all women.”
“And all gay men with unresolved daddy issues.”
Hunith cracked a smile. “Oh, so now you’re defending Arthur?”
“I’m defending Colin Firth’s bisexual appeal. Arthur can rot.”
Kilgharrah meowed in agreement—or hunger, it was hard to tell.
The doorbell rang again.
Hunith didn’t even flinch. “Merlin. Door.”
Merlin groaned, scooping Kilgharrah up like a sassy emotional support animal and shuffled toward the door.
And Hunith had barely resumed watching when the door clicked open behind her with a reluctant creak. She had every intention of pretending nothing existed outside of Colin Firth’s earnest brown eyes and his slightly soggy sweater.
“It’s my favorite time of day. Driving you.”
Hunith smiled wistfully. God, that line always got her.
Then came a voice.
Not from the television.
From the doorstep.
"Mer... Merlin—"
She flinched.
Her eyes drifted toward the front of the house, where the muffled but unmistakable sound of Arthur Pendragon’s voice carried into the living room. It was breathless. Unsteady.
Hunith didn’t move, eyes darting back to the screen as if sheer willpower would keep her inside the film.
Outside, Merlin’s voice pierced through.
“Arthur? What the fuck? Aren’t you supposed to be at your show right now?”
"I—I was," Arthur stammered, every word broken in half by gasps. "I left."
There was a pause.
Then Merlin, sharp as a knife: “Left? Are you serious? Why are you breathing like you just escaped a kidnapping attempt?”
“I ran.”
“You ran? Arthur, are you a complete idiot? Do you know how many miles it is from the gallery to here?”
“…Six.”
“Eight, Arthur. Eight and a half if you took that stupid shortcut through Queen’s Park.”
“I had to—” Arthur’s voice cracked. “Merlin, I had to tell you—”
Hunith shifted uncomfortably. She reached for her tea. Missed. Reached again.
On-screen, Colin Firth was approaching his beloved’s home with a ring in one hand and sincerity in the other. But Hunith couldn’t focus. The real-life drama bleeding in from the hallway was so loud, so raw, so close.
She clutched the blanket around her tighter and mumbled at the TV, “Come on, Colin. Don’t let them steal your scene.”
Outside:
“Merlin, I messed up,” Arthur said, voice thick now.
“No kidding. You insulted the one person who actually cares about you and you left your own show to sprint across London like you’re starring in Chariots of Fire.”
“I was scared.”
“Oh wow, scared. Well, that explains it. You know what I do when I’m scared? I don’t verbally annihilate people who love me.”
“I didn’t mean it,” Arthur said, quieter. “About your father. About you not understanding.”
Merlin didn’t respond immediately.
Then, slower, tired: “You can’t take those words back, Arthur.”
She clenched the blanket a little tighter. Colin Firth was about to open the front gate, the Portuguese family was chattering excitedly, and everything in the world was momentarily aligned.
“Merlin…” Arthur’s voice came faintly through the door. Softer this time. Like the adrenaline had worn off and all that was left was whatever it was he couldn’t bring himself to say in a phone call or a text or—God forbid—a well-timed conversation that didn’t involve cardio.
“…at the gallery… my father showed up.”
Hunith’s eyes flicked to the paused TV for a moment, her finger hovering over the mute button. She didn’t press it.
Outside, Arthur continued. “He looked at everything, Merlin. Every bloody piece.”
“He said, ‘you've done brilliant.’ And then—he said—he said, ‘You’ve always been my pride.' ”
Hunith sat up slightly.
Colin was halfway through proposing again, but Hunith didn’t have the heart to press play.
“It was you,” Arthur went on, voice cracking. “You said something to him, didn’t you?”
Silence from Merlin.
Arthur filled it with guilt.
“God, I’m such a prat,” he said, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “You—you’ve done nothing but care about me. And I—I threw it all back in your face. I said those awful things, while you were the one talking to him, the one who actually got him to come.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You—you’re the best thing in my life and I—God, I treated you like shit.”
“My father said that if I let you go, I really am a dollophead.”
“And even if he hadn’t said it, I would’ve come to find you… The second you walked out that door, I regretted it. And every minute since you left, I’ve wished I’d asked you to stay.”
Hunith was now holding the mug with both hands, gaze unfocused, heart tight. She still hadn’t pressed mute. But her eyes remained on the screen.
Colin Firth was waiting patiently. Frozen in his most vulnerable moment.
“Say something, Merlin…” Arthur pleaded from outside. “Please.”
Silence.
Then a long, low sigh—Merlin’s.
Hunith didn’t hear what her son said next, not really. She caught a few words—“spoiled prat”, “clotpole”, “still mad”—but the tone had shifted. The sharp edges had dulled.
The glow of the television filled the living room like a slow heartbeat. Hunith sat with her legs tucked up under her, a slight lean forward betraying that her attention—technically on the movie—was already 80% elsewhere.
Colin was at the doorstep now. The Portuguese family stood behind the girl, watching expectantly, wide-eyed and whispering. The camera zoomed in on him as he stammered through his confession. Hunith mouthed the words with him. She knew every beat, every glance.
And yet—
From outside, she heard Merlin’s voice rise an octave.
“Arthur?! Arthur, what the hell are you doing?”
There was a rustle. A thump. And then a scraping sound, like someone had collapsed dramatically against the front steps.
Then—
“Arthur, goddammit, are you—get up! Are you okay? What the fuck—”
Arthur's voice came next, slightly breathless, a little hoarse, and completely, utterly serious:
“Marry me.”
So did Colin, coincidentally, on screen, just as he was pulling out the tiny ring box.
Hunith froze.
“...You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered, staring at the television.
But Arthur was still talking, just outside her door, voice muffled but unmistakably sincere.
“I’m not saying now, or even soon. But someday. Just—say you’ll think about it. Please. I don’t want to keep messing everything up.”
Silence. A long one.
Hunith's thumb trembled over the remote. Colin was about to propose her—finally, with broken grammar and perfect cheekbones. The entire town was watching, the music swelling, and it was all leading to that one perfect moment.
But instead of Colin, all Hunith could hear now was her own son sputtering, “Arthur. What. The actual. Hell.”
And then, even more terrifyingly—nothing.
Just the sound of her heartbeat. And the faint meow of Kilgharrah.
Hunith sighed, giving up completely on the movie.
She muttered under her breath, “I'm sorry, Colin. You were so close.”
With a dramatic sigh worthy of any Christmas romcom heroine, she tossed the blanket aside, stood up, and grabbed her cardigan from the hook by the door.
As she opened it, letting in the evening chill, she saw it:
Arthur Pendragon.
On his one knee.
With a ring box.
Open.
Shining under the porch light like a scene straight out of Love Actually.
For a split second, Hunith’s brain short-circuited.
Colin? her subconscious whispered.
No. No, it wasn’t Colin Firth. It was Arthur bloody Pendragon—blond, movie-star handsome, and actually proposing.
To her son.
Her jaw dropped.
“Absolutely not!” she barked, storming forward like a protective force of nature. She wedged herself between them. “You can’t just do this!” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to wound my son’s heart one week and then show up in my porch, asking him to marry you!”
Arthur blinked up at her, stunned. “Hunith, I—”
“No! Don’t speak!” she declared. “You presume to propose marriage after you insulted him—in his own living room—like some modern-day Mr. Darcy without the decency of a proper redemption arc!”
Merlin groaned softly behind her. “Oh god.”
But Hunith wasn’t done.
“You mistake your own arrogance for sincerity,” she continued. “And you think that because you come here bearing a ring—and, I might add, sweaty and disheveled like you lost a duel on the way—that I will simply hand over my only son like a prize?”
Arthur looked wildly between her and Merlin. “I—what duel?!”
“You have insulted him, neglected him, and now dare to suggest a future with him—as if your past words meant nothing!”
Merlin gently reached forward, putting a hand on her arm. “Mum.”
She didn’t stop.
“He is not some misunderstood governess to be won over with a single grand gesture, Mr. Pendragon!”
“Mum.”
“You may be Lord Darcy in your own mind, but I assure you—my son is not Elizabeth Bennet!”
“MUM.”
She finally turned, breathless, the fire of Austen fading only slightly from her eyes.
Merlin held both her hands now, trying very gently to walk her off the literary ledge. “Please. Breathe. This isn’t a BBC adaptation. Arthur is not Mr. Darcy.”
Arthur shifted on his knee to look directly at her.
"Mrs. Hunith," he began quietly, his voice trembling just enough to betray the weight of his feelings. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right about everything.”
“I don’t deserve Merlin,” Arthur continued, exhaling like the words had been trapped for days. “Not after what I said to him. Not after everything I’ve done to hurt him, to push him away when I didn’t know how to deal with things, when I was too much of a coward to face my own mess.”
She frowned slightly, her eyes moving to Merlin, who had gone conspicuously still, holding Kilgharrah as though the cat were physically keeping him upright.
Arthur, however, stayed focused on her.
“I know I don’t deserve him,” he said, more firmly now. “But I love him. And I’ll die trying to earn him.”
Hunith blinked.
Arthur's voice softening. “I’m asking for your trust. I swear—I will spend every ounce of my effort making Merlin happy. For the rest of my life.”
Hunith opened her mouth—then closed it again. Something in her chest clutched painfully at the gentleness of his tone, the way Arthur’s voice cracked on the words "making Merlin happy."
“And I know,” he said, quieter now, “what you’re going to say next.”
Hunith narrowed her eyes slightly. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes.” Arthur nodded, standing now, slowly. “You think I can’t take this step without my father involved. That this, above all else, would make or break what we could have together.”
Hunith tightened her lips but remained silent.
“And you’re right,” Arthur admitted quietly. “Which is why, next weekend, I’m taking Merlin to meet him.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?!”
Arthur didn’t break eye contact with Hunith. “I don’t want to hide anything. Not from Merlin, and not from my father. Whatever happens with us, it needs to be in the open. All of it.”
Hunith studied him carefully. There was no hesitation in his gaze. She tilted her head, searching for even a glimmer of coddled-boy arrogance.
There was none.
And she hated that it was suddenly hard to be angry with him.
She let out a long, theatrical sigh, “Alright,” she said finally, lifting her chin as though she were addressing a courtroom. “But you really couldn’t have waited five more minutes before barging in here asking for my son’s hand? ”
Arthur blinked. “I—uh—what?”
“Colin Firth was proposing,” she said flatly. “It was beautiful.”
Before Hunith could elaborate (or lecture further), a voice rang out behind her. The television, still on, still faithfully narrating the fictional romance she’d been clinging to, filled the air with Colin Firth’s soft, awkward, Portuguese-accented declaration:
“Yes is being my answer.”
