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Summary
They should write songs about Merlin’s mouth, Arthur thinks as their lips meet; maddening, insistent, trembling slightly, as pillow-soft as Arthur expected and more forceful than he could have dreamed. An ode, he thinks, would be suitable; perhaps a ballad or a sonnet. Paintings all along the citadel walls. Then, when Merlin’s teeth nearly sink into the flesh of Arthur’s bottom lip, he stops thinking altogether.
