words won't save your life

Spread the Love: A Holiday Exchange

popfly — Thu, 31 Oct 2013 12:01:11 GMT

IMPORTANT NOTE: Despite the graphic, this is not just a Teen Wolf - or even a fandom - exchange. Tyler Hoechlin just makes a good elf. ;)

For participation information go here.

Bet On It 1/2 (One Direction, Harry/Louis, Explicit)

popfly — Thu, 18 Jul 2013 15:57:52 GMT

Title: Bet On It 1/2
Fandom: One Direction
Pairing: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 23,098
Summary: How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days!AU.

“Our love fern,” Louis says, scandalised and clutching the pot to his chest. The fern droops sadly, accusingly almost, and Harry scrambles for something to say. “It’s dying, Harry.”

Louis’s lip does an alarming wobble, even as his eyes flash angrily. He moves toward Harry, brandishing the fern like a sword. Harry takes a step back, and holds up a hand.

“You’re letting our love fern die. Is that what you’re going to do to our relationship? Let it die?”
Notes: Written for prompt 14. How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days
THE SHOWER SCENE IS A MUST. I always saw Harry as Ben, and Louis as Andie with Niall and Liam working with Harry and Zayn and probably Grimmy working with Louis, but I'm flexible on switching the groups around. at reel_1d.

Plotbunny help from Brie and Jen, amazing Britpicking by Sally, and beta reading by my favorite Mel. <3

Bet On It.

FIC: Maddy-cures (Hockey RPF, Chicago Blackhawks, Kane/Toews)

popfly — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 23:25:34 GMT

Title: Maddy-cures (Sequel to Maybe It's Madelyn)
Fandom: Hockey RPF, Chicago Blackhawks
Pairing: Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3585
Summary: The road to the Cup is paved with nail polish, apparently.
Notes: My apologies for the bad puns, I just can't help myself. For Lyn, who pre-read this and loved it enough to convince me, and the rest of the #hockeygirlfriends / #birdsinthebush, who make loving hockey more fun than I ever expected. Also for everyone who commented or left kudos on the first part, further proving the fact that hockey fandom is the nicest fandom.

This is not realignment compliant, cos I still don't really get it. Crossposted at AO3.

Maddy-cures

By the time the playoffs start everyone has picked up on the nail polish thing.

The media coins the phrase Maddy-cures. Hashtags like #maybeitsmadelyn trend every time the Blackhawks win. BHTV sets up a manicure table in the locker room at the UC and films Maddy painting Johnny and Patrick’s nails. The team gets approached by Touch to do a collaboration on a line of team color polishes and they ask the Sharps to be the spokespeople.

It’s a little nuts.

Patrick thinks back to the first time Maddy had painted his nails, a fairly normal day of him hanging around the Sharps’s house, playing NHL ‘15 with Sharpy while Abby and Maddy played dress-up. Abby had painted Maddy’s nails first, then let Maddy give her a makeover, which basically meant Maddy covered Abby’s face in blush and brown eyeshadow.

Maddy had come at Patrick next, descending on him with a giant brush covered in scarily pink powder, and Sharpy had laughed his ass off while his daughter rouged Patrick’s entire face. Patrick was a good sport about it; he loved Madelyn to death and would pretty much let her get away with murder, and besides that he’d grown up with sisters and was used to having barrettes in his hair and lipstick on his mouth.

It’s crazy to think now how that innocent day of playing with Maddy had turned into the team leading the league in points and flying through the first round of the playoffs, sparkly red nails inside their gloves.

It’s also crazy to think of how the nail painting thing had gotten him and Johnny together, or back together, depending on who you talked to. Being in a real relationship with Johnny now makes Patrick realize how fucked up their previous relationship had been. They actually talk now (about things other than hockey, like their feelings) and it’s still weird but it’s so good. Johnny doesn’t clam up or shove Patrick to hide his attraction, and he doesn’t try to mask his want in extra drills or suicides or glowering about only winning 95% of his faceoffs.

He’s still a grumpy fucker with a short fuse, but that’s part of his charm.

The conference semifinals are a breeze, because the Kings somehow managed to shit the bed in their first round and let the Wild of all teams through, and the Blackhawks take the series 4 - 1, ending with a particularly raucous game at the United Center. Patrick scores the first goal of the game on a power play in the second period, on a pass from Johnny that literally slides through the skates of two Wild players, and when Johnny knocks him into the boards shouting, they both look up at the screaming fans to see red sparkles everywhere.

Man, woman, and child, anyone in an Indian head sweater is banging their knuckles against the glass, painted nails out, and Patrick actually gets choked up seeing it, shares an awed look with Johnny who is laughing breathlessly as they get caught up in the rest of the guys barreling into them.

There’s a euphoric vibe in the locker room after, more equal to a Cup win than a regular playoff win, minus the spraying champagne, and the media pours into the room, swarming around with their iPhones and cameras. Laz sticks a recorder in Patrick’s face, and he’s grinning like a madman. Patrick grins back, waiting for the question, and Laz shakes the recorder, flicks his eyes down.

Patrick looks, sees Laz’s thumb pressed to the record button, the nail painted gold-flecked red, and totally loses it.

