Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden door of the stable, the scent hit him first—rank, clinging, unmistakable. His nose wrinkled, though a crooked smirk tugged at his mouth despite himself.
The sight inside was worse than anything he had imagined in the haze of last night's impulse.
Merlin was curled in the straw, her skin slick with dried sweat and filth, her golden hair tangled and plastered to her flushed face. The goblin was half-sprawled over her, clinging even in sleep, its wiry limbs knotted tight around her waist, its body pressed shamelessly against hers.
The air was thick with the stench of spent lust, an animal heat that still lingered though the creature now snored softly.
Arthur leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Well," he muttered, voice dripping sarcasm, "seems you really did take care of my goblin."
Merlin stirred at the sound, groggy, her eyes opening in a dazed flutter. She tried to sit up, but the goblin clung tighter, making her whimper in both pain and exhaustion.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—only a broken sob as she realized how he was looking at her.
Arthur's gaze roamed over the grotesque tableau: the beautiful girl, smeared and ruined, entangled with the filthy creature like some obscene parody of a couple.
And to his own disgust, a sharp pulse of heat ran through him.
The very image he'd mocked himself with in bed hours before was now before his eyes, real, undeniable.
"You're disgusting right now," he spat suddenly, his tone cutting like a blade. "Covered in filthy cum."
But his fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms—because he knew the word didn't just belong to her.
Merlin's tears welled, her body trembling, but through the shame she still reached a hand out toward him. "Arthur… please… don't say that," her voice cracked, fragile and hoarse.
"I did it for you."
"No, Merlin. You did it because you're pathetic enough to think being a brood sow for a goblin would buy back my affection." He sneered, forcing himself to step back from the doorway.
"But I should thank you for your 'altruistic' act anyway," he added, voice dripping with venom. "After all, you gave him what I never would."
And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her sobbing in the stink of the stable.
Yet as he walked away, the image of her body pinned beneath that grotesque little monster burned behind his eyelids, mocking him, thrilling him in ways he refused to admit.
Arthur lingered at the stable door longer than he meant to.
Her sobs—thin, broken things—echoed in the dim space, cutting through the heavy air. He exhaled sharply, half in annoyance, half in something he didn't want to name.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
He stepped forward, boots crunching over the straw until he stood before her. Merlin looked up, startled, her face streaked with tears and filth, eyes wide as if she expected another cruel word. Instead, Arthur crouched, slid an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, and lifted her from the muck.
"Stop crying. You know I hate tears," he said, lower now.
Merlin gasped softly. For a heartbeat, she seemed frozen, not daring to believe it. Then her arms clutched weakly at his chest, and despite her exhaustion, a trembling smile broke across her lips.
"You… you're not sending me away?" she whispered, voice still raw.
Arthur didn't answer. His expression was hard, jaw set, but he carried her steadily out of the stable. The goblin stirred faintly in the hay behind them, but he didn't so much as glance back.
The cool night air washed over them, brushing away the stench little by little. Merlin rested her head against him, tears still streaking her cheeks but now mixed with a fragile, almost childlike joy. For her, the fact that he hadn't left her there in the dirt, that he was carrying her at all, was proof enough of hope.
"You can stay, but only if you accept the role. The one you chose." He said coldly.
At the well, he set her down gently on the stone rim and began to draw water. Merlin watched him, lips trembling, as though every movement was a gift she didn't deserve.
Arthur splashed a bucket over her shoulders, letting the water sluice away grime and sweat. She shivered at the cold but giggled softly—an unsteady, breathless laugh of relief. "Arthur… you're still looking after me."
His eyes narrowed, and he didn't answer. He busied himself with another bucket, letting the water run over her hair, her face, scrubbing away the filth until the girl beneath the ruin was visible again.
Merlin closed her eyes, letting it wash over her, a faint blush rising to her cheeks even as tears lingered.
"I'll be better… I'll prove myself… you'll see," she whispered, clinging to the illusion that his silence meant acceptance. Then, more softly, almost feverishly: "Even if you cast me away, I'll never leave you. Not me. Not the goblin. We'll always be yours."
Arthur froze at her words, bucket dangling from his hand, water dripping to the dirt. For a fleeting moment, he almost looked back toward the stable, as though the sleeping creature inside were a shadow he'd never truly escape.
He tightened his jaw, turned away, and said nothing.
But as he stared into the black water of the well, his reflection seemed to waver—her sobs, the goblin's claws, her trembling smile all tangled together—and he knew this was only the beginning of something far worse.