Hunith turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at the TV. Colin and his bride-to-be were locked in an adorable yet slightly damp embrace, sealed with applause from the Portuguese neighbors. It should have been the perfect moment.
Instead, Hunith rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. “Now it’s over. God help me.”
Merlin stared at Arthur, torn between fury and… something else. Something terribly inconvenient. Like affection.
Hunith turned to head back inside.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said over her shoulder. “But if this doesn’t end in tears or kissing, I will be disappointed.”
Arthur nodded.
And quietly, as she stepped back into the house, she heard Merlin murmured,“She actually likes you, you know.”
“I gathered.” Arthur smiled.
Chapter 4: Dear Kilgharrah (the cat, the dragon, the matchmaker)
Summary:
Kilgharrah's pov
Notes:
One night before bed, I thought, why not tell the boys’ story from the perspective of a cat? And so, I wrote this.
Technically, it's just a simple modern AU—there’s no magic, no reincarnation. But perhaps, when even a cat begins to have self-awareness, a little magic still lingers there.
I once had three cats of my own. I loved them deeply, and this story is dedicated to the ones who have already left me.
Chapter Text
Kilgharrah was not a cat. Not truly. Not in his soul, where the fire of ancient wisdom and forgotten power burned bright.
He was a dragon. Trapped, unfairly and most unjustly, in a creature of fur and paws and shameful indignities like litter boxes and flea treatments. But he endured. Because destiny, surely, had not forgotten him. It was only biding its time.
Perched on the windowsill, his tail twitching like a serpent, Kilgharrah cast his gaze across the flat. His territory. His cave. His prison. The morning light filtered through sheer curtains and spilled over the cluttered table near the couch—the place the blonde human called the studio. It was a pitiful thing compared to the vast sky, but dragons were patient.
And then—there. He saw them. Those traitorous, tantalizing instruments of chaos.
Paintbrushes.
Laid in an untidy row, some leaning too close to the edge of the table, whispering their seductive, destructive lullaby to him. Kilgharrah narrowed his green eyes. The damn things knew. Knew the hunger that stirred inside him. The chaos in his blood. The primal need to bat.
He leapt down from the sill with all the grace of a creature who had once soared above kingdoms.
No, he told himself, halting halfway. You are a dragon, not a house pet. This is beneath you. You do not—
His paws carried him forward anyway. Silent, determined. Closer. Closer.
He could hear them, the brushes, trembling on the edge. Begging.
One paw lifted, hesitated.
Don’t do it, the voice inside him whispered. Don’t give in to the cat.
But then his paw nudged the nearest brush.
It rolled.
Oh. Oh. The sound it made—soft wood against tabletop, the slow, delicious scrape as it tipped toward the edge. His ears twitched in ecstasy.
Then:
“Stop! Kil!”
Arthur’s voice, sharp, accusing.
Kilgharrah turned his head, ears flicking back with regal irritation. The blonde human had paused in his sketching, a pencil dangling from his fingers. His eyes were narrowed, lips parted in the kind of warning humans often used on lesser creatures.
“Don’t—don’t do this again,” Arthur said, almost pleading.
Kilgharrah met his gaze.
He saw the challenge. The dare. The absurd belief that he—a dragon—could be controlled.
With slow, unwavering confidence, Kilgharrah extended his paw again.
And shoved.
Brushes spilled like fleeing peasants.
Clatter. Chaos. Triumph.
Arthur groaned. “Why are you like this?”
Kilgharrah sat, tail flicking, and blinked slowly. Because, dear mortal, I am a dragon, and this is my roar.
He did not regret the fall of the brushes.
They had made a glorious sound, like rain on stone, like the crumbling of an ancient castle under dragon fire. He had caused disorder. He had made his mark. The world had acknowledged him.
But then—hands. Human hands.
Oi—no—human! don’t you—!
Before he could retreat to the shadows (or at least under the couch), Kilgharrah was scooped unceremoniously into the air. He squirmed, but Arthur was faster, tucking him under one arm like a particularly fluffy baguette.
How dare he.
How dare this blonde, annoyingly symmetrical mortal treat the last dragon of Albion like an object. Like some common housecat.
Kilgharrah gave a low, rumbling meow of protest—draconic and ominous, or so he imagined—but Arthur only huffed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You're not sorry,” Arthur muttered, crouching down with the other hand to gather the fallen brushes. His grip on Kilgharrah didn’t loosen. He was stuck—legs dangling, tail swishing, fur bristling with outrage.
“I swear,” Arthur continued, as he picked up each brush with exaggerated care, “last time you barged in here, your fur got on my canvas before the paint dried. Ruined the whole thing.”
Kilgharrah flicked an ear. That had been satisfying. The way the wet paint clung to his paw pads… and the sound Arthur made when he saw the smudged mess. Divine.
Arthur grabbed another brush, muttering now.
“And the time before that? You used my brand-new canvas as a scratching post. Scratching post, Kil. It cost more than your fancy grain-free food.”
Kilgharrah twisted slightly in his grip, just enough to look up at him with narrowed green eyes.
You’re welcome, the look said.
“And now—what? Planning to knock over my water cup next? Step in ink? Pee in the brush jar?”
Kilgharrah blinked slowly. He hadn't thought of that last one.
Yet.
Arthur finally stood up, brushes in hand, and sighed heavily. “You’re lucky Merlin loves you,” he muttered, looking down at the black lump in his arm. “I still think you’re the devil in a fur coat.”
Kilgharrah gave a soft, satisfied purr.
Close, he thought. Very close.
But no devil. A dragon.
Still trapped. Still waiting.
But, for now… being carried like a sack of potatoes would do. Vengeance could wait until Arthur wasn’t looking.
Kilgharrah hit the couch with an undignified thump, landing in a heap of fur and quiet resentment on Arthur’s lap.
“You menace,” Arthur grumbled, brushing a few strands of cat hair from his bare shoulder. “Alright. Let’s make a deal.”
Kilgharrah narrowed his eyes.
Arthur reached to the side and unwrapped something with a crinkle that made Kilgharrah’s ears twitch despite himself.
It was one of those sticks. The sacred, meat-scented offering Merlin always kept hidden in the top kitchen drawer. Kilgharrah would recognize it anywhere.
Arthur waved it in front of him. “Be good. Sit here. Let me finish this, and when I’m done—” he held up a finger, “—you get a whole can of the good stuff. Tuna.”
Kilgharrah considered the terms. Sit still? Accept a treat? Be offered more treats?
He gave the cat treat a regal sniff, then, slowly, with the gravitas of ancient royalty, licked it.
Twice.
Then devoured it with the speed and savagery of a starved beast.
Arthur chuckled, already turning back toward the easel. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Kilgharrah, now comfortably curled on the warmth of Arthur’s thigh, cleaned his face with the lazy flicks of a paw. The human had resumed painting, his posture relaxing, muscles shifting as he worked.
He was shirtless—again—which Kilgharrah had long since accepted as one of Arthur’s less offensive habits. Something about “freedom of movement” or “not ruining another sweater with paint.” Personally, Kilgharrah thought it was just vanity. He's showing off his muscles. And Merlin was totally into this.
Sleep crept in, slow and sweet. He dreamed of vast mountain caves and frightened knights, of wings stretching wide under stormy skies.
When he woke, the flat was quiet. Arthur was still at the easel, his pencil gliding over paper with focused grace. His brow was furrowed, but not in frustration. Kilgharrah blinked, stretched, and lazily flicked his tail before shifting his gaze toward the sketch.
It was Merlin.
Drawn from behind, standing tall and oddly still, as though listening to something far away. His bare back caught in soft pencil lines, muscles understated but present, the curve of his spine graceful beneath of dark curls. His face was turned slightly—just enough that it could not be seen, only imagined.
Kilgharrah tilted his head.
There was… something in that image. Something heavy. Soft. Like smoke curling in a cold room.
He did not understand it—this ache, this warmth, this feeling.
Arthur paused and looked down at him. “What do you think, Kil?”
Kilgharrah blinked slowly. He did not answer.
He was only a cat now, after all.
But he kept looking at the drawing. And stayed on Arthur’s lap, just a little longer.
Kilgharrah was perfectly content.
The warmth of Arthur’s lap beneath him. The lingering taste of meat stick on his tongue. The steady rhythm of brush strokes—swish, pause, swish—was like a lullaby for beasts older than time. He could have sworn Arthur’s breathing synced to the motion, chest rising and falling in quiet focus. His human body was bent forward now, as if the canvas itself was pulling him in.
Arthur was possessed. Not by a demon (Kilgharrah would have known), but by something just as powerful. Something like devotion.
He painted like a knight in battle, his brush the sword, the canvas his battlefield. His strokes were swift, relentless. Flesh and shadows began to take shape under his hand—Merlin’s back, now with depth, texture, the hint of sinew beneath skin. Veins traced lightly down his forearms, the curve of his shoulder rendered with surprising tenderness. Kilgharrah watched, both fascinated and vaguely bored. He didn’t really understand art. Or muscle groups.
But he did notice that Arthur’s own bare skin had begun to mirror his subject—streaked now with accidental smudges of paint. A pale line of ochre on his collarbone. A brush of grey-blue across his ribs. He hadn’t noticed, of course. Humans rarely noticed the important things.
Like the necklace.
Arthur always wore it—simple black cord, silver pendant, nothing extravagant. But now, with him hunched forward and Kilgharrah lying beneath it, the pendant swayed gently in midair, back and forth above Kilgharrah’s head.
A temptation. A test.
The cat narrowed his eyes. Waited. Calculated.
Bat.
The pendant danced.
Bat.
Again.
Bat—
A sudden shadow.
Kilgharrah froze, ears flicking back. Something—someone—had entered. He barely had time to process the familiar scent of wind and tea and whatever shampoo Merlin insisted was unscented but very much wasn’t, before—
—his world lifted.
A strong hand gripped him by the scruff of the neck, and he dangled, limbs useless, tail lashing in indignation.
No words. Just a quiet, almost fond sigh.
And then: the air shifted.
He was gently deposited on the floor.
He turned in outrage, ready to glare, to voice his protest in the ancient tongue of dragons (or at least a very loud meow)—but paused.
Because Merlin was there.
Settling onto Arthur’s lap like he had always belonged there.
Straddling Arthur’s thighs, right where Kilgharrah had just been.
Arthur startled, eyes snapping up, brush halting mid-air. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out.