He’s still swiping tears out of his eyes and choking down laughter when the reporters calm down enough to start asking questions, and Johnny’s shaking his head across the room, smile so wide it looks like it hurts.

The team goes out to celebrate, descending on their favorite bar in droves until the place is half-full of awful, patchy beards. Patrick’s at the bar, bopping his head to the music on the jukebox, up first to buy a round. The bartender catches his eyes and gives him the nod, pouring drinks for a group down the end of the bar. When he’s done he wipes his hands on the towel over his shoulder and Patrick can see his nails are painted.

It’s a little mind-boggling, really, and Patrick’s still reeling a little, from the win and the thought that there aren’t any clean fingernails in the whole city of Chicago right now, and he’s probably gaping like an idiot when the bartender comes to a stop in front of him, laughing a little.

“Great game,” he says, and holds out a fist for Patrick to bump. “First rounds on the house.”

Patrick takes a tray full of beer bottles back to the table and hands them out, and Johnny slings an arm around his shoulder when he drops into his seat.

“You alright?”

Patrick looks around the table, eyes wide. “The bartender’s nails were painted,” he says, and Sharpy throws his head back and laughs. Everyone else joins in, Patrick included, and they clink their beer bottles together, gold glitter sparkling in the dim bar lights.

Patrick’s the warm and fuzzy kind of buzzed that he loves, giddy and flushed and tingling all over as he presses himself to Johnny’s back, sliding his fingertips into the pockets in Johnny’s trousers as Johnny fumbles with his keys.

“Gotta get the door open,” Johnny says, grumbling a little as Patrick pulls his hips back, presses his own hips forward. Johnny grunts a little, the key just missing the lock on his condo door, but he grinds back against Patrick’s groin in a really satisfying way.

“Try harder, Johnny,” Patrick says, grinning against the nape of Johnny’s neck. “Soft hands, you can do it.” He punctuates his sentence with a roll of his hips, and Johnny gets the door unlocked, shoves it open and gets a hand around one of Patrick’s wrists to keep him in place as they shuffle inside.

Patrick stays plastered to Johnny’s back, and Johnny kicks one leg backwards between Patrick’s to get the door closed, fingers locked around Patrick’s wrist as he stumbles awkwardly towards his room - their room, Patrick thinks, because he’s slept there every night they’ve been home, and it’s covered in Patrick’s stuff.

“If you want to get me out of these clothes you’re going to have to let me go,” Johnny says, but he’s laughing a little, bumping back against Patrick to try to dislodge him as they go through the bedroom door. Patrick whines against Johnny’s neck but drags his hands out of Johnny’s pockets, catching the edges of his jacket and pulling it off as he goes.

He tosses it over the back of a chair because he knows how Johnny gets about his clothes, but he drops his own jacket on the floor because he’s not nearly as uptight, and Johnny frowns but doesn’t say anything, eyes following Patrick’s fingers as he undoes his tie, unbuttons his shirt.

“Your nails are chipping,” he says, and Patrick blinks, taken out of the moment slightly, looking down at his hands. Johnny shrugs, sheepish, and peels his shirt off. “Have to get a touch up before the next series.”

“Is that really what you want to talk about right now?” Patrick asks, and works the zipper of his pants open. Johnny’s eyes get darker, so close to black it makes Patrick shiver, and drop to Patrick’s groin.

“Nope,” Johnny says, voice gravelly, and reaches for Patrick, shoving at the waistband of his boxers.

“Didn’t think so.”

Patrick does get a touch up before the next series starts, Maddy holding court at the little manicure table at the UC, the rest of the team gathered around in the video room, blowing on their nails as they watch game footage with the coaches.

Q pulls on his mustache carefully, not wanting the bristles to scratch his fresh paint, and pauses the video, letting the other coaches point out how the Ducks’ goalie’s glove doesn’t get up fast enough, but his stick side is nearly impenetrable, how their penalty kill is weak if you get the puck moving fast enough. Maddy has her tongue between her teeth, concentrating hard on Patrick’s nails, and he has to grin at how seriously she’s taking her job now that she seems to understand the significance.

“You’re doing a great job, kiddo,” Patrick says, and Maddy lifts the brush before beaming up at him.

“Thank you,” she says, all prim and proper, and Sharpy cranes his head back where he’s sitting with Duncs to give her a smile. “I want you and Daddy and Uncle Johnny to win a Cup, so I have to do a good job."

“That’s a big responsibility for such a little thing,” Patrick says, and presses his mouth into a line when she scowls at him.

“I’m not little,” she says, one hand on her hip.

"Sorry, sorry.” He smiles until she softens, shaking her head of dark hair and returning to her task. “You know, if we don’t win it’s not your fault.” He doesn’t want that looming over her head. He’s sure Sharpy’s been going over it with her, but he wants to make sure she’s not feeling the weight of a Stanley Cup on her still tiny shoulders. Last thing he - or anyone - needs is for her to turn into a mini-Tazer.

“I know. Daddy says I have nothing to do with the losing, just the winning.”

Patrick laughs, and when she finishes his polish with a decisive swipe of her brush and screws the cap on the bottle he leans forward over the table and gives her a peck on her cheek.

