Chapter 2: The King's Request
Arthur’s fingers, still warm from the bathwater, closed around the stem of the goblet Merlin held. He took it, his thumb brushing Merlin’s knuckle in the transfer, and set both glasses on the heavy oak table with a soft, definitive click.
The silence in the chamber expanded, filled only by the pop of the dying fire. Arthur turned, his gaze traveling over Merlin’s face, down his neck, and back up, a slow, appraising sweep that had nothing to do with a servant’s performance.
“You know,” Arthur began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. “In all these years, I’ve never seen your room.”
Merlin blinked. The non sequitur was a lifeline and a trap all at once. “My room? It’s… it’s a room. There’s a bed. And walls. Very room-like.”
“Astounding detail. Thank you for that.” Arthur’s lips quirked. He took a step closer. The low-hanging sweatpants sat precariously on his hips, the damp linen outlining every muscle of his abdomen. A drop of water traced a path from his hairline down his temple. “I want to see it.”
“Why?” The word came out too high, too strained.
Arthur shrugged, a ripple of shoulder and chest. “Because I’m your king, and I’m curious. Because you know the shape of every shadow in this chamber, and I don’t know where you sleep.” He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “Humor me. Before I have to make it an official royal decree. The parchment work would be dreadful.”
Defeated, Merlin let out a shaky breath. “It’s this way.”
The walk through the stone corridors was an exercise in exquisite tension. Arthur, barefoot and bare-chested, moved with an unselfconscious grace that seemed to redefine the space around him. Servants and late-night guards melted into doorways or found sudden, urgent business in the opposite direction. Their eyes were wide, but Arthur paid them no mind. His focus was on the back of Merlin’s neck, on the set of his shoulders.
Merlin felt every glance like a physical touch. He was leading a barely-dressed king to his servant’s quarters in the dead of night. There was no innocent explanation for this.
His door was tucked at the end of a narrow, colder hallway. Merlin fumbled with the key, his magic sparking faintly at the lock before he got it open. He pushed the door inward, half-hoping Arthur would lose interest. “See? Told you. It’s a room.”
Arthur shouldered past him and stepped inside.
The space was small, dominated by a narrow bed shoved against the wall. A single, high window let in a slash of moonlight. It was cluttered, but with a familiar, lived-in chaos: books stacked perilously on a stool, strange botanical specimens drying from the ceiling beams, a half-carved piece of wood on the small table, and several mismatched candles burned down to stubs. The air smelled of pine sap, old paper, and the faint, clean scent of Merlin’s soap.
Arthur said nothing. He moved slowly, his presence making the room seem even smaller. He picked up the carved wood—a rough shape of a dragon. He ran a finger along the spine of a leather-bound book with no title. His silence was a physical weight. He was absorbing it all, every detail, mapping the private geography of Merlin’s life.
Merlin hovered by the door, his arms crossed tightly. “Satisfied?”
Arthur set the carving down with care. He turned, his back to the window, his face in shadow. “You fought differently today,” he said, returning to the earlier match as if the inspection had been a mere interlude. “After Sir Edwin left. Reckless.”
“I was distracted.” Merlin’s voice was tight.
“By?”
“By you flirting with a visiting knight!” Merlin snapped, the words escaping before he could cage them. He immediately wished to swallow them back.
Arthur’s teeth flashed in the gloom. A smile. “Jealous, Merlin?”
“Annoyed. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Arthur took a step toward him. Another. The moonlight now caught the planes of his chest, the trail of dark gold hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. “You think he got lucky. That disarming move. You think it was a fluke.”
Merlin lifted his chin, defiance a flimsy shield. “Everyone gets lucky sometimes. Even royal prats.”
Arthur’s eyes gleamed, a predatory blue in the dark. “A rematch, then. Right now.”
“What, here?” Merlin scoffed, gesturing at the cramped space. “There’s no room.”
“Plenty of room.” Arthur’s voice was a low promise. “Do you accept?”
“Fine. Yes. Tomorrow at dawn, we’ll—”
Merlin didn’t finish. Arthur moved.