Merlin had not moved from Arthur’s lap. His knees on either side, his hands resting lightly on Arthur’s bare shoulders. But now one hand had wandered, fingers brushing against Arthur’s collarbone—specifically, the spot where blue paint had left a smear like a bruise.
They were looking at each other. That intense, silent, locked-eyes sort of looking that humans did when they were about to either argue or… do something more troublesome.
“Hey,” Arthur said, voice quieter now. A little hoarse.
“Hey,” Merlin replied, fingers still tracing that smudge.
Arthur’s hand moved. Not the painting one, but the other—the lazy one, the one usually reserved for scratching behind Kilgharrah’s ears. It slipped under Merlin’s shirt. Upward.
“You’re gonna get paint all over you,” Arthur murmured, but his arms were wrapping around Merlin, pulling him close.
Kilgharrah watched, unimpressed. If Arthur was so concerned about cleanliness, maybe he should stop rolling around in his own palette like a lunatic.
Merlin gave a soft, amused sound. “Doesn't matter,” he said, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. “I like it when your stuff gets all over me.”
Kilgharrah blinked.
He did not understand human courtship. At all.
This was not how dragons flirted. Dragons roared. They hoarded treasure. They occasionally set fire to villages. They did not talk about liking to be covered in someone else's stuff, whatever that was supposed to mean.
He heard the hushed laughter. The shifting of fabric. The soft, breathless “Arthur,” and the low reply of “Come here.” He heard the sigh, the faint, wet sound of lips meeting, and—
He turned back around.
There they were.
Merlin still straddling Arthur’s lap. Arthur’s arms still around him. Their mouths were now pressed together in a fashion Kilgharrah could only describe as… biologically impractical.
Kilgharrah stared.
They were kissing.
Sloppy, soft, eyes-half-closed kissing.
He tilted his head. Ewwww...they're doing it again.
He had seen them do it before for countless times. When they thought no one was looking. Or when they came home late and forgot he was there (which, frankly, was insulting—he always saw). Merlin curled into Arthur’s chest like he’d been molded there. Arthur tilting his head just so, like he’d practiced it.
Kilgharrah watched, equal parts fascinated and deeply annoyed.
He did not understand kissing. It involved faces. And moisture. And vulnerability. Dragons did not kiss. They collided. They conquered.
These two? They were nuzzling.
Merlin’s hand slid into Arthur’s hair. Arthur made a quiet sound that Kilgharrah could only interpret as the human equivalent of a purr.
Kilgharrah snorted.
Absolutely shameless.
They were acting like he wasn’t even in the room. Like the great Kilgharrah had not just been removed from his rightful perch and replaced by Merlin’s bony bottom. Like this was their private moment.
And also—more importantly—this level of affection had not produced the promised can of tuna.
Kilgharrah stood. He padded across the floor, tail high, and hopped silently back onto the couch, right next to them.
Neither of them noticed.
He inched forward. Arthur's hand moved on Merlin’s back. Merlin laughed softly against his lips.
Kilgharrah narrowed his eyes.
Then—with the precision of a seasoned hunter and the passive-aggressive spirit of a housecat denied what he was owed—he inserted himself between them.
Right between their faces.
One soft, furry body. Two wide-eyed, startled humans. A perfect separation maneuver.
Arthur blinked. “Kilgharrah—”
Merlin let out a huff of laughter. “Oh my god.”
Kilgharrah blinked back at them, face completely blank.
Where is my tuna, his eyes said.
They could fornicate later. First things first.
Kilgharrah lived a simple life.
A ball of yarn.
A can of tuna.
A sunlit windowsill for naps.
These were the foundations of happiness.
He did not ask for much. He did not seek drama. He did not throw paint-covered brushes at people or cry in the shower or whisper confessions into the darkness when they thought no one could hear. No.
He was above all that.
Humans, though… humans were exhausting.
One moment, Arthur and Merlin were tangled together like packing foam and cat fur—a horrific combination Kilgharrah had once experienced firsthand when Merlin made the mistake of leaving him in a moving box for too long. (He had suffered, truly. And instead of rescuing him, they took photos and laughed like it was the height of comedy. Monsters.)
But now—now—they were yelling.
Loud. Sharp. Tense.
Arthur’s voice cracked across the room:
“You don’t understand how complicated it is between us!”
Kilgharrah, curled under the coffee table with his tail wrapped around him like a cloak, flicked one ear.
There it was.
The shift.
The storm.
Merlin fired back without missing a beat.
“Oh, really? Complicated like not speaking for three years? Like not inviting your biological father to the biggest event of your life? That kind of complicated?”
Oof.
Kilgharrah didn’t understand human language entirely, but tone? Tone he understood better than most.
And Merlin’s tone now was not the warm, teasing thing.
It was sharp, brittle. Like a glass about to crack.
Arthur looked furious.
Merlin looked hurt.
Neither of them looked at the cat, which was probably a blessing.
Because Kilgharrah hated it when they fought.
It made the room feel smaller. Colder.
It made Merlin forget to open the tuna.
It made Arthur stare at unfinished paintings until the sun set and his dinner went untouched.
Kilgharrah crouched beneath the coffee table, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, tail flicking like a fuse, letting out a low, grumbling meow.
He just wanted peace. And maybe a nap.
And, if the gods were kind, that tuna.
But the argument hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had grown teeth. Sharp ones.
He watched Arthur rake a frustrated hand through his hair, pacing like a caged lion.
“Just stay out of it, Merls,” Arthur snapped. “You don’t know about him.”
Merlin crossed his arms. His mouth was a thin line.
“Oh well. Maybe I do. He texted you, didn’t he? On your birthday?”
Arthur froze.
“You looked at that message like a teenage girl with a crush,” Merlin continued, voice almost too calm. “Maybe that was him trying to reach out. Maybe that was him saying, ‘Hey, son, I want in.’ And what did you do? Nothing. You stared at it like it might bite you and then ghosted him like a chicken.”
Arthur flinched. “You don’t get to call me a chicken.”
“I just did.”
And then—like all storms must—came the thunder.
Arthur’s voice was low, shaking, and then suddenly too loud. “You don’t get to judge anyone’s father-son relationship, Merlin—when you’ve never had one!”
The silence that followed was heavy. Final.
Even Kilgharrah stopped moving.
That was a wound. A deep one.
Merlin, who scratched behind his ears and whispered secrets into his fur, stood there, his whole body gone still. Not angry anymore. Just… hurt. The kind of hurt Kilgharrah didn’t know how to fix.
Arthur’s expression cracked almost instantly. Regret poured through the fracture like water through a dam.
“Merlin, I didn’t—” He stepped forward. Hands open. Voice soft. “I didn’t mean—”
But Merlin stepped back. Just once. A small, quiet movement. But enough.
Kilgharrah had seen enough pain in this world. So he moved. Soft paws padding across the floor. He pressed himself gently against Merlin’s ankle, rubbing his face along the denim of Merlin’s jeans, purring low and steady. He leaned in, pressed his head harder against Merlin’s leg.
I’m here.
He was saying, in the only way he could.
And then, he was lifted—suddenly, unexpectedly—into Merlin’s arms.
He didn’t struggle.
Not because he enjoyed being cradled like a baby, but because something in Merlin’s chest was trembling. He could feel it beneath the fabric. A heartbeat gone wrong. A breath half-held.
Merlin didn’t look at Arthur.
Not when he turned toward the door.
Not when he picked up his keys with one hand and clenched them tight enough to leave little half-moon dents in his palm.
Arthur stood a few feet behind him, silent.
Too silent.
Kilgharrah, perched in Merlin’s arms, twisted his head. He saw Arthur’s lips part. He saw the flicker of movement, the inhale like the start of a sentence.
Say it, Kilgharrah thought.
Say something.
He leaned forward just a little in Merlin’s grip, staring at Arthur, ears flicked back.
Now’s the time. Say don’t go. Say I’m sorry. Say I love you.
But Arthur said nothing.
His mouth closed again. His jaw locked. His eyes followed Merlin to the door, but his words stayed buried in the back of his throat.
And Merlin—Merlin didn’t look back.
It had been one week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
Far too many minutes of awkward silences, empty rooms, and the distinct lack of someone humming while painting.
Kilgharrah had spent it all at the woman’s house—Merlin’s mother. She was warm and gentle and gave him little saucers of milk he didn’t ask for (he wasn’t a kitten, thank you very much), but he accepted them anyway, mostly out of politeness. And spite.
But then, on one night, everything changed.
The doorbell rang.
Voices rose.
And then—then—the porch turned into a stage.
Arthur Pendragon, holding a ring like it was a sword, shouting declarations of love with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for Shakespearean fools and people on reality television.
Kilgharrah was nestled in Merlin’s arms, tail twitching as he watched Arthur get on one knee, nearly slipping in the floor like the noble idiot he was.
He saw Merlin laughed. Choked out something suspiciously close to “yes.”
And they kissed like they’d been waiting an eternity to do it.
Disgusting, Kilgharrah thought.
But acceptable.
The ride home was… cozy.
Merlin in the passenger seat, Kilgharrah on his lap.
Arthur driving, casting sideways glances like he still wasn’t sure any of this was real.
They pulled into the driveway, the familiar shape of home pressing against the horizon.
Arthur came around to open the door, hands outstretched to take Kilgharrah.
Kilgharrah narrowed his eyes.
He remembered the shouting.
He remembered the silence.
He remembered the way Merlin had cried when he thought Kilgharrah was asleep.
So he hissed.
Low. Sharp. Regal.
Arthur froze, hand hovering.
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Looks like Kil’s still mad at you. Maybe you’ll need another proposal to win his forgiveness.”
Arthur chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tough crowd.”
Then, surprising both of them, he reached forward anyway.
And Kilgharrah allowed it.
Barely.
Arthur carried him, walked straight to the kitchen, crouched down, and opened the cupboard.
Kilgharrah’s eyes widened.
It was a shrine.
A monument.
A mountain of premium-grade, hand-packed, line-caught, gold-labeled tuna cans.
Kilgharrah stared.
Then looked at Arthur.
Then stared again.
Well.
He wasn’t a fool.
He was a dragon, but he was also deeply pragmatic.
With a gracious flick of his tail, he settled in Arthur’s arms, purring low and steady.
Forgiveness could be earned.
And sometimes… it could be bribed.
Peace had returned.
Not the kind sung about in ancient ballads, nor the kind forged by treaties between warring lands. No—this was the quiet kind. The kind that tasted like morning sun on hardwood floors, smelled faintly of turpentine and lavender laundry detergent, and sounded like two voices laughing softly in the kitchen.
