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Merlin
There was a hunger in his chest he could not name.
It wasn’t the old ache for purpose, the one that haunted him before meeting Arthur, or even the sharp, burning loyalty that kept him at Arthur’s side through battle and blood. No, this was something far stranger, more primal. It sat under his skin like a faint buzzing.
And it got worse when Arthur smiled at someone else.
It started subtly. Merlin didn’t even notice at first—how his eyes tracked Arthur more often than usual, how he lingered closer to him in council meetings, how he started collecting the king’s discarded things: a cloak left carelessly on a chair, a dagger Arthur swore he lost, a broken armguard from training.
He told himself it was sentiment. But there was a moment—about a fortnight ago—that shattered the illusion.
Arthur had been laughing. Gwaine had said something utterly idiotic, as usual, and the whole table had erupted in joy. But Merlin hadn’t laughed. He’d stared. The way Arthur’s neck arched with laughter, the way his shoulders shook. And then he’d felt it. Something inside him hissing.
Mine.
He’d left the hall immediately and fled to the Crystal Cave, half in fear and half in fury at himself. He was not a beast. He was a man. A sorcerer. A dragonlord, yes, but still Merlin.
The druids had told him this would happen. The longer he lived, the more his magic would settle into its true form. And for dragonlords, that form was not always entirely human.
The dragon within him was stirring.
And it wanted Arthur.
Arthur
Merlin had started behaving oddly.
Well, odder than usual.
He’d always been eccentric—he talked to birds, glared at trees, sometimes forgot to eat for days if he was reading a particularly complicated spellbook. But lately there was something different.
At first, Arthur thought he was imagining things. The way Merlin seemed to appear whenever anyone so much as approached Arthur. The way he would stand just a little too close, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. It was as if he were trying to assess whether or not someone was a threat.
For a short while, it was funny. Then it was…something else.
Arthur still didn’t quite know what to call it.
Yesterday, he’d caught Merlin in the act of slipping one of Arthur’s tunics—a tunic he’d worn once—into a chest at the back of his chambers.
Merlin had frozen when he saw Arthur. Blinked like a guilty cat. Then calmly closed the chest, muttered something about “protection enchantments”, and left the room as if nothing had happened.
Arthur hadn’t asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Merlin
He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.
He still loved Arthur, of course, that hadn’t changed. What had changed was how that love felt. It used to be devotion. A light in his chest. A calling. Now it was more like gravity, dragging him toward Arthur with the weight of stars. He couldn’t help himself.
He’d taken to sleeping with Arthur’s clothes. At first, just one. Then two. Then the whole pile that needed laundering. He didn’t wear them, didn’t even touch them sometimes. Just sat with them, smelled them. The scent was grounding. Familiar.
He caught himself growling when knights got too close.
Even Leon. Especially Leon.
It had all come to a head the day he found out Arthur was going to be gone for three days—riding to the border to settle a land dispute. Without him.
“No,” Merlin said.
Arthur blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean,” Merlin said, tone dangerously even, “you’re not going without me.”
“You’ve got spellwork to finish, the wards around the eastern coast haven’t been reset, and Gaius said—”
“I don’t care.” Merlin stepped forward, hand curling at his side. “You’re not going without me.”
Arthur raised both eyebrows, crossing his arms. “And if I order you to stay?”
Merlin’s eyes flashed gold.
Arthur stepped back.
The silence between them bristled with something thick.
Merlin’s voice was a growl when he said, “You are mine to protect. I will not let you leave my sight.”
Arthur
It should have pissed him off.
Being told what to do—by Merlin, no less—should have sent him into a fit of righteous, kingly fury. And yet…
He’d said nothing. Not because he was afraid, but because…
Because some strange, half-formed part of him liked it.
Merlin had always protected him. Had died for him, nearly. Again and again. But this was different. This wasn’t duty. It was something else.
Possession.
And Arthur didn’t hate it.
Merlin
The turning point came on the second night of that ride to the border.
They were camping under stars, fire low, only the rustle of the wind and the distant call of an owl to keep them company. Arthur was asleep. Merlin wasn’t.
He crouched by the tent, staring into the coals.
A thought had burrowed its way into his skull and would not leave.
He’s mortal.
It didn’t matter that he was King, or a warrior, or the bravest man Merlin had ever known. He was still flesh and blood. Still breakable.
The world could take him. A sword. An illness. A careless moment. A betrayal.
And Merlin would go mad.
His magic pulsed at his fingertips. Gold flickered in his eyes.
He thought of dragons, of hoards of gold, of nests made in high places. He thought of how fiercely they guarded what they loved, how jealousy wasn’t vice but instinct.
And he wondered: what would Arthur do if he knew?
