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The smell of candles and old parchment hung in the air, mingled with the aroma of the herbs Merlin was sorting on the workbench. He was focused — or at least pretending to be. His fingers flipped through the pages of a book so old the edges were crumbling, but his eyes didn't follow the words. They were fixed on a vague point, a distant thought, perhaps memories of the night before.
He heard the footsteps before he saw their owner. He didn't need to look to know who it was — the steady cadence, the balanced weight, the absence of hesitation. Arthur Pendragon walked through the world as if it belonged to him, and at that moment, in that silent library, perhaps it did.
The king didn't come in a hurry. He approached slowly, the sound of his boots muffled by the lightness of Arthur's steps, and Merlin felt the moment Arthur stopped beside him — not close enough for their shoulders to touch, but close enough for Merlin to feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Merlin." His voice came out low, but charged with a purpose Merlin knew well. He didn't look up from the book. He let his fingers move to the next page with a calm that was pure theater.
"Merlin, I've been thinking," Arthur repeated, and now there was a smile in his voice — that smug smile Merlin had learned to identify before even seeing it.
"I'm listening, my king," Merlin replied, his eyes still on the book. "But be careful what you say. Thinking can be dangerous for you."
Arthur laughed — low, that laugh that was almost a grumble, and Merlin felt the weight of his body lean against the workbench beside him. The proximity was now greater. Arthur's arm brushed against Merlin's, and Merlin felt a shiver run down his spine.
"I was thinking..." Arthur began. "... that you should grow a beard."
Merlin finally looked up. Not at Arthur — at the wall in front of him, where a spiderweb swayed gently in the draft. He laughed — a short, mocking sound that didn't hide his contentment enough.
"You want me to grow a beard."
"Yes."
"Why? To look wiser? To impress the nobles with how much I look like my father? So the children will stop calling me 'old man' when I go to town?"
"Which of those options would make you more inclined to agree?"
"I'm not going to agree."
Arthur sighed — a dramatic, exaggerated sound that Merlin knew was staged. But before Merlin could provoke him again, he felt the movement. Arthur moved behind him, and the heat of his body enveloped Merlin like a cloak.
Arthur's arms wrapped around his neck. The king's chest pressed against his back, firm, warm, and Merlin felt Arthur's chin rest on his shoulder.
"Come on, Merlin," his voice came out low, almost a whisper, his lips brushing Merlin's ear with each word. "You've always said that serving me is your greatest pleasure."
Merlin felt the air leave his lungs. The book in his hands trembled, and he closed it with a dry click, abandoning it on the workbench. He tilted his head to the side, offering more space, and Arthur accepted the invitation. His lips found Merlin's neck — not a kiss, yet. Just a brush. A ghost of a touch that made the hairs on Merlin's arms stand on end.
"I would give my hands and feet for you, my king, destroy entire kingdoms and burn the world," Merlin murmured, his eyes half-closed, his voice lower than he intended. "But a beard? No chance. You know I hate having to maintain a beard all the time."
Arthur's lips moved to Merlin's jaw. A kiss. Then another. Then a third, longer, on the curve of his ear.
"You wouldn't have to maintain it," Arthur whispered. "I would take care of it for you. Every day. I'd run my fingers through it, trim the hairs, apply oil... you wouldn't even have to worry."
Merlin laughed just imagining the scene of his pampered king doing that — but the laugh came out shaky, compromised.
"You're lying."
"I'm serious."
"You've never even washed your own hair. I do it."
"Then you can teach me, and I can finally learn to take good care of you."
The kiss on his ear was longer this time. Arthur sucked on his earlobe with a pressure that made Merlin hold his breath.
"I just wanted to test something," Arthur murmured against his skin.
"Test what?"
"If you could get even hotter with a beard."
Merlin felt the blood rush to his face. His ears burned. His neck burned where Arthur's lips had been.
"I would definitely tremble with your beard rubbing against my neck," Arthur's voice dropped, becoming a hoarse whisper, almost too intimate to be spoken aloud. "Rubbing against my chest... going down my stomach..."
Merlin's hands, which had been resting on the workbench, clenched. His knuckles went white.
"And when you went lower..." Arthur continued, and Merlin could feel the smile on his lips, even without seeing it. "When your beard rubbed against my cock..."
Merlin turned around.
It wasn't a sudden movement, wasn't violent — it was decisive. He spun in Arthur's embrace until he was face to face with him, his eyes meeting the king's, and there was something there that wasn't just exasperation. There was fire. There was desire. There was the image Arthur had planted in his mind — Arthur, lying down, breathless, moaning his name while Merlin's beard brushed against his skin.
"You're being cruel, Arthur."
Arthur smiled — that smile Merlin knew so well, the smile of someone who already knew he had won.
"I'm just being honest."
Merlin's hands found Arthur's waist. They didn't rest — they grabbed. They pulled the king against his body in a movement that made Arthur lose his balance for a second, his hands flying to Merlin's shoulders to steady himself.
"How many centimeters?" His voice came out low, rough, and Merlin leaned in, his mouth finding Arthur's ear, mimicking what Arthur had done moments before. "How many centimeters do you want me to grow it, my king?"
Arthur trembled. Merlin felt the tremor run through his body, felt Arthur's hands tighten on his shoulders, felt the king's breath quicken against his neck.
"Enough," Arthur managed to say, his voice breaking midway. "Enough for me to feel it."
Merlin growled — a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest and echoed in the silence of the library. The library. The library where anyone could walk in. The thought flashed through his mind like lightning — and was ignored.
"You're going to regret asking for this," Merlin whispered against Arthur's ear, his teeth brushing the skin, his tongue tracing the curve of the cartilage.
"I won't."
Merlin's eyes met Arthur's. Arthur's eyes were dilated, and Merlin knew his were too.
His magic responded to desire, and the desire at that moment was so overwhelming that the torches in the library crackled louder, as if the fire were feeding on their heat.
Merlin grabbed Arthur's chin with one hand, forcing his face upward, exposing his neck. And then he leaned in — not to kiss, not to bite. Just to whisper.
"Your wish is my command, my king."
Arthur smiled — that smug, confident smile that Merlin loved and hated in equal measure.
"Finally you understand who's in charge, Merlin."
The book forgotten on the workbench. The scattered herbs. The spiderweb swaying gently in the corner of the window. The library was empty, and the only sounds echoing through the corridors were hurried footsteps and the sound of a door being firmly closed.