Kilgharrah had found his throne.
It was a plush, velvet cushion on the windowsill, perfectly positioned to catch the sun during golden hour. From here, he watched his kingdom with all the wisdom of a thousand lives (and just the right amount of disdain).
Arthur painted again.
Merlin wrote long-winded notes in the margins of books he’d already read three times.
And Kilgharrah?
He supervised.
When Arthur got stuck on a painting, Kilgharrah meowed once and walked across the canvas.
When Merlin forgot to sleep, Kilgharrah clawed the covers until he was dragged into bed.
When they argued again—which they did, because they were still very much themselves—Kilgharrah would knock over a glass of water or leap dramatically onto Arthur’s half-finished work, reminding them what true chaos really looked like.
He kept them humble.
He kept them together.
And, as far as he was concerned, he had orchestrated this entire romance.
Sure, Arthur had proposed.
Sure, Merlin had said yes.
But who had comforted Merlin during the silence?
Who had hissed at Arthur at just the right moment?
Who had accepted the sacred tuna offering and restored balance to the household?
Him.
Kilgharrah.
The cat.
Scratch that.
The Dragon.
The Matchmaker.
He stretched now, one paw delicately outstretched toward the sunbeam, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.
In the distance, Merlin’s voice drifted from the bedroom. “Arthur, did you use my good soap again?”
And Arthur’s reply, unapologetic: “Technically, we live together. So it’s our soap.”
Bickering, again.
Kilgharrah closed his eyes.
Well—he’d fix it.
As always.
Kilgharrah in the Flat
—A.P.
Chapter 5: Dear Arthur Pendragon
Summary:
Arthur's pov
Notes:
This fic would be finished in just one or two more chapter IG. The final chapter will be a meeting between Merlin and Uther. I hope to complete it soon.
If you enjoy it, please leave a comment or give it kudos, they're what keep me going! <3<3<3
Chapter Text
The shrill cry of his phone cut through the silence.
Arthur groaned, face buried in the pillow, a dull ache already pulsing behind his eyes. Last night's gallery party had gone on far too long, and so had the wine. He liked painting—no, he loved it. The weight of the brush in his hand, the silence of the studio, the way colors bled into one another with a kind of reckless honesty. What he didn’t love were the parties. The smiling, the small talk, the clinking of champagne flutes—all of it felt like acting in a play he hadn’t auditioned for.
He hated those events. The artificial conversations, the saccharine smiles, the way strangers spoke about his paintings like they knew something he didn’t. But Gavin—the gallery agent—insisted they were necessary. Exposure led to sales, and Arthur wasn’t above money. Not anymore. Not when rent came due, not when canvases and oils didn’t pay for themselves.
He reached for the other side of the bed without opening his eyes. It was empty. Still warm, maybe, but empty. Merlin had already gone to work. The thought made the empty feel larger.
The phone kept ringing.
With a groan of surrender, Arthur finally rolled over and snatched it off the nightstand. He didn’t even look at the caller ID.
“-llo?” His voice was hoarse.
A beat.
Then: “It’s me.”
Arthur froze. That voice—brisk, authoritative, unmistakable. He sat bolt upright, the sheets falling away.
“Father?”
“I’m at your front door,” Uther said, in that commanding tone that allowed no room for argument.
Arthur blinked. “What?”
“I said,” Uther repeated, slower now, “I’m at your flat. Open the door.”
Arthur looked at the phone, then at the door, then at the empty side of the bed again.
Shit.
Arthur scrambled out of bed, stumbling into his jeans. He ran a hand through his hair as he stumbled toward the front door, feet bare against the cool hardwood floor. His head throbbed with every step, and he didn’t dare glance in the hallway mirror—he already knew he looked like hell. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in wild tufts like a bird’s nest after a storm. He hadn’t even bothered to grab a shirt.
When he opened the door, the morning light hit him like a slap.
Uther Pendragon stood on the doorstep, immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, his coat perfectly tailored, tie straight, shoes polished to a shine that reflected the light. Behind him, a sleek black Bentley was parked against the curb.
Arthur blinked against the sun.
Down the block, he caught sight of a young couple across the street slowing down, one of them already pulling out a phone. It wasn’t every day a car like that appeared in this neighborhood of struggling artists and mid-century flats.
George sat in the driver’s seat of the Bentley, straight-backed and composed, as if he hadn’t just driven half the city to deliver Uther to his disheveled, half-hungover son’s doorstep.
George turned his head slightly, eyes flicking over Arthur with something like disapproval—or maybe concern, though it was always hard to tell with George.
Then, addressing Uther with crisp efficiency, he said, “I’ll return in thirty minutes, sir. Your international call cannot be delayed.”
Uther replied without looking back, his eyes fixed on Arthur.
The Bentley eased away from the curb, quiet as a secret, and Arthur stood there for one long moment, barefoot, squinting into his father’s face.
Finally, he stepped aside.
“Come in, then,” he muttered.
Leading his father inside, suppressing the growing sense of dread coiling in his stomach. He hadn’t cleaned. He hadn’t planned to have visitors, let alone this visitor.
The second the door swung shut behind them, Arthur stepped forward—and immediately yelped.
He’d stepped on something soft and alive.
Kilgharrah, their cat, perpetually unimpressed, let out a furious screech and shot out from beneath Arthur’s foot, his tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. The cat bolted under the couch, a black streak vanishing into the shadows.
“Fuck,” Arthur muttered, glancing apologetically at the sofa.
Uther said nothing, but his eyes tracked the cat’s retreat, then slowly shifted to the mountain of unwashed laundry occupying most of the couch. Socks, jeans, shirts, something that might’ve once been a hoodie—it all sat in a tragic heap, judging Arthur silently. Uther’s expression soured.
“It seems you still need a housekeeper to manage your laundry,” he said coolly. “Though I’m not sure this place even has space for staff accommodations.”
Arthur could feel the heat crawling up his neck. “It’s not always like this,” he lied, already crossing the room.
He grabbed the top layer of laundry—an inside-out T-shirt that probably belonged to Merlin—and shoved it aside, creating just enough space to imply the presence of order. As he did, something small and unmistakably shiny tumbled out from beneath the clothes and onto the rug.
Arthur’s heart stopped.
A crumpled, empty box of condoms.
Time seemed to slow as he stared at it. So did Uther.
With the reflexes of someone who had survived years of boarding school inspections, Arthur kicked the box under the couch in one smooth motion, hoping—praying—his father hadn’t noticed.
Uther raised an eyebrow.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Tea?”
“Don’t bother,” Uther said sharply, waving away the offer of tea like it were an insult. “I won’t be staying long.”
But then—curiously—he hesitated. His gaze swept the room again, lingering on the books piled precariously on a side table, a coffee mug with ‘Sarcasm is my love language’ scrawled on the side, a half-finished painting leaning against the wall. After a moment’s pause, he lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, ignoring the laundry Arthur hadn’t managed to clear completely.
Arthur stood awkwardly for a second, then sank into the battered armchair opposite, still shirtless, trying not to look like a teenager caught sneaking someone in after curfew.
Uther glanced up at the low ceiling, then over to the narrow kitchen visible through the open-plan layout. “I see the ceilings are too low, the furniture mismatched, and the lighting entirely inadequate.” His tone was dry, but not cruel. “And I imagine that’s a cat I’ll be sneezing over for the next thirty minutes.”
Arthur gave a small, tired snort. “This is the nicest place we could afford. You should’ve seen the last one—we had a bathroom outside the apartment. The neighbor’s dog used it more than we did.”
For a second—just a flicker—something strange happened.
Uther laughed. It was brief and quiet, but unmistakable. Arthur stared at him, almost certain he’d imagined it. But no—his father was genuinely smiling. Just a little.
Arthur watched the rare curve of a smile still lingering on his father’s face, and for a moment, he felt bold enough to ask.
“At the gallery,” Arthur began carefully, “you said you were invited... by Merlin. That he reached out to you.” He hesitated. “How do you know him?”
Uther raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusted his cuffs with deliberate precision and said, “Before I answer that, why don’t you tell me about this Merlin first?”
Arthur blinked, momentarily thrown, then gave a small, almost reluctant smile of his own. He nodded, stood up, and crossed the room to the bookshelf, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a thin magazine with a folded corner and a worn spine.
He handed it to Uther.
“It’s an old issue,” Arthur said. “Two years ago. But... that’s how we met.”
Uther took it, eyeing the cover like it might smudge his fingers. It was a modest publication—Contemporary Canvas—clearly not something he subscribed to. Inside, a neon pink sticky note marked one of the middle pages. He opened to it, and there it was: a modest column about “emerging local artists.” The layout was cramped, the text broken up into narrow columns, and a black-and-white photo of Arthur mid-brushstroke took up the corner. His name was printed in bold.
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, slightly sheepish. “Merlin’s a journalist. Or... was, back then. Freelance, mostly. He was assigned to write that column. Some intern probably just picked my name off a list.”
Uther turned the page slowly, his silence a kind of permission to continue.
“He showed up late,” Arthur said with a half-laugh. “Really late. I’d been waiting for over an hour, and I was in a mood. Told him he was unprofessional, called him a few things I probably shouldn’t have.” His smile turned wry. “He called me a spoiled prat. To my face.”
Uther glanced up at that.
“But he still took the photos,” Arthur went on. “Still wrote the piece. And he never made excuses.” He paused, remembering. “I found out later that the tube was shut down that morning—there was some transport strike. He’d carried all his camera gear and walked five blocks just to get there.”
Arthur sat back down, suddenly quieter. “He didn’t have to. But he did.”
Uther studied the magazine for a moment longer, then closed it with a thoughtful hum. His gaze didn’t rise immediately; instead, he turned the issue over in his hands once, then set it down gently on the coffee table.
Arthur waited.
There were a thousand things he wanted to ask—whether Uther approved, whether he thought Merlin was good enough, whether he had judged the mess or the cat or the lack of wealth and polish—but all of that got tangled up in his throat. So instead, he just watched.
Uther leaned back on the couch, eyes finally meeting Arthur’s again.
“Well,” he said simply, “he sounds... persistent.”
Arthur gave a half-smile. “He is.”
“And he calls you a prat?”
Arthur laughed under his breath. “Often.”
Uther didn’t smile, not this time—but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell me the rest.”
Arthur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced. He wasn’t sure when it had become so easy to talk about this—especially to his father—but the silence in the room had changed.
“I emailed him,” Arthur said softly. “The address was on the back of the card he gave me. I wanted to apologize. Offer to buy him dinner or something.”
