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''You've been busy,'' said Merlin, eyeing the stacks of parchment that littered the great dragon's cave. They were all covered in the same bold writing, which had been produced by an enchanted pen.
The dragon could not wield a pen himself, but there were ways around that. Upon the dragon's request, Merlin had cast a spell that allowed him to control the pen with his voice. Just as some nobleman dictated letters to their scribes, the dragon could speak and the pen would write for him, scribbling freely upon sheets and sheets of smuggled parchment.
And judging from the look of things, the dragon had been writing a lot.
''Just a little project I've been working on,'' the dragon said, blinking at Merlin from his perch upon a rock. ''You may read some of that, if you wish. After all, it concerns you.''
Curious, Merlin snatched the nearest page. He glanced over the writing, his eyes growing wide. One line in particular stood out to him.
Arthur pulled Merlin in close for another kiss—
Until Merlin set the page down, a flush creeping up his face. The cave felt suddenly hot.
Perhaps he had misread the writing. It couldn't possibly have said that, could it? He grabbed another page, scanning its contents, his heart thumping impossibly loud as he found similar lines. It was always Arthur and Merlin, paired together in one story after another. The way the dragon told it, the two of them had a burning passion for each other, which was expressed in a variety of ways across the stacks and stacks of parchment.
Some of the stories were quite tame. Even sweet, if Merlin ignored the fact that they were completely, utterly mad.
''There was a time when I thought I loved Gwen,'' said Arthur, candlelight flickering over his face. ''But I've come to realize that we're better off as friends. It's you I want, Merlin. It's always been you.''
But not all of them were sweet. Merlin quickly learned, much to his embarrassment, that some of the writing was undeniably depraved.
''Is it true?'' Merlin panted, gasping as Arthur reached for his belt.''Could you really take me apart with one blow?''
Arthur smirked. ''I can take you apart with less than that.''
Really? How did the dragon even know about that conversation?
And that was not at all how it had gone.
''I don't understand,'' said Merlin, tossing one of the stories aside. He found it impossible to meet the dragon's eyes. ''Why did you write this?''
The dragon was infuriatingly calm. ''It is exactly as I've told you, Merlin. Arthur is your destiny. He is your other half, the one that makes you whole.''
''Yes, I know. But did you really have to write this rubbish about us kissing and all that?''
''I would hardly call it rubbish. It is my interpretation of the truth.''
That made Merlin pause.
He had never actually kissed Arthur. Had never gotten undressed in front of him or declared his love for him, the way the dragon had written. But there was something between them. It existed in the way he and Arthur bantered with each other, and the way they looked at each other sometimes. Merlin had never given it serious thought or put it into words, but he couldn't deny that it was there.
Did he want to be close with Arthur? He wasn't sure. The thought of it made his chest feel tight, as if he'd been running a long distance and couldn't catch his breath.
''I suggest you take some of the writing with you,'' said the dragon. ''You may learn a thing or two.''
The dragon was right about one thing.
Merlin definitely learned a thing or two. He spent his free time reading what the dragon had written, snatching spare moments with pages of parchment in his hands, pretending to study medicines and herb lore. If anyone asked, the reading had been assigned to him by Gaius.
The more Merlin read, the more it became clear that the dragon was completely fixated on him and Arthur. Why else would he write so many stories with the same outcome every time? The stories themselves differed from each other, but they always ended with one thing: Merlin and Arthur together and in love, forever.
Some of them were ordinary enough. There was the one where Arthur discovered Merlin's magic, didn't speak to him for a week, pined over him for another week, and finally made amends with a heated embrace.
And the one where Gwaine locked the two of them in a storeroom and left them there until they sorted out their feelings. And the one where Arthur and Merlin stayed at a roadside inn and there was only one bed.
And how could Merlin forget the one where Arthur was dying and Merlin had to revive him with a kiss?
And then there were the tales that were truly bizarre.
Some of them were set in the ''modern world,'' which didn't seem very modern to Merlin. It was filled with all sorts of strange objects, such as televisions and phones, and Merlin was sometimes portrayed wearing something called glasses on his face. He was referred to as a hipster, whatever that was. It seemed to involve liking a lot of obscure things that nobody else liked.
''I was into magic before it was cool,'' said Merlin, adjusting his black-framed glasses.
It made Arthur's heart do somersaults in his chest. He loved this pretentious idiot.
What in the world did any of that mean?