Would he run?
Would he stay?
Arthur
The next morning, Arthur woke up with Merlin curled around him.
Not beside him. Not near him.
Around him.
The sorcerer was wrapped along his back like a second skin, one leg slung over his hips, one arm tight across his chest. Arthur could feel the hum of magic in the air, warm and heavy like breath.
“…Merlin?” he croaked, voice dry.
“Mmh,” came the groggy reply.
“Are you—what are you doing?”
A pause. Then, shamelessly: “Keeping you.”
Arthur blinked at the sky.
Well.
That was new.
_____
They didn’t talk about it.
Not that morning, nor the next one.
Which was unusual, because normally when Merlin did something strange—like falling asleep draped across the King of Albion like a particularly clingy wolfhound—Arthur would hurl sarcasm at him until he fled the tent with an indignant huff.
But this time, he hadn’t said a word.
Because Merlin hadn’t moved.
Because Merlin had opened his eyes, gold bleeding into blue, and simply said, “Keeping you,” with the sort of primal devotion that made Arthur forget how to speak.
Now, three days later, Arthur was still thinking about it.
Thinking about how Merlin had subtly shifted the way he walked—closer, always, like a shield. How he sat beside Arthur at the campfire, not across from him. How he reached out, unthinking, to rest a hand on Arthur’s thigh while they spoke, as if the touch tethered him.
No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they said nothing.
Arthur wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
Merlin
By the time they returned to Camelot, Merlin had officially lost it.
He could admit that now. He was fully, absolutely, undeniably hoarding Arthur Pendragon.
He’d created a pocket spell—a harmless little tether that tracked Arthur’s presence in the back of his mind. He no longer needed to ask where Arthur was. He felt him.
He’d enchanted Arthur’s favorite bath oil with calming magic, lined his chamber with subtle wards to repel others from entering without permission, and snarled at a page boy who had the audacity to offer Arthur wine before dinner.
Gaius had taken one look at him last night, muttered something about “draconic fixation”, and gone to bed early.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
Merlin wanted to nest.
The dragon in him—the ancient magic curled around his soul—wanted to claim Arthur’s chamber, to cast out anything that didn’t smell like them both, to fill the bed with softness and warmth and all the things that made Arthur feel safe. It wanted to build a fortress around the man.
It didn’t feel wrong.
It felt natural.
Arthur
He’d had lovers before. Casual ones, fleeting ones. Men and women, warriors and nobles.
But nothing had ever felt like this.
He wasn’t even sure what this was.
It wasn’t just that Merlin was touching him more. It was the way he touched him: possessively, unconsciously, like he had every right. Their hands brushed more often than not as they walked through the castle. An arm around his waist or at his back when they sat beside each other. The absent, distracted way his fingers drew shapes on Arthur’s thigh when Arthur was speaking to his council.
And then there was last night.
Arthur had tried to sneak away for an hour of sword practice. Just him, alone in the courtyard.
He hadn’t told Merlin.
Merlin had found him.
He’d strode across the stone floor barefoot, hair wild, eyes bright, as if the entire castle had burned down and Arthur was the last thing standing.
“You didn’t tell me,” he’d said, quiet, hurt.
Arthur had laughed. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to breathe, Merlin.”
Merlin hadn’t smiled.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said again.
Arthur didn’t sleep much that night.
Merlin
He was losing control.
He knew it. Gaius knew it. Even Kilgharrah—who haunted his dreams like a scolding father—had begun appearing more frequently, urging caution.
But it was hard to be cautious when Arthur looked at him like that. Like he didn’t understand, but wanted to.
Merlin could scent the shift in him, curiosity laced with desire.
So one evening, after a long day of diplomacy and dull feasts and too many people shaking Arthur’s hand, Merlin did something about it.
He waited until Arthur was in bed, then climbed in with him.
On him.
Arthur, bleary-eyed and blinking, didn’t flinch.
Merlin straddled his hips, hands switching between absently tracing patterns on the king's chest and picking at his own nails. His magic crackled faintly in the air, warm and gold and intimate.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
Arthur’s hands rose automatically, resting on Merlin’s thighs. “Is this about the dagger I found in your sock drawer?”
Merlin blinked. “What?”
Arthur snorted. “Never mind. Go on.”
Merlin’s throat was dry.
He hadn’t planned how to say it.
“I’m hoarding you.”
Arthur stared.
Merlin shifted, nervous. “It’s… dragonlord instinct. Ancient magic. It’s getting stronger, and I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Merlin.”
Arthur’s voice cut through the rambling spiral.
Merlin looked down.
Arthur was smiling. Just a little.
“You’ve been hoarding me for years.”
Merlin froze.