Uther let out a short, amused breath—half scoff, half laugh. “Email,” he said, almost to himself. “That explains.”
Arthur squinted. “Explains what?”
Uther didn’t answer immediately. He simply gestured with a vague hand. “Go on.”
Arthur frowned but let it go. “Anyway… we met up. Once, then again. And then again. It started with coffee, then a gallery opening I dragged him to. A sketching trip in the park—he insisted on bringing tea in a thermos and forgot the lids. We laughed the whole afternoon.”
He smiled faintly at the memory.
“And I don’t know when it changed, exactly,” he continued. “I just know that one day, I said goodbye and it… hurt.” His voice dropped. “Every time he left, it got worse.”
He looked over at Uther, half-expecting some flash of skepticism, some clipped remark about sentimentality or weakness. But the older man simply sat still, watching, listening.
“I didn’t plan on falling in love with him,” Arthur added, almost as an afterthought. “But I think he made it impossible not to.”
There was a long pause between them, and in that moment, even the city seemed to go quiet. Arthur took a breath. His fingers tightened around the edge of the armchair, the soft upholstery suddenly too warm beneath his palms.
“Father,” he said quietly, “I love him.”
He met Uther’s gaze squarely, not flinching, not looking away. “I live with him. And I want to keep living with him—for the rest of my life.”
The words hung in the air like brushstrokes on a bare canvas. Vulnerable. Permanent.
Uther blinked. Once. Then tilted his head slightly.
“So?”
Arthur stared. “So?”
“Yes,” Uther said with a slight, impatient shrug. “So?”
Arthur gestured, flustered. “Don’t you have anything to say? About the fact that I’ve fallen in love with a man? A man, father.”
Uther’s expression barely shifted. “I’m aware that Merlin is a man. I’m not blind. There are no boobs in your paintings.”
Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Right,” he said faintly. “But shouldn’t you be… I don’t know. Yelling? Telling me I’m ruining the Pendragon name? Trying to get me committed somewhere for electroshock therapy?”
Uther raised an eyebrow. “There’s no hospital in Britain that performs electroshock therapy for homosexuality anymore,” he said dryly. “And for the record, I’m not homophobic.”
Arthur blinked. “You’re not.”
“No.” Uther leaned back. “It seems you are the one with assumptions.”
Arthur sat there, stunned, as if the foundations of everything he’d ever believed about his father had just quietly, without ceremony, shifted beneath his feet.
“And in case you didn't know, Camelot Capital has funded multiple initiatives in LGBTQ+ advocacy sectors,” Uther added matter-of-factly. “We support startups in queer health tech, digital safe spaces, and inclusive financial planning. The board's very pleased with the returns.”
Arthur’s jaw slowly dropped open. “You—what—what?”
“But don’t expect me to march beside you in a Pride parade,” Uther said, setting the magazine aside and brushing invisible lint from his trousers. “I’m supportive, not... festive.”
Arthur let out a strangled sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh, not quite a gasp.
His father wasn’t screaming, wasn’t condemning—was, in fact, shockingly informed. Supportive, even. It was disorienting in the way waking from a long, tense dream could be.
He exhaled slowly and said, “Well. That’s my story.”
He looked at Uther, brow lifted.
“Now it’s your turn. So… when did you meet Merlin?”
Uther was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head, a small, dry sound escaping him.
“Technically,” he said, “I’ve never met him.”
“What?” Arthur blinked.
Uther reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulled out his phone, and offered it to Arthur with a sigh.
“One day, these emails just landed in my inbox,” Uther said.
Arthur frowned, taking the phone. The screen was already open to an email inbox, filtered by one particular sender. There were dozens of entries, each titled in bold, formal subject lines.
He scrolled.
And there they were.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Allow me to give you a little tour of your son’s studio.
It used to be our dining room. Yes, used to be.
Now, it’s covered in paint splatters, canvases stacked like a precarious modern art sculpture, and approximately six thousand empty coffee cups that he swears he “might still use.”
So, technically, we don’t have a dining room anymore. Which means we now eat our meals on the sofa. Or the floor. Or wherever there isn’t a paintbrush poking us in the ribs.
I hope you’re proud. Your son has turned my home into a museum of chaos—and he’s the only exhibit.
Sincerely,
Merlin (the one without a dining table)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Fun fact: your son paints at 3 a.m.
Yes. Three. In. The. Morning.
Because apparently “inspiration strikes when the world is quiet,” which is just a poetic way of saying he’s inconsiderate and can’t keep track of time.
Do you know what’s not quiet at 3 a.m.?
Arthur, singing along to some dramatic instrumental soundtrack while flinging paint like he’s in a Renaissance war.
I now sleep with noise-canceling headphones. And mild resentment.
Best regards,
Merlin (survivor of the 3 a.m. art storm)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Today, your son asked if we could “just knock down the kitchen wall” to let in more light for his work.
When I said no (because I enjoy having walls), he told me I “don’t understand the artist’s vision.”
I told him I do understand plumbing codes.
We live in a very real flat, with very real walls, and one of us likes them where they are.
Warmest irritation,
Merlin (not live in a castle, unfortunately)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Let’s talk about broccoli.
Your son refuses to eat it—not because of taste, not because of texture, but because of "principle."
What principle, you ask? No one knows. Possibly some secret code among an ancient Pendragon broccoli trauma.
I, like a responsible adult, tried to roast it with garlic and parmesan. He said it “looked suspicious.”
Suspicious, Mister. Broccoli. With cheese.
Yours in leafy despair,
Merlin (Send help. Or a royal decree.)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Today your noble son spent twenty minutes at the farmer’s market inspecting avocados.
He picked them up, sniffed them, gently squeezed them with the reverence of someone handling a holy grail… and still managed to come home with one that is harder than Excalibur in a block of stone.
We now have a rock-shaped avocado sitting on our windowsill. Arthur insists it will ripen “with dignity.”
With mild disbelief,
Merlin (the one has a ceremonial burial to an avocado)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
Your son doesn’t like my cat.
Correction: he claims not to like my cat. He says Kilgharrah (yes, that’s the name) is “plotting against him” and insists, quite loudly, that “it’s not his cat.”
And yet, every night, where do we find the alleged demon feline? Curled up like a smug shadow on Arthur’s stomach.
Personally, I think Kilgharrah likes the extra padding.
In furry defiance,
Merlin (the one whose pet was taken)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
You’ll be delighted to know that your son just spent twenty minutes trying to open a jar of pickles.
He tried everything. Warm water. Tapping the lid. Asking it nicely.
Eventually, I opened it. With a tea towel. On the first try.
He said I "weakened the seal" with my “sorcery.”
(He’s still bitter about it.)
In victorious smugness,
Merlin (might really have magic)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
It has come to my attention that your son does not know how to properly fold a fitted sheet.
When I asked him if he could help, he stared at it like it was a riddle from a cursed scroll, and then proceeded to just roll it into a ball and shove it in the cupboard.
He said, and I quote, “It’s going to be wrinkled anyway.”
Crumpled but coping,
Merlin (Please tell me this is not hereditary)
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon
Text: Dear Mr. Uther Pendragon,
We watched a documentary last night about ancient kings.
Arthur got very quiet during the parts about royal legacy and complicated father-son relationships.
He won’t say it, but I think he misses you.
He pretended it was allergies. At 10PM. In winter. With no open windows.
I didn’t push it. But I thought you should know.
Also, he burned the popcorn.
Softly (and slightly smoky),
Merlin (Burnt popcorn is actually quite tasty)
Arthur read silently, lips parting slightly as the sheer intimacy of it washed over him. Merlin hadn’t just written abouthim. He had written to his father as if trying to bridge a gap between them, sending pieces of Arthur across the silence.
Uther’s voice broke the stillness.
“I never responded,” he said, tone unreadable. “Not until one day, they stopped. No email for nearly a week.”
Arthur looked up. He remembered the fight.
“And then I wrote back. Just once.” Uther said simply.
Arthur scrolled and found it—Uther’s only reply.
If something has happened to Arthur, I expect to be informed. Immediately.
Arthur stared at the words—blunt, businesslike, but somehow… protective.
Then he scrolled one more time and found it—the email dated just days before the gallery opening.
The invitation is attached.
To the gallery. To his work. To his heart, really.
Go see it. See him.
You’ll be stunned. He’s extraordinary.
Arthur’s thumb hovered over the screen. He didn’t swipe past it. Couldn’t.
Those were all about him.
Quiet, persistent pleas from the man who knew him best in the world.
Arthur didn’t realize he was smiling until he felt the warmth on his face, soft and aching and full.
“He gave you all of this,” Arthur said quietly, still looking at the screen. “And I had no idea.”
Uther nodded once. “He let me see you, Arthur. Truly see you. The parts I never understood, and the ones I once did but had forgotten.”
Arthur didn’t answer. His finger rested over the screen, unmoving, as if trying to absorb the love buried in Merlin’s words. And for a moment, there was nothing else in the room but that feeling.
Arthur didn’t say anything for a while. He traced one last line on the screen with his thumb, then gently handed the phone back.
Uther stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. Then he paused, nostrils flaring slightly. His face twisted, and—
“Achoo!”
The sneeze echoed through the living room.
Arthur blinked.
“Cat hair,” Uther said with thinly veiled disgust, “I forgot how violently allergic I am.”
Arthur almost smiled.
Uther stepped toward the door, adjusting his cuffs. “I have to go. There’s a call with Singapore I can’t miss. Remember what I said.”
Arthur tilted his head. “Which part? That you fund LGBT initiatives or that you’re not coming to Pride?”
Uther gave him a long look. “That you should come home. This weekend.”
Home.
The word hit differently now.
Arthur thought of that house—sprawling, polished, echoing with silence. The house he had walked out of three years ago with a suitcase and two canvases under one arm, leaving behind half-finished paintings and a pile of unsaid words. He hadn’t been back since.
And now, because of Merlin, he was being invited.
No—welcomed.
Arthur swallowed.
“I will,” he said quietly. “Father.”
Uther reached for the doorknob, but paused.
“And bring... Ahaaa-choooo! —Bring Merlin with you.” he added over his shoulder. “And the cat stays here.”
Another sneeze punctuated his exit, sharp and inevitable.
Arthur stood in the hallway a moment longer after the door closed, letting the quiet settle around him again. The apartment still smelled faintly of Merlin’s shampoo, of paint and coffee and something distinctly home-shaped.
He smiled.
Chapter 6: Dear Merlin Emrys
Summary:
Merlin's pov. Explicit.
