.

.

It's for the good of us all, he remembers the village elders proclaiming. A noble sacrifice.

Arthur's but a farmer—with dark, soft earth and ashes under his fingernails he's unable to scrub, and skin freckled brown by long and tiring days still to come.

There's nothing special about him.

.

.

Arthur misses the security of the rowan branch hanging over his door-frame.

Even as a nurseling, he had been warned of the Unseelie. They come to snatch up up, to enchant you, to drag you to their kingdom and enslave you. Consume you body and soul.

Twilight creeps in, silent as ivy. His next breath catches in his throat as a shadowy, cloaked figure enters. It's a man shrugging off the worn, ratty material. Exposed, milky skin that Arthur's eyes follow in growing suspicion as he remains motionless on his cot.

Nearly a living skeleton, thin and gaunt. Dark, curling tufts of hair under the man's arms, and a cock jutting from between his legs, dusky-colored and slimmer than Arthur's.

Arthur feels the tip press wetly against his naked thigh, as the blanket is cast aside.

"Emrys," he says, partly questioning. Trying to hardest to appear unaffected, and Arthur knows himself to fail when his own groin heats with blood and need, in the simplest touch. A hand wraps to Arthur and he gives a keening cry, bucking into enveloping, tingling warmth.

The creature grins above him, beautifully human with whole, pearly teeth, crawling between Arthur's opening legs and nuzzling his chest, mouthing the blond fur.

"You give yourself to me?"

Emrys's voice keeps a low, comforting timbre, keeping him from any thought of bolting.

Arthur—only a farmer, a virginal sacrifice, and alone—drags Emrys's rune-tattooed face up, kisses him with enough force to see the constellations of bright stars behind his eyelids. Something hot and sharp in his gut. He almost laughs as Emrys yelps surprised.

A mingling of their spit dangles from Arthur's lips.

"Yes, you idiot," he snaps. "Now fuck me."

.

.

Magic, as Arthur learns, and sex makes him lightheaded and unable to think clearly.

He trembles in place, muscles clenching, biting his lip as Emrys licks against his puffy, stretched hole, where Arthur still felt some of the come inside him dripping out. He swallows down another building moan as Emrys sucks away a dribble of fluid-warmth.

"Mm, lovely," he murmurs into Arthur's hipbone, running his fingers over his slick perineum.

Arthur looks at him, and he understands.

His hand reaches to cup the angle of Emrys's cheek. The pleasant hover of magic disappears, replacing with a quick and blistering push of heat. Get away from me.

Emrys hisses wildly like a struck animal, eyes tinting an orangish glow.

He heaves himself towards the cot's end, holding tightly to his jaw and making pitiful noises.

Ignoring the silver of fear inside him, Arthur moves closer.

"Stop being such a girl's petticoat," he says, patiently. "Let me see."

"That hurt, you cabbagehead," he whines. Arthur rolls his eyes, before noticing Emrys's slowly bluing eyes fill with glistening tears. He pries Emrys's hand away, examining the flaming red mark. "Why are you wearing iron… ?" Emrys asks, sounding as if he was crying.

Arthur's eyes drop to his mother's beloved ring secure to his forefinger. He reaches back with his other hand, dragging away the line of moisture from Emrys's cheekbone.

"…I'm sorry," Arthur says, expression guilty. "Will you be alright?"

A nod.

"For you," Emrys tells him eventually, lips twitching to a small smile.

.

.

Spring blinks out of existence, leaving Arthur's body satiated and exhausted. And every season thereon, until his sun-browned and youthful skin begins to wizen, Arthur's joints creaking.

The crops ripen and flourish, unharmed by the pestilence devastating the lands. Other villages come flocking to them for protection and for the bountiful, celebratory harvests.

.

.

"Come with me."

It's a plea, more than anything, and Arthur feels consumed by its weight.

With lips melding together, Emrys releasing a devout breath into him, Arthur feels his old, aching limbs strengthen. His rheumy eyes clear, and his tendons go firm.

"You gave yourself to me, Arthur…"

The burn mark on Emrys's jaw visible in the ruddy light and bruised plum.

"I'm not special," he protests.

"You are to me."

.

.

Twilight emerges, and then fades.

Arthur follows its path, and he never returns to his loneliness.

.

.

STILL GOING STRONG FOR THE PORNATHON. THREE MORE WEEKS OF ENTRIES. Hope you enjoyed this one and any comments/questions are encouraged!