Equally perplexing was the story set in something called a coffee shop. It consisted of Arthur and Merlin flirting over a variety of strange, foreign sounding beverages like cappuccinos and mochas. Merlin couldn't make any sense out of it.
''You wrote the wrong name on my coffee.'' Arthur approached the counter with a glare, slamming his cup down. ''It says cabbagehead.''
Merlin glanced at the coffee, then at Arthur's irritated face. ''Oh. You're Arthur, right?''
''That's right.''
''Then cabbagehead seems to be accurate.'' Merlin studied Arthur, sizing him up. ''On second thought, maybe turniphead would be better.''
''I'll show you who's a turniphead!''
''Will you two save the flirting for later?'' Morgana asked, arms crossed over her chest. ''Some of us would like to place our orders.''
But that was nothing compared to the strangest story of all. In this one, Arthur and Merlin were students at a magic school called Hogwarts. What a funny name.
Arthur had magic in the story, which was almost as funny, and was also some kind of athletic hero. He was always playing this silly game that involved flying broomsticks, which made absolutely no sense.
''Are you sure?'' A smirk tugged at Merlin's lips. ''Or are you too exhausted from handling balls all day on the Quidditch pitch?''
But Arthur was already half undressed, his scarlet Quidditch robes pooling on the floor. ''Get over here, you prat. I'm not nearly tired enough yet.'' He unbuttoned his shirt, lowering his voice. ''And I haven't handled nearly enough balls.''
Merlin nearly choked. Who would have thought that the dragon could write such salacious stuff?
Over the next several days, Merlin went back to the dragon, taking more of the manuscripts with him. He didn't know why he kept reading, but he couldn't stop. He began to have strange dreams that involved flying on a broomstick or complaining about hot beverages with funny names.
And in his waking hours, his head was filled with Arthur too.
Arthur's lips. Arthur's hands. The way he said Merlin's name.
Was it all true? Was the dragon right in his belief that they belonged together?
And was Arthur's mouth as soft and warm as it was in the stories?
“What are you staring at?'' Arthur demanded, shooting Merlin an odd look.
Merlin was in the library, surrounded by the dragon’s latest batch of fiction. Arthur had come barging in a minute ago, slightly out of breath, probably from running about the castle shouting Merlin's name. As if he couldn't function the moment Merlin vanished from his sight.
Why hadn't Merlin seen it before? It was just like the story that sat right in front of him, staring at him from its place on the library table.
''Can't you see it?'' Arthur said softly, resting a hand on top of Merlin's. ''I can't survive without you.''
''Well?'' said the real Arthur, glaring at Merlin. ''Is there something on my face?''
And that was when Merlin realized he had been staring. At Arthur's lips, to be specific. He had been wondering what it would be like to touch them, to feel them pressed against his own. What did Arthur taste like? What kind of sounds would he make it Merlin got close to him?
But Arthur's words broke the spell. Merlin raised his gaze to meet Arthur's eyes, thinking fast for a clever retort. ''Oh, yes. There's something dreadful on your face. You might want to see Gaius for a remedy.''
Still frowning, Arthur ran a hand down his face. ''There's nothing there, you idiot. And what are you reading?'' Before Merlin could stop him, Arthur snatched the sheet of parchment he had been studying. He went perfectly still, his expression impossible to read. ''Did you write this, Merlin?''
Merlin swallowed hard. If only he could turn himself invisible. ''No, it wasn't me.''
''Really? Then who's the author of this fascinating tale?''
''It was the dragon. The dragon wrote it.''
Arthur raised an eyebrow. ''The dragon.''
''You know. The one that's under the castle.''
''Dragons can't write, Merlin.''
This one could, thanks to an enchanted pen, but there was no way that Merlin could explain that. He tried to snatch the parchment back from Arthur's grasp, but Arthur held it out of reach. And then, because Arthur was an arse, he grabbed a second sheet of parchment off the table.
Merlin really, really hoped it wasn't the one with the shackles and the bed post.
''I'm taking these,'' Arthur said, backing away from the table. ''But I'm sure you can write more, can't you?''
All of Merlin's protests died on his lips as Arthur strode out of the library.
Great.
This could go two different ways. If Arthur felt the same way about Merlin, then the stories hopefully wouldn’t upset him too badly. And if he didn’t feel the same way, then Merlin could probably look forward to a nice long stay in the dungeon.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
''I'm doing you a favor,'' the dragon said when Merlin came to complain. ''You and Arthur are meant to be together. The sooner you both realize this, the better.'' He blinked thoughtfully. Now answer me this. If you and Arthur were stranded together on an island, how long would it take for you to become intimate?''