Notes:
Omg, this fic has come to an end! I never expected it to grow from 4,000 words to 20,000. But I had so much fun writing it. Thank you all for your comments and kudos, they really encouraged me!
Chapter Text
He stood at the edge of the driveway, one hand shielding his eyes from the midday sun, the other curled tight around the strap of his backpack like it might anchor him to reality.
Merlin had known—theoretically—that Arthur’s family was rich. Not just “nice car and holiday villa” rich, but real rich. The kind of rich that ended with press releases and private foundations. He’d seen the headlines, heard the occasional snide joke Arthur made about legacy and bloodlines and quarterly returns.
Still, nothing had prepared him for the actual house.
It wasn’t a house. It was a manor. A Pemberley-with-WiFi situation.
There was a fountain. In the front yard. A real one, with delicate stonework and koi lazily circling like they were on payroll.
A man in beige linen—Merlin hoped was the gardener and not just someone too fashionable to exist—was trimming a hedge that looked like it had never dared grow wild a day in its life.
Arthur, standing next to him and completely unbothered, followed Merlin’s gaze and smirked.
“It’s just a house, Merlin.”
“You have a fountain, Arthur,” Merlin deadpanned. “There’s a bloke—a bloke—who trims your hedges into geometric. Our entire flat could fit in that shrubbery over there.”
Arthur shrugged. “Would be a cozy little bush flat. Maybe with a loft.”
Merlin turned back toward the house with a disbelieving huff. The building stretched out in white stone and shadow, elegant and quiet.
“I told my mum you weren’t Mr. Darcy,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “But honestly? I think I lied.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, all golden boy grin and mischief.
Merlin rolled his eyes. “This place is ridiculous.”
Arthur’s smirk faded into something gentler, his gaze skimming the old stones. “I thought I'd never come back,” he said, voice tight. “And now here I am. With you. ”
“You're the miracle, Merls.” Arthur met his eyes. “For the first time in forever, I thought maybe coming home wouldn’t feel like giving up.”
That silenced Merlin for a beat. He cleared his throat, looking back at the fountain just to have somewhere to look.
They hadn’t even reached the top step when the grand oak doors opened with a mechanical click and a soft, expensive sound.
Merlin had exactly one second to marvel at the seamless technology of it all before a figure appeared in the doorway, backlit by chandelier light like she’d been rehearsing the moment in a mirror.
She was tall, elegant in a sharp, slinking way, with black curls pinned back in effortless defiance of gravity. She stepped forward as if she owned the world and maybe had at some point, one manicured brow arching toward the heavens.
“So,” she drawled, in an accent that could only be described as Downton Abbey with a vengeance, “you’ve finally returned, brother. Come to challenge me for the inheritance?”
Merlin blinked.
Arthur, without missing a beat, gave her a slow, sardonic smile. “It’s an honor to know I still pose a threat to you, Morgana.”
Morgana narrowed her eyes, lips curling like a cat toying with a mouse. “I suppose I’ll have to have you assassinated, then. Do be careful with your tea. You never know what’s in it these days.”
Merlin stared.
He could see it: a grand period drama playing out before him, filled with betrayal, poison, emotionally charged family dinners under chandeliers. He was already casting Helena Bonham Carter as the bitter aunt.
He opened his mouth to say something—when Morgana suddenly broke into a grin and launched forward, arms flung wide.
“Arthur!” she cried, wrapping him in a tight hug. “You’re finally back! I missed you, you idiot.”
Arthur laughed, hugging her back just as fiercely. “I missed you too, Gana.”
Merlin stood there, slack-jawed.
Morgana turned to him as she pulled away, eyes gleaming with sharp curiosity and unmistakable delight. “So this must be Merlin,” she said, voice lilting.
Arthur stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on Merlin’s back. “Merlin, this is my sister—Morgana.”
Before Merlin could offer a polite handshake or a terribly British nod, Morgana swept forward and pulled him into a hug that smelled like jasmine and power.
“Oh, darling,” she exclaimed, squeezing him like an old friend. “He’s adorable! I love him already. Come in, come in—you poor thing, he brought you here without any warning, didn’t he?”
Merlin blinked, then laughed awkwardly as he was ushered through the grand doors and into the kind of entry hall you usually only saw in costume dramas or royal weddings.
The ceilings were absurdly high. There was a chandelier. Of course there was a chandelier.
Morgana led the way with the energy of a tour guide and the enthusiasm of a gossiping aunt.
“This,” she announced, gesturing dramatically as they passed a long gallery lined with paintings and heavy furniture, “is where Arthur tried to rollerblade when he was seven. Crashed straight into that cabinet—left a dent, both in the wood andhis pride.”
Arthur groaned behind her. “Can we not—”
“And here,” she continued without mercy, pointing toward a wide staircase, “is where he used to sit for hours sulking after piano lessons. Thought if he brooded dramatically enough someone would let him quit.”
Merlin was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Every few minutes, a staff member passed by—polished, polite—and each time, without fail, they’d nod slightly and say:
“Welcome back, Young Master Arthur.”
The first time, Merlin choked. The second time, he was ready. By the third, he was internally screaming.
Arthur winced each time, glaring at Morgana, who only looked smugger and smugger.
“Is that what they used to call you?” Merlin whispered, trying—and failing—not to grin. “Young Master Arthur?”
Arthur gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’ve already started,” Merlin said, voice dancing with laughter. “I’m never calling you anything else again.”
Morgana beamed. “See, he gets it. I like him.”
The hallway stretched ahead like a private museum, the soft lighting casting a gentle glow on the framed artwork lining both walls.
At first, Merlin thought they were just prints—good ones, expensive ones—but still reproductions. Then he stepped closer to a familiar brushstroke. And another.
He froze.
“Wait,” he said, blinking. “Is that a Freud?”
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. I think that one came from a gallery in Vienna.”
“And this—this is a Turner. That’s a Sargent. And God, is that an original Vermeer?”
Merlin turned to stare at them, wide-eyed, his hand hovering as if the sheer presence of such art might burn.
He’d once spent three weeks researching and writing an entire series on underappreciated museum collections for an arts magazine that promptly shut down. He’d lived off instant noodles and rage and dreamed of seeing one Sargent in person someday.
Now he was walking through a house where they were just hanging in the hallway.
Morgana caught his expression and laughed. “Don’t get too excited. Uther doesn’t even like art. He just collects what he’s told will appreciate in value.”
Merlin blinked. “He bought a Vermeer like someone buys stock?”
“Exactly,” she said with a smirk. “But Arthur—” she turned to glance at her brother, who pretended not to be listening “—used to sit on the floor in this hallway and copy them. Pencil, charcoal, whatever he could find. He’d be out here for hours.”
Merlin looked over at Arthur, who shrugged, suddenly sheepish.
“They were just… always here. I thought if I understood them, I might understand what they were doing. What I was supposed to be doing.”
Something about the way he said it tugged at Merlin’s chest, but before he could say anything, Morgana pushed open a tall double door.
“Living room’s this way. Don’t trip over the expensive furniture.”
They stepped inside.
And Merlin’s breath caught.
The room was stunning—sunlight streaming through tall windows, high ceilings, and more money in one carpet than he’d seen in the past five years combined—but none of that registered.
Because there, directly across the room, above the fireplace in the most prominent position possible—
Was the painting.
His painting. Nude from the waist up.
Arthur had captured him like he was something sacred.
And now it was hanging, framed in gold, in his partner’s aristocratic childhood living room.
Merlin stared. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Morgana tilted her head. “That’s you.” she said, delighted. “Arthur’s really in love, isn’t he?”
Merlin slowly turned toward Arthur. “You said it was bought by some rich man who shall remain nameless.”
“I did. My father is—indeed—a very rich man.”
Merlin made a strangled noise. “Arthur!”
And then— A voice cut through the room, smooth and composed, with just the right amount of gravity to make everyone instinctively stand a little straighter.
“Regret to inform you, it’s not hanging in the study,” the voice said. “It’s in the living room.”
Merlin turned, pulse kicking up.
Uther Pendragon stood in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a dark suit that looked custom-made—and probably was. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between polite interest and imperial judgment.
He walked forward, extending a hand.
“Merlin, I presume. A pleasure.”
Merlin blinked, heart thudding like a dropped drum in his chest. He quickly rubbed his hand against his jeans—because of course he was wearing jeans—then shook Uther’s hand, trying not to think about whether his palm was sweaty or whether Uther noticed or whether he even cared.
Uther’s grip was firm, not crushing, and he didn’t hold on longer than necessary.
“I have some business to attend to,” Uther said, already half turning away. “We’ll speak again at dinner. Please, make yourself at home.” He glanced at Morgana. “Morgana, do look after our guest.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing with the same silent power he’d arrived with.
Merlin exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath.
Morgana, beside him, gave a low, amused laugh. “You can breathe now, sweetheart.”
Merlin shot her a look. “Was that the Pendragon family trial by fire?”
“Oh, that?” Morgana waved a hand dismissively. “That was nothing. He’s being friendly. That was him being friendly.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I passed or failed.”
Morgana leaned in conspiratorially. “You passed. Trust me.”
She strolled over to the couch and flopped down with elegant defiance, patting the seat beside her. Merlin followed, still trying to calm the storm of nerves in his stomach.
“Honestly,” Morgana continued, resting her elbow on the armrest, “when I first saw the painting in here, I had a moment. For about thirty seconds, I thought Father had finally come out of the closet in spectacular style.”
Merlin choked on a laugh. “I—what?”
Morgana grinned. “Think about it: dramatic lighting, romantic composition, a half-naked man—practically renaissance erotica. I was this close to Googling support groups for middle-aged men discovering their truth.”
“But then,” she added, tone softening just slightly, “Arthur told me the real story. About you. About the emails.”
“How you wrote to Father. Not just once—consistently. Trying to help them reconnect.” She looked at him for a moment, “You’re a bit of a softie, aren’t you?” she said gently. “A cute little peacekeeping troublemaker.”
Merlin flushed again, tugging at a loose thread on his jeans. “I didn’t really do that much. I just… wanted things to be a little less awful.”
Morgana smiled. “Well, it worked. Arthur wouldn’t be here without you.”
Merlin sat curled up on the Pendragons’ outrageously plush couch, Arthur’s old sketchbook balanced carefully on his lap. The worn cover was soft at the edges, pages slightly yellowed and corners bent from years of flipping.
Each page held pieces of Arthur—portraits, hands, movement studies, light and shadow captured in rough charcoal and soft pencil smudges. Merlin couldn’t stop turning the pages, each one revealing a quiet kind of intimacy.
