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“Well, well, well, look at you.”
“That's gonna be a bit hard, considering I don't have a reflection, sire.”
“Always talking back, even when it is my blood you have drooling from your lips, Merlin.”
And what a sight he was to behold. How nicely he had begged and whined, despite how insubordinate he usually was. Just to get a single drop of warm, fresh blood.
Arthur’s blood.
“You’ve earned your prize and now you're expecting more? Just handed to you on a silver platter? My, I never knew how greedy you were.”
Again Merlin was staring at his neck, the mark he had created, those two puncture wounds, still oozing that delicious blood he craved. It seemed almost cruel to make him abstain from it, after he got by so many years on animal blood or blood from people they had just killed. Blood that had none of the comforting qualities it had straight from the source, instead being cold as ice on his tongue.
It didn't compare at all to the healing liquid that Arthur was willingly giving him. The one that made him feel alive, made him buzz with energy, made him feel like he belonged.
Arthur would have given his life for Merlin after a week of knowing the man. Giving his blood every once and then was a walk through the gardens. Merlin did say he had come to Camelot to find a place where he belonged. Who was Arthur to deny him?