Merlin didn't bother with a reply.
He left the dragon in a huff, but he couldn't shake the thought of Arthur. He never could. Perhaps it had always been that way, since the day they had first met, but he hadn't understood it or been able to put it into words
The word intimate stuck with him, though. It was a delicious word, like a rare and expensive dish that Merlin longed to try, but he wasn't sure how to get his hands on it. He wanted to be intimate with Arthur, so badly that it ached. And now that Arthur had discovered the dragon’s writing, there was no telling what would happen.
For the rest of the day and into the evening, Merlin and Arthur didn't speak. They barely made eye contact, keeping as far apart as possible. It twisted Merlin's insides like the worst sort of poison.
Just like one of the dragon’s stupid stories. Except in the fictional version, Arthur risked his life to find an antidote for the poison, and then he and Merlin lived happily ever after.
All Merlin got was a very long, very sleepless night.
The following morning, he tried to set out Arthur's breakfast with all the stealth in the world. He intended to sneak into Arthur's rooms, set everything on the table, and slip away before he and Arthur could make awkward conversation. But he didn't get far. The moment he set down Arthur's plate, Arthur himself appeared. He took one look at Merlin, then threw a couple of sheets of parchment on the table.
One glance told Merlin it was the dragon's handiwork.
''This is the most absurd pile of rubbish I've ever read,'' Arthur announced. ''Why the hell would I get injured by a unicorn?''
''I don't know,'' said Merlin, fighting to keep his voice calm. ''I didn't write it. But maybe unicorns go berserk when they sense an arrogant prat is nearby.''
Arthur went on, ignoring this remark. ''And you healed me with magic. Really, Merlin? Do you fancy yourself some sort of great sorcerer?''
''I'd like to see you try to do better.''
''Oh, I could definitely do better.''
''Really? What would you do if I got attacked by a crazed unicorn?''
''That doesn't matter,'' said Arthur. ''There aren't any crazed unicorns.'' He gazed hard at Merlin, and softened his voice. ''But there is you and me. Isn't there?''
For once Merlin didn't have a smart reply. All he could do was stare back at Arthur, feeling an entire world of emotions between them. ''There always has been.''
Arthur snatched up the parchment he had thrown down. ''Would you like to know the biggest mistake in this story?''
''Worse than the idea of me having magic?''
''So much worse.'' Arthur dropped the page again, then stepped closer to Merlin. So close that the two of them could touch, if they dared. ''I would never let you make the first move, Merlin.''
And then they were touching, Arthur's lips pressing against Merlin's. It was warm and fierce and so much better than anything the dragon had written. Once Merlin got past the initial shock, he was able to kiss Arthur back, pulling him closer until they were practically gasping for breath.
This was what the dragon meant. Merlin was complete. He had thought that his magic was the only thing that made him feel alive and whole, but he had been wrong. Arthur was his other half, the piece that completed Merlin even more than his magic did.
And now that Merlin had him, he couldn't get enough.
Several evenings later, Merlin found himself in the lap of luxury. It was the luxury of Arthur's bed, which had finer sheets and blankets than any royal person, especially Arthur, could possibly deserve. But Merlin couldn't complain about the extravagance of royalty. He was half dressed, thoroughly satisfied, and warm from Arthur's touch.
''Well,'' said Merlin, turning to face Arthur, ''the dragon definitely got a few things wrong in those stories of his.''
''Like what?'' said Arthur.
''The size of your manhood, for a start. I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating.''
''Shut up, Merlin.''
Bonus scene
Arthur decides to write his own fanfiction story.
Arthur Pendragon was the most gorgeous man in Camelot. He was so attractive it made people weep. Mostly ugly people, since they knew they could never compete with his beauty.
He was so bloody gorgeous that poets sang of his hair, which shone like the most exquisite gold, and the shape of his lips, which could bring pleasure with barely an effort. Every man in Camelot envied his biceps, which were as sturdy as an oak tree, and his prowess with a sword, which could defeat any enemy.
The ladies sighed over Arthur's fine figure and handsome face. They all longed to capture Arthur's attention and become his queen, but their hopes were in vain. Arthur's heart belonged to only one person: his manservant/bedwarmer, Merlin.
Merlin wasn't nearly as gorgeous as Arthur, but he was nearly as good in bed.
Then Merlin tears it up and tosses the pieces into the fire.