She reeked of sex and degradation — but also of the promise of a goblin's breeding farm.
The sun had barely touched the roof of the hut when Arthur returned to the stable, his eyes still heavy, his stomach churning with the memory of the night before.
The smell hit him first—a mixture of damp straw, dry sweat, and something else… fermented.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and there was the goblin: awake, standing, triumphant.
Merlin was still asleep, huddled in a corner, her body covered by a makeshift cloak. But the goblin? The goblin was in full celebration mode.
Seeing Arthur, it let out an excited grunt, beat its own chest with a claw, and pointed to Merlin as if displaying a masterpiece.
Arthur stopped, staring at the creature. "You're feeling pretty cocky, huh?"
The goblin replied with a sound that resembled a proud burp, then ran to a corner of the stable and returned holding its 'filthy mushroom'—erect, swollen, and glistening as if it had had a night of glory.
"GRRUH…GRRUH!" it declared, raising the member as if it were an Olympic trophy.
Arthur blinked. "You… you're showing me this like it's a diploma?"
The goblin jumped in place, spun once, and made a gesture that looked like a bow—or perhaps a spasm.
The goblin stopped spinning, panting, still holding the "mushroom" with both hands as if expecting applause. Its yellow eyes shone with a childlike joy, completely oblivious to the horror of its own display.
Arthur crossed his arms, staring at the creature like one watching a rat trying to perform ballet.
"You really think that's an accomplishment, don't you?"
The goblin let out another proud grunt, then tapped its own hip with a claw, as if to say: 'I planted it well.'
Arthur snorted. "Congratulations, you perverted gardener. You've done your part. Now put away that trophy before it starts releasing spores."
The goblin approached, trying to proudly display the "mushroom," as if expecting a medal.
Arthur recoiled half a step, hands raised. "No. Don't touch that to me. Go… I don't know, put it away. Bury it. Cultivate it. Just get it away."
The goblin hesitated, looked at its own organ, then at Arthur, and finally gave a sad grunt, like a dog whose toy had been rejected.
Arthur sighed, looking at Merlin, still motionless. "You did what I ordered. But don't look at me like you won a medal."
The goblin hesitated, looked at its own member, then at Arthur, and finally covered it with a piece of dirty cloth—as if swaddling a baby.
Arthur turned away, looking at Merlin still asleep in the corner, her body curled up, her face hidden under tangled hair.
"Poor Merlin…" he murmured. "What have you gotten yourself into…"
But his voice didn't carry just pity. There was something else—a note of calculation, of bitter acceptance.
"Well," he continued, softer, "almost good for me. I lost a wife… and gained a promise."
The goblin, hearing this, let out a sound that resembled a satisfied sigh, then sat on the ground and began drawing in the hay with its claw—crooked shapes, maybe mushrooms, maybe portraits of Merlin, maybe nothing.
Arthur didn't want to know.
He just stood there for a moment, watching the goblin like one contemplates a seed that should never have sprouted—but which, now, can no longer be uprooted.
Arthur ran a hand over his face. "Gods. My legacy begins with this."
Arthur crossed his arms. "Okay. Congratulations, I guess. You are officially the employee of the month at the goblin breeding farm."
The goblin let out a sound like a claw-clapping applause, then ran in circles, celebrating its personal victory.
Arthur turned to leave, muttering, "If this is the beginning of my dynasty… may the gods have mercy on what comes next."
But the goblin was already in motion—skipping toward Merlin, with arms wide open and the "mushroom" already in an attack position, as if it were about to repeat last night's ritual.
Arthur sighed, dropped the bucket on the ground with a dry thud, and raised a hand in a stopping motion.
"Hey. Stop right there, you hell-farmer."
The goblin froze mid-step, one leg still in the air, the "mushroom" pulsating with pride.
Arthur approached, his voice firm and sarcastic. "She's off duty, got it? Night shift only. Give her a break."
The goblin blinked, confused, then let out a sad grunt, slowly lowering its hips as if putting away a tool it wouldn't be using.
Arthur crossed his arms. "You think it's a crop, huh? You just show up and plant. But even fertile soil needs to rest."
The goblin looked at Merlin, then at Arthur, and finally sat on the ground with a sigh—a sound like a bucket of mud being dumped.
Arthur shook his head. "Gods… I've created an ultra-libidinous 'gardener.'"
The goblin gave a last, soft grunt, and began drawing shapes in the hay with its claw—maybe maps, maybe mushrooms. Arthur didn't want to know.