Next to him, Arthur lounged in that infuriatingly confident way of his, elbow resting along the back of the couch, hand absently stroking Merlin’s thigh through his jeans. It wasn’t even consciously done—it was just there, warm and grounding, fingers tracing lazy shapes into the denim.
Across from them, Morgana perched in an armchair like a cat with too much curiosity and too little impulse control.
“Merlin,” she said suddenly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Is that your real name?”
Merlin looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you made it up to get close to Arthur.” Morgana smirked. “When he was at Eton, girls used to show up claiming to be named Guinevere. Some even faked accents. You’d be shocked what hormones and a trust fund can do.”
Merlin turned to Arthur, scandalized. “Seriously?”
Arthur didn’t even look embarrassed. “Mm-hmm. But I told them I already had a sorcorer named Merlin. No room for queens.”
“Liar. ” Merlin snorted. You didn’t even know me back then.”
“Or perhaps I was waiting for you then.”
Merlin blinked, heart stuttering a little, but before he could recover, Morgana sighed dramatically.
“God, you two are insufferable already.” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Though, I have to say… I really didn't expect to see my brother's boyfriend's nudity before I saw his face. That painting is practically pornographic. Gorgeous, but—pornographic.”
Merlin groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please never say that again.”
Morgana grinned, wicked and entirely unrepentant. “Just saying. So come on then—who’s the top?”
Merlin coughed, nearly dropping the sketchbook.
“I’m a modern woman,” Morgana said sweetly. “And I need to know which of you is bossing the other around.”
Merlin shot Arthur a sidelong glance, then raised an eyebrow. “I. Am. Obviously.”
Morgana raised her brows, intrigued. “Obviously?”
“I’m just saying,” Merlin continued, smirking now, “someone’s got to keep him in check. And apparently, he eats way too much—I’m not exactly eager to be crushed down.”
Arthur hummed low in his throat. “Fair enough. Though I do quite enjoy it when you ride me.”
Merlin turned red from the tips of his ears down to his collarbone. “Arthur!”
Morgana let out a delighted bark of laughter and collapsed back into her chair. “God, you two are the best entertainment this house has had in years.”
Merlin looked to the heavens—or, more accurately, the elaborately painted ceiling—and sighed.
He was definitely going to need more wine before dinner.
Dinner was everything Merlin had feared and more.
The dining room looked like it had been stolen from an Austen adaptation and plopped right into the twenty-first century, complete with high-backed chairs, polished silver candlesticks, and a chandelier that probably cost more than his entire university education. The table was absurdly long—at least fifteen feet—and decorated with crisp white linen, immaculate floral arrangements, and more cutlery than Merlin had ever seen in one place.
He sat stiffly in his chair, eyes darting between the array of forks and knives in front of him. There were, by his count, fivedifferent forks and at least three spoons. For soup. Who needs three spoons for soup?
He leaned over slightly and whispered to Arthur out of the side of his mouth.
“Be honest… how did you survive before you were twenty-two? I mean, seriously. I’m kind of impressed.”
Arthur didn’t even blink. “Merlin. Don’t talk during formal dinners.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and muttered, “I didn’t realize I’d need a PhD in silverware navigation just to eat some lamb.”
Across the table, Uther Pendragon set down his wine glass with a faint clink that cut through the soft hum of polite conversation like a sword. Merlin straightened instantly. Uther’s gaze landed on him, cool and assessing—but not hostile. Not exactly.
“Merlin,” Uther said, his voice firm and clear. “First of all, allow me to thank you.”
Merlin blinked. “Me?” he echoed, bewildered.
“Yes. We all know that if not for your efforts, Arthur and I might never have spoken again. Your... emails—” he said the word like it was an exotic ritual—“broke through a silence I thought would last forever.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly, unsure what else to say.
“But,” Uther continued, straightening in his chair, “you’ve also barged into our lives quite suddenly, haven’t you? One moment you’re a stranger, the next, you’re living with my son. And now you want to… take him.”
Merlin blinked. “Take—? I didn’t—”
The entire table had gone silent. Morgana was watching with undisguised curiosity, as though they were now halfway through a particularly juicy soap opera. Arthur looked like he wanted to intervene—but didn’t.
Merlin’s mouth went dry.
“I—I’m not taking him. He’s not a… he’s not a lamp or something, he’s a grown man.”
Uther stood slowly, unbuttoning his jacket with deliberate precision.
Merlin’s heart skipped a beat. “Wait. Wait. You’re not about to hit me, are you? Because I have joked about being open to a little sparring, but I meant, like, intellectual debates. Not—not fists.”
Uther gave him a long look. “Relax. I’m not going to strike you.”
He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, then rolled up his sleeves with military efficiency.
“This,” he said, stepping around the table, “is about verifying your qualifications. You see, Arthur has painted you—vividly.” He nodded toward the living room, where the infamous painting hung. “From what I saw, I was beginning to suspect he had embellished your physique.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”
Uther came to stand beside him. “But it’s only fair I confirm with my own.”
Merlin stared at him, horrified. “Wait. Are you seriously—I'm still having my clothes on!”
Uther reached out and pinched Merlin’s upper arm experimentally. Merlin froze. Uther nodded, as if analyzing a slab of beef at a butcher's.
“Hm. Not bad. Less definition than I expected. But credible.”
Morgana choked on her wine.
“Now then,” Uther said, “A small challenge.”
“…Challenge?”
Uther nodded. “Arm wrestling.”
Merlin blinked. Arthur groaned softly and Morgana smirked.
“You're scared?” said Uther, “You want to take my son from me. Then at least—win something over me.”
The words lit a fire in him. “Fine, Let’s do it.”
Arthur looked at him like he’d just volunteered for a duel at dawn. “Merlin—”
“No,” Merlin said. “He wants to test me? Fine. But I’m not going to beat an old man with my dominant hand. That’s just rude.” He dramatically pulled back his right sleeve, then switched to offer his left arm instead. “We’ll go left-handed.”
Uther raised an eyebrow, but moved to the end of the table.
They clasped hands.
Merlin gritted his teeth.
Everyone leaned in.
Go.
The tension was immediate—Uther’s grip was solid, his arm like steel under Merlin’s palm. Merlin dug in, muscles straining, jaw clenched as he tried to push against what felt like a brick wall disguised as a man in a luxury button-down.
He gave it everything—his neck tensed, his eyes narrowed, and in that stupid, competitive part of his brain, he thought: If I win this, I win Arthur. I earn him.
Then, in one effortless move, Uther slammed his hand down onto the table with a loud thud.
Merlin nearly fell forward, staring at his defeated arm. “I think my wrist’s dislocated.” he wheezed.
Morgana burst into laughter. “Oh, sweety. Did no one tell you?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Uther used to be an athlete in his youth. And he still boxes twice a week.”
Merlin flopped face-first onto the table. “Why would you not lead with that information?”
“I was just about to say it.” Arthur reached over to rub his back, his hand warm and comforting.
Uther stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves, and for the first time, gave Merlin a faint, approving smile. “You’ve got spirit. I respect that.”
Then he nodded toward the hallway. “You two enjoy the rest of your evening. Morgana, don’t terrorize the boy too much.” With that, he exited like a general leaving the battlefield.
Merlin turned his head to the side, still sprawled on the table, groaning.
Arthur chuckled, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Don't worry, he likes you.”
“I’d rather he didn’t like me that hard.”
Morgana raised her glass. “To Merlin. Braver than most. Dumber than all.”
And somehow, despite everything, Merlin found himself smiling.
This house was chaos.
But it was starting to feel like a kind of home.
Merlin lay on his back in the middle of a bed far too large for one person. The duvet was thick, the mattress soft in a way that swallowed him whole, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender and something expensive—like whatever luxury laundry detergent billionaires used to sleep better at night.
The guest room was stunning, too. Crown molding on the ceiling, a chandelier that probably cost more than his yearly salary, and curtains so heavy they seemed to sigh when he drew them closed.
He should’ve been impressed. Or at the very least, asleep.
But instead, he tossed over. Then back again.
And then over once more, flopping dramatically into the overstuffed pillow with a groan.
It wasn’t the bed—it was perfect. Too perfect. That was the problem. There was too much space. No warm knees brushing against his under the covers. No sleep-heavy grumbling when he accidentally stole half the duvet. No arm tightening around his waist in the middle of the night when he shifted too far away.
It didn’t feel right without Arthur.
Merlin turned to the side and stared at the sliver of hallway light glowing under the door. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked politely. Somewhere else in this massive house, Arthur was probably sleeping in his childhood bedroom, wrapped in flannel memories and the quiet weight of history.
Merlin sighed.
He missed him. It was ridiculous, really—they’d only been apart for a few hours—but he missed the steady rhythm of Arthur’s breathing next to him. He missed the clumsy way their legs tangled under the covers. He missed the little nudge of a nose in his neck right before sleep took over.
Merlin rolled onto his stomach, buried his face into the pillow, and muttered to himself, “This is foolish.”
And then, like some kind of sleep-deprived ghost, he slipped out of the bed, tiptoed across the plush carpet, and opened the door—
He crept down the hallway like a criminal.
The house was too quiet—the kind of silence that pressed against your ears until you were convinced you could hear your own blood moving. Every floorboard creaked like a scream. Every antique vase cast long, twisted shadows that looked suspiciously sentient.
He was barefoot, wrapped in the thick guest room blanket, and holding his phone out in front of him, the flashlight trembling ever so slightly in his hand.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered as the light landed on a stern portrait of Uther above a side table. "Does he have to be everywhere?"
The eyes in the painting didn’t follow him, but Merlin didn’t test it. He picked up his pace.
He turned left at the suit of armor (because of course there was a suit of armor), passed what looked like a piano no one had played in the last decade, and finally arrived at a door near the end of the hallway.
Arthur’s room.
Merlin took a deep breath, tightened the blanket around himself like a cape of courage, and slowly—so slowly—pushed open the door.
The hinges betrayed him with a long, low creak.
The lump under the covers shifted.
“What the fuck—”
Arthur sat up fast, eyes wild in the half-light. “Jesus, Merlin, are you trying to kill me?”
Merlin blinked innocently. “I couldn’t sleep,” He whispered, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “The bed’s too big.”
Arthur squinted at him, still half-asleep but already sliding over to make space. “So your solution was to sneak in here like a serial killer?”
Merlin dropped the flashlight onto the nightstand, shuffled across the carpet, and climbed into the bed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just want your stupid cold feet pressed against mine.”
Arthur groaned and pulled the blanket over both of them. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re warm.”