“You are my absolute favorite, did you know that?”

Maddy giggles and shoves at his shoulder, rolling her eyes in a perfect imitation of her father. “I know, Uncle Kaner.”

He grins, and helps her climb down from her stool, making sure she’s secure in Sharpy’s lap before dropping down in the empty seat next to Johnny.

“You’re going to make their goalie look like a fool,” Johnny says, grinning over at Patrick.

Patrick waves his hands around even though he’s been told it doesn’t actually make the polish dry faster, and smirks. “Duh.”

Patrick does make their goalie look like a fool, his patented slow-mo deke and shoot move in the first game shootout going right over his glove. Patrick saves his laughter for when he’s in the middle of a pile of Blackhawks on the ice, because he’s a good sport, of course, and clomps into the dressing room with a smile on his face.

They sweep the Ducks, and they’re in the Stanley Cup Finals for the first time in five years, and Patrick feels unstoppable.

The night before game one, Patrick and Johnny spend two hours taking each other apart with their fingers and their mouths, panting into the cool air of their hotel room, the unfamiliar sheets getting damp and wrinkled underneath them. Johnny curves himself around Patrick’s body after, skin sticking together in a way that should be uncomfortable but is actually the exact opposite, and laces their fingers together against Patrick’s chest.

“We can do this,” Johnny says, his breath wafting warm over Patrick’s neck, and Patrick can feel the determined set of his jaw. Patrick looks down at their fingers, slotted together and tipped with sparkling red, and grins, sure.

“We’re going to do this.”

The series is rough. They have great momentum but so do the Habs, and the first two games are on the road. They drop one and win the second in the scrambliest overtime period Patrick has played in a long time, and he’s feeling worn down in a way he hasn’t since the playoffs started, unsettled in his skin but too lethargic to do anything about it. He sleeps restlessly on the plane, and then that night at home, jostling Johnny so much he grumbles nonstop until Patrick gets up and goes out into the living room to pace himself into exhaustion.

The next day Sharpy invites them back to his place after practice, saying they all need to loosen up a little, get their shit back together. Patrick thinks of lounging around the Sharps’s patio with a beer, Maddy on his lap while Abby laughs at Sharpy’s grilling skills, and nods at Johnny, who accepts the invitation for the both of them.

Maddy does her usual routine of throwing herself at Patrick’s legs as soon as he comes in the door, and he scoops her up even though he thinks she might be getting too big to be carried around on his hip. The thought makes him sad, in that way that growing up always has, even if this time it has nothing really to do with him.

“You’re getting big, you know that,” he says, and Maddy gives him such a good “well, duh” look that he laughs, pressing a hand against his chest where it aches a little.

“I’m four and a half, Uncle Kaner. That’s almost five.” She holds up her hand, little fingers splayed. Patrick lightly slaps it with his own, making her giggle.

He totally monopolizes her time while they’re there, making her show him all the cool stuff she’s learned in preschool, asking her to draw him pictures at the patio table.

He takes a few home with him, to cover up the old ones he’s been sticking to the front of Johnny’s fridge, and he stares at one in particular almost the whole way home.

“What is that anyway?” Johnny asks, glancing over when they’re at a red light, and Patrick runs his fingers over the rough crayon lines.

“That’s us. With the Cup.”

Johnny looks closer, leaning over the console. “Is that Maddy?” He points to the smallest figure, the curved lines of dark brown for her hair, and the little peach arcs of her arms up over her head. There’s a smaller version of the Cup there, an hourglass shape of silver crayon, and Patrick grins at it.

“Yup. With her own Cup.”

Johnny laughs, looking back out at the road as the light turns green. “If we win, we’ll have to get her one. Since she’s a good part of the reason we’ve got this far.”

Patrick looks over at Johnny, a small smile on his face as he squints through the windshield, his fingers tapping on the wheel. “I love you,” he says, and it’s not the first time, but it’s one of the times that’s felt the most imperative.

Johnny flicks his eyes over, smiling wider. “You too.”

The series goes to seven games, and all of them are rough. They’re down 2 - 1 at the second intermission of the last game, and they’re gassed. It’s pretty obvious, none of their passes are connecting and they’re making stupid penalties in their frustration. Patrick thinks, this is it, we’re going to lose, they don’t have enough to get one back, let alone two.

Q gives a rallying speech, and a laundry list of things they have to do better in the next period, and Patrick tries to steel himself for another rough period, tells himself over and over that they can do it, until he almost, almost believes it.

He follows Seabs out of the tunnel, head down against the screaming of the Montreal fans, and he can just barely hear two high pitched voices shouting his name.

Abby and Maddy are pressed against the glass, faces as red as their sweaters, Abby’s emblazoned with an A on the shoulder. Maddy doesn’t have an A on hers, because her jersey is a number 88, and she waves frantically at Patrick, her hand turned palm-in so he can see the flash of her nail polish.

Patrick grins and knocks his stick against the glass, feeling suddenly renewed, reinvigorated.

He skates his ass off, assisting on the goal that ties it up, then leaping up from the bench when Johnny scores the game winner with two minutes left in the third period. