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The sounds of the ballroom still echoed in his ears — the clinking of goblets, the rustle of silks, the hypocritical murmurs of nobles who smiled at him and gossiped behind his back. Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, Unifier of Albion, had done his duty. Now, just an exhausted man wanted to take off the invisible armor he wore every time he entered that circus of vanities.
The door to the royal chambers creaked as it closed. Arthur was already unbuttoning his tunic before the wood even met the frame.
"Damn ball," he grumbled, yanking off the ceremonial crown with a sharp motion. The jewel fell onto the dresser with a clink that echoed in the silence of the room. "Damn nobles. Damn..."
The tunic followed the crown. Then the embroidered vest, the satin cuffs, the short cape Gwen had insisted he wear because "it suits you, Arthur."
He was down to his linen shirt now, his fingers already working on the buttons, when he heard it.
It wasn't exactly a sound. It was more of a vibration in the air. A deep, guttural purr coming from the direction of the bed.
Arthur didn't turn around. A lazy smile curved his lips as he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor, not deigning to look back.
"Is that jealousy I hear?" the question came out drawling, provocative, as he wet his hands in the basin of fresh water and passed them over his face, his neck, his chest still marked with scars from old battles.
The purr turned into a growl.
"Obviously." The voice came out rough, different — deeper, as if from a place that wasn't entirely human. Arthur heard the rustle of fabric, the weight of a body leaping from the bed, and then the air around him grew denser, warmer.
Merlin loomed behind him. Arthur could see it in the reflection of the water basin: the tall silhouette, the golden eyes, the aura of power that vibrated around his body like a storm field.
And then Merlin's mouth brushed his ear.
"They were trying to devour you with their eyes, those damned nobles," he growled. "I don't like the way they touched my king."
The whisper was hot, moist, charged with promise. Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine — not from fear, but from anticipation.
He turned.
Merlin looked different. It wasn't just the magic; it was his posture. His shoulders seemed broader, his height more imposing — his eyes were no longer blue, but a liquid gold that glowed like embers. His jaw was tense, his lips slightly parted, and he looked at Arthur like a predator that had finally caught its prey.
Arthur didn't step back.
He stood chest to chest with him. Anyone else would have lowered their head, backed away, surrendered before that ancestral force. But Arthur wasn't just anyone. He was Merlin's king, the man the dragon had chosen, and he would never, ever look away from the creature he loved.
He lifted his chin. Smug. Defiant.
"Your king?" He smiled. "Does that make you mine too?"
The fire in Merlin's eyes wavered. Just an instant — long enough for Arthur to register the impact of the words. Then, the sorcerer smiled. A slow, lazy smile that showed teeth slightly sharper than normal.
He leaned in, his golden eyes now level with Arthur's.
"My king..." his voice was a murmur, a purr, a caress. "You will always be mine. I already serve you in so many ways, the only thing missing is for me to give you my paw and ask for belly rubs. Do you want me to wear a collar too?"
Arthur felt the air leave his lungs. Not from the threat — but from the image. Merlin, on his knees, wearing a collar, obeying him...
He swallowed hard.
"Are you offering, Merlin?" the question came out more breathless than he intended.
Merlin growled. Licked his lips. His golden eyes gleamed.
"Only if you can handle it, my king."
The challenge hung in the air like a blade. Arthur didn't back down. Instead, he raised his arms — a gesture of surrender that was actually an order. Take me.
Merlin didn't hesitate.
Strong arms, stronger than any human's, wrapped around Arthur's waist and lifted him off the floor as if he weighed nothing. Arthur let himself be carried, his hands finding Merlin's broad shoulders, his fingers threading through the black hair he loved so much.
The kiss came like an attack.
It wasn't gentle, wasn't slow. It was Merlin's mouth devouring his, tongue — strangely long, strangely agile — pushing into his throat in a movement that made Arthur choke, his eyes watering, a muffled moan escaping his throat.
Merlin felt it. The vibration of the moan traveled through his tongue, his jaw, his chest. He smiled — or tried to smile, but his lips were busy.
When he finally pulled back, just enough for Arthur to breathe, his voice came out rough, almost a whisper.
"Let's play horsie, love. Pull my reins if you can't take any more."
Before Arthur could answer, Merlin's hands found the waist of his trousers. A tug. The fabric tore — not with the delicate sound of a seam breaking, but with the violence of someone who had no patience for knots and buttons.
Arthur didn't complain. He was too busy trying to catch his breath.
Merlin sat on the bed, pulling Arthur onto his lap. The position was too intimate, too erotic — Arthur straddling Merlin, legs apart, body pressed against the sorcerer's, Merlin's palms firm on his hips.
"In that case..." Arthur forced his voice to stay steady, though his heart was racing. His hands found Merlin's neck, his fingers wrapping around the red fabric of the neckerchief he'd worn for so long it was already part of him. A tug, and Merlin was pulled even closer to him. "Scream if you can't handle what I'm going to do to you."
Merlin purred. Not a growl, not a moan — a purr, low and continuous, vibrating in his chest and spreading through his limbs. His golden eyes were fixed on Arthur's, and there was something there that wasn't just desire. It was worship.
"I have a feeling our night is going to be great, my king."
Arthur leaned in, his forehead touching Merlin's.
"I'm sure it will."
And then they kissed. Not like two people who love each other — like two fires that had finally found fuel. Merlin's mouth was hot, his teeth scraping Arthur's lips, his tongue dancing with Arthur's in a rhythm that had no hurry but also no forgiveness.
Merlin's hips moved.
Just a sway — a slow, circular motion that pressed their bodies together. Arthur moaned against Merlin's mouth, his hands gripping the broad shoulders, his nails digging into the skin. The movement continued. Faster now. More deliberate.
Merlin rocked Arthur in his lap as if he were made to be there — and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.
The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. Their moans mingled in the warm air of the room — deep, guttural, unrestrained.
Merlin growled something against Arthur's neck, something in a language Arthur didn't understand, but which made his blood boil. His hands slid up Arthur's waist, his flanks, his chest, and stopped at his face. Thumbs traced his cheekbones. Golden eyes met blue eyes.
"My king," Merlin whispered, and the word was a prayer, a possession, a promise.
Arthur pulled Merlin's scarf tighter, wrapping it around his wrist to keep Merlin as close to him as possible.
"My dragon," he replied.
And what came after were just sounds. Sighs. Moans. The creaking of the bed. Merlin's rough voice calling his name as if it were a prayer. Arthur's breathless voice answering in kind, as if it were an oath.
The night was long. And they took all the time in the world to pleasure each other.