There was a pause, and then a familiar, comfortable quiet.
Merlin let out a sigh as their legs tangled beneath the covers.
“Good night, prat,” he murmured into Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur’s arm curled instinctively around him. “Good night, blanket ghost.”
The room was dim and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. Arthur had drifted back into a light sleep, his chest rising and falling beneath the covers, one arm draped loosely around Merlin’s waist.
Merlin lay beside him for a while, simply watching him—
Then, slowly, Merlin shifted.
He moved with purpose now, carefully sliding a leg over Arthur’s hips and settling himself there, straddling him. The blanket slipped lower on his back, and the cool air of the room licked across his skin.
Arthur stirred immediately, blinking up at him in sleepy confusion.
“…What are you doing?” he asked, voice low and scratchy.
Merlin’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. He leaned forward just slightly, enough to make Arthur’s breath catch.
“Just thinking,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief, “What you said before... that part of you enjoys me riding you...”
His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, fingers moving fast and a little clumsy in the low light. One by one, the buttons came undone, until he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall somewhere behind him.
Arthur stared at him. “My father my sister are sleeping next door.”
“That's the thrill, huh?” Merlin rolled his hips just enough to make his point.
Arthur groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow, but the hands on Merlin’s thighs betrayed him—tightening, steadying.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
Merlin leaned down, brushing his lips lightly over Arthur’s. “You love it.”
Arthur’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous.
“You’re fucking right I do.”
Merlin leaned down quickly, capturing Arthur’s lips in a kiss. Arthur responded without hesitation, his fingers tracing the curve of Merlin’s spine. A shiver ran through Merlin, soft sounds escaping his throat as he let his hips press more firmly against Arthur’s. He ground against him, feeling Arthur’s length stir beneath him—softness giving way to something harder, heavier, wanting.
“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, breathless, watching him like he was something rare.
“Fuck...” Merlin whispered, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s. “I’ve wanted this all night.”
“This? In this bed?” Arthur smirked, his hands roaming freely now—along Merlin’s sides, over the curve of his waist, grounding him. Merlin rose to his knees, legs spread, and Arthur's hand moved between his thighs. A finger slipped inside, drawing a soft, broken whimper from Merlin.
“It’s strange,” Merlin whispered, breath shaky. “You used to sleep here as a kid. And now—” He didn’t get to finish. Arthur curled his fingers, brushing that sensitive spot, and Merlin’s head snapped back with a gasp. "Jesus！"
Arthur reached up, his hand cradling the back of Merlin’s neck. “Now I get to fuck you hard here.” His cock was fully hard, straight up to the heaven. He reached one hand blindly toward the nightstand. The drawer gave a quiet creak as it slid open. His fingers closed around the familiar little foil packet, other hand sliding up Merlin’s thigh, slow and reverent.
“Put it on me.” The foil crinkled faintly in his hand.
Merlin took and brought it to his mouth, teeth catching the edge of the wrapper with practiced ease. The material tore with a soft hiss.
Merlin rolled it on, bracing himself against the headboard with one hand while guiding Arthur’s thick, hard cock with the other. He rose up again, adjusting his position, then slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch. A soft whimper escaped his lips as the length pushed deeper inside him. Only when his ass was flush against Arthur’s hips, their bodies fully joined, did he finally collapse into Arthur’s arms—panting, trembling, and drenched in sweat.
As he leaned in to kiss Arthur, his hard-on pressed Arthur's abdomen, trailing trails of pre-cum across his skin with the movement. He shifted again—slow, deliberate, sending a jolt of pleasure through both of them that left Arthur cursing softly under his breath.
Arthur sat up, couldn’t help it. He wrapped an arm around Merlin’s back and pressed their chests together, their mouths crashing again, teeth grazing. Arthur thrust upward into Merlin, the friction almost searing Merlin's senses.
“God, Arthur—” He called Arthur's name, pressing his body down harder, driving Arthur's cock deep inside, deep into his wet, trembling hole. Warm lips found Merlin's neck, biting and kissing the tingling skin.
“Harder, Arthur... give it to me—Fuck me hard... I need...”
Arthur’s muscles tightened as his thrusts turned rougher, more urgent, slamming into Merlin with raw, reckless need. Each time his thick cock struck Merlin’s prostate dead-on, Merlin cried out—louder, messier—completely undone by the relentless pleasure driving through him.
Being in Arthur’s childhood bedroom—with its dark wooden furniture and shelves still lined with dusty books and trophies from a past life—felt surreal. And yet here they were, tangled together in the middle of the bed, blankets kicked to the floor, the only sounds in the room the rhythmic clash of bodies and the heady chorus of moans.
They thrust several more times—deep, relentless, bodies moving in perfect rhythm. Arthur let out a low growl as he reached his peak, lost in a mess of broken cries. Merlin screamed in response, releasing a blazing white arc across Arthur’s tense, trembling chest. The orgasm hit him so hard his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto Arthur, boneless and breathless, their slick bodies pressed tightly together. His cheek came to rest over Arthur’s chest, where his heart still pounded wildly beneath flushed skin.
A hand drifted into his hair, fingers slow and tender, combing through damp strands with a care that made Merlin closed his eyes, leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth, to safety. He could stay like this forever.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Their breathing gradually steadied, shifting from ragged gasps to a quiet, shared rhythm. There was only the hush of their breath, the slow beat of Merlin’s heart.
And then—so quietly it almost disappeared into the silence—Arthur said, “Did I ever tell you that...”
Merlin’s eyes opened, blinking.
“…What?”
“You’re my muse, Merls.” Arthur said, voice rougher now. His fingers paused in his hair, then started again—gentler now, like he was nervous.
“Everything I’ve made since meeting you…” Arthur continued, voice low but steady, “every painting that felt like it had breath in it, like it mattered… it’s all been you. You walk into a room, and suddenly I see color in places I didn’t know existed. You laugh, and my hands start itching for a brush. And when I touch you, Merlin…” He swallowed. “I feel like I’m touching something sacred.”
Merlin’s throat tightened.
He wanted to say something—something clever, maybe, or funny, to make Arthur laugh and break the moment before it swallowed him whole. But he couldn’t. His mouth was dry. His heart was loud.
So instead, he just shifted up, just enough to look Arthur in the eyes. His hand found Arthur’s cheek, and he held it there, thumb brushing lightly against stubble.
“Then I hope,” he said quietly, “you never run out of paintings.”
Arthur smiled, and then he kissed him again.
Morning came softly, golden sunlight filtering through the tall windows.
Merlin blinked awake, the unfamiliar ceiling above him a reminder that he wasn’t in their flat. There was a warmth pressed against his back—an arm loosely draped over his waist, the gentle rhythm of another’s breathing at his neck.
Arthur.
Merlin smiled sleepily to himself. The scent of him was grounding. Familiar. Safe.
He didn’t move at first, content to lie still in the early quiet. Then he turned a little in Arthur’s arms, just enough to see him better. Arthur was still half-asleep, lashes fanned against his cheek, mouth slightly open, hair a perfect mess.
Merlin reached up and brushed a strand off his forehead, and Arthur stirred, eyes cracking open.
“Morning,” Merlin murmured, voice rough with sleep.
Arthur let out a groggy sound, nuzzling into Merlin’s neck. “Mmm. Still real?”
“You’re not dreaming, unfortunately for you.”
Arthur gave him a lazy smile. “Not unfortunate.”
For a few quiet minutes, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other, their legs tangled beneath the duvet, warmth shared quietly in the spaces between heartbeats.
Merlin leaned forward, brushing his lips against Arthur’s—soft and slow. Arthur deepened it slightly, one hand sliding up Merlin’s back, fingers warm against his skin.
It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t needy.
It was familiar. Home.
Eventually, Arthur pulled back and sighed against his shoulder. “We should get up.” He sat up and stretched, the sheets slipping low on his hips.
“…You sure we don’t have five more minutes?”
Arthur smirked, leaning down to kiss him one more time. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
Sitting at the Pendragon dining table, which was, frankly, absurd. It was longer than some hallways he’d lived in. The kind of table where you’d need a megaphone just to ask someone to pass the butter.
He sat near Arthur, of course, but even so, he felt oddly on display.
Morgana was seated a few chairs away, sipping coffee, barely suppressing a smile. She kept glancing over at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.
Merlin raised an eyebrow at her, silently mouthing, What?
She just shook her head, grinning wider.
Across from them, Uther sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in one hand, posture perfectly straight, dignified in that royal-CEO kind of way. He turned a page, cleared his throat, and said without looking up, “I hope you both slept well last night.”
Merlin blinked, chewing slowly. “Yes, thank you. Very—”
Uther stood, folding the newspaper neatly. “Good. Continue eating. I have a board meeting to attend.” He paused, glanced briefly at Arthur, “If you are planning to move back, son.” Uther said, voice cool and clipped, “I expect advance notice.”
Arthur blinked, caught off guard.
Uther straightened his cuffs. “Because I’ll need time to renovate. Clearly, the house isn’t equipped for…” He paused, his eyes flicking meaningfully toward Merlin, “…your current lifestyle.”
Merlin’s brows lifted. Arthur’s mouth opened, then shut.
“New insulation. Soundproofing. Possibly reinforced walls.” Uther murmured to himself as he turned and left the room.
Morgana rose as well, coffee cup still in hand. “Well. That certainly sounded like a peaceful night.” Her tone was syrupy sweet, which made Merlin instinctively suspicious.
She leaned a little closer as she passed behind him. “Remember, Merlin, you’re always welcome here. Plenty of spare rooms. Or shared rooms, if that’s more your thing.” She winked, completely unrepentant. “Come by anytime, honey.”
Merlin choked on his toast.
Arthur snorted into his tea.
Morgana swept out of the room like a villainess with excellent hair, humming something suspiciously operatic.
Once the door closed behind her, Merlin turned slowly to Arthur, wide-eyed. “What the hell was that? Why do I feel like everyone is implying something?”
Arthur tried to hold back a smile and failed. He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “You really don’t know?”
Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Know what?”
Arthur reached out and brushed his fingers gently against the side of Merlin’s neck. “You’ve got a hickey. Right here. Bold placement, too.”
Merlin went rigid. “I—what?! No I don’t—are you serious?”
Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Merlin’s temple.
Chapter 7: [Moodboard]
Notes:
my friend @joyz made a moodboard for my story!! check it out pls
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Spider_monk3y on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Apr 2025 10:30AM UTC
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maey_a on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Apr 2025 11:23AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 12 Apr 2025 11:24AM UTC
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