It wasn’t the controlled advance of the training yard. It was pure, explosive motion. He crossed the tiny space in one stride, his body a solid wall of heat and intention. Hands grabbed Merlin’s shoulders, spun him, and drove him backward. The backs of Merlin’s knees hit the edge of the narrow bed, and he toppled onto it with a soft oomph, the old frame groaning in protest.
Then Arthur was on him.
He straddled Merlin’s hips, his weight firm and undeniable, pinning him to the thin mattress. In one swift motion, he captured both of Merlin’s wrists in one large hand and pressed them into the rough wool blanket above his head. The position arched Merlin’s back, leaving him utterly vulnerable, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Arthur leaned down, the shadow of him swallowing Merlin whole. A smirk spread across his face, slow and devastating, as he looked down at Merlin’s stunned, wide-eyed expression. The king was barely dressed, damp and powerful, and he had Merlin exactly where he’d apparently always wanted him.
“I win again,” Arthur breathed, the words a warm puff of air against Merlin’s lips.
The victory in Arthur’s voice was a tangible, hot thing. Merlin felt every shift, every minute squirm as Arthur sat squarely on his dick. The thin fabric of their clothes was no barrier at all against the hard, insistent pressure, a maddening friction that stole the breath from Merlin’s lungs.
Arthur looked very proud of himself as he smirked down at him. “Admit it,” he purred, his hips settling more firmly. “There was no luck involved. I’m just that good.”
Merlin couldn’t find any words at all as he looked up at the pretty king straddling him. His mouth was dry, his world reduced to the blue eyes gazing down with predatory focus and the relentless heat building where their bodies connected. Arthur seemed to be oblivious to Merlin’s problem as he shifted again, adjusting his weight, and the deliberate grind made Merlin gasp.
Arthur paused.
The smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of pure, unguarded calculation. He looked down between them, at the intimate press of their bodies, and the puzzle pieces clicked into place. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. Arthur was silent as he considered the situation, his gaze traveling back up to Merlin’s terrified face.
Merlin was frozen, his magic a dormant storm under his ribs, wondering how he’d be punished for this one. Banishment? The axe? Arthur’s expression was unreadable, a king weighing evidence.
“Is there any chance Gaius will stop by?” Arthur asked, his voice strangely calm.
Merlin was confused but shook his head, a frantic little motion against the blanket. “No. He’s—he’s at the eastern village until tomorrow.”
Arthur nodded slowly. He leaned down a fraction, his voice dropping to a confidential rumble. “Is this,” he began, his eyes searching Merlin’s, “because of me? Or are you just a sexual deviant and it’s the positioning?”
The question was so absurd, so Arthur, that it shattered Merlin’ paralysis. He couldn’t lie. “You.”
The single syllable hung in the dark room, a confession more dangerous than any magic.
Arthur nodded again, a final, decisive motion. He had all the information he needed now. And then he rolled his hips.
A slow, deliberate grind that wrenched a choked sound from Merlin’s throat. Merlin’s hands, freed from Arthur’s grip, instinctively flew to the king’s hips to still them, his fingers digging into the firm muscle through the damp linen. He bit back a moan, his head thrown back against the pillow.
He looked up, utterly confused, as the king rolled his hips again. This wasn’t rejection. This wasn’t disgust. Arthur’s eyes were dark, his lips parted, watching Merlin unravel beneath him.
Arthur leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of Merlin’s ear. His voice was a velvet purr that vibrated through Merlin’s entire being. “Lusting after your king, Merlin?” The words were a caress and an accusation. “You’re lucky I’m so forgiving.”
Merlin barely had time to process the fact that Arthur had just said his name in that voice—low, possessive, and dripping with promise—when Arthur kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. Arthur braced himself on his muscular forearms on either side of Merlin’s head, caging him in, and his mouth was hot and demanding. The taste of wine was gone, replaced by something cleaner, sharper, uniquely Arthur. Merlin’s hands slid from Arthur’s hips to his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle as Arthur deepened the kiss.
A shudder wracked Merlin’s frame, and a spark of gold light, faint as a dying ember, flashed across the ceiling. Arthur broke the kiss with a soft, ragged sound, his forehead resting against Merlin’s. He was breathing hard.
“That,” Arthur whispered against his lips, his own voice unsteady for the first time, “was definitely your magic.”