Arthur leaned up and pressed their foreheads together.
“You just didn’t realize it.”
Arthur
It was terrifying, in a way, to see how fragile Merlin looked in that moment. Like Arthur’s reaction might break him.
So Arthur did what came naturally.
He cupped Merlin’s face.
“You think I didn’t notice,” he murmured. “How you guard me like treasure. How you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door? How you growl—growl, Merlin—at anyone who flirts with me.”
“I do not growl,” Merlin muttered.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Fine. Once.”
“Three times.”
A beat.
“…Alright, seven. ”
Arthur chuckled, the sound low and fond.
“I like it,” he said, quietly.
Merlin’s eyes widened.
Arthur brushed a thumb over his cheek. “I like you. All of you. The man, the sorcerer… the dragon.”
Merlin exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Then he kissed him.
And Arthur let himself be kissed like a treasure long buried and finally found.
Merlin
He built the nest in secret.
Not because he was ashamed. No. Dragons don’t feel shame for what they are. They only hide when they think someone might try to take what they love.
So he hid it from Arthur. For a while.
He started with the bed.
The royal chambers were already lavish by most standards; silken sheets, thick fur throws, a massive four-poster carved with Pendragon sigils. But Merlin replaced the linens. All of them. With materials enchanted to retain warmth and softness. Some stolen—borrowed—from his own collection, others commissioned from magical traders with the softest wools from the far north.
Then came the pillows.
Not just the ones meant for sleep. Nesting required layers. Coziness. Scent. Safety. Merlin stuffed the space around Arthur’s side of the bed with cushions, cloaks, and spare tunics that smelled like him. Folded and stacked and arranged just so.
Then came the enchantments. Warding spells to keep others out. Comfort spells to make Arthur feel at peace. Slow, subtle magics that made the chamber feel secure and homely.
Arthur
He noticed that night.
It had been a long day—council meetings, training drills, a heated argument with a visiting noble who still didn’t trust sorcerers despite being hosted by a court sorcerer who happened to be the most powerful magic user in Albion.
Arthur was tired. Sore. Craving a bath and silence.
He opened the chamber door and froze.
It wasn’t… immediately obvious. The room still looked like his. Mostly. But there was a softness to it now. A quiet glow. It smelled like magic and comfort and Merlin.
The bed, however, was what gave it away.
It was massive. Overflowing. A tangled sprawl of blankets and robes and furs and—was that his old cloak, the one he wore three winters ago?
Arthur stepped closer. There was a dagger wedged under a pillow. His dagger.
He sat on the edge of the bed, blinking slowly.
The door creaked.
Merlin stood in the threshold, sheepish.
Arthur blinked at him.
“You… made a nest.”
Merlin nodded. “I did.”
Arthur looked back at the bed. “For me?”
Merlin stepped forward. “For us.”
Arthur touched the blankets. “This is insane.”
Merlin’s face fell just a fraction.
Arthur smiled. “And weirdly comforting. I suppose it’s also…charming.”
Merlin’s eyes softened.
Arthur patted the spot beside him. “Come on then. I’m exhausted.”
Merlin
He didn’t cry.
Dragons don’t cry.
But his throat tightened when Arthur curled up beside him, one hand finding his without needing to look.
Merlin tucked himself close, resting a palm over Arthur’s chest like he was anchoring him to the earth.
It took them scarcely ten minutes to fall asleep.
Arthur
He got used to it quicker than he thought he would.
Sleeping in Merlin’s nest became the new normal. Merlin’s clinginess, too. It was subtle, but constant. Arthur couldn’t cross the hall without Merlin ghosting after him. He touched Arthur often—as often as allowed.
Arthur started noticing things too. Like how people stared when Merlin did it. Some curious. Some startled. A few disapproving.
It didn’t bother Arthur. Not really.
Until he noticed.
Sir Elric.
A knight from the northern border. Broad-shouldered, smooth-tongued, and apparently unaware that flirting with the King’s court sorcerer was a dangerous idea.
Arthur had walked into the armory late one afternoon to find Elric standing too close to Merlin. Laughing. Reaching out to adjust something on Merlin’s shirt.
Arthur didn’t say a word.
He simply turned on his heel and left.
The next day, Elric was reassigned to border patrol.
For three months.
Merlin
That night, Merlin kissed him like something newfound.
Because when Arthur got possessive, it wasn’t magic. It was choice.
That made it even more dangerous.
Even more beautiful.
They tangled in the nest like silk and flame, mouths hungry, hands desperate. Arthur muttered something against Merlin’s throat about belonging, and Merlin’s magic howled with joy.
For the first time in months, the dragon in him settled.
Arthur was his.
And more importantly—
He was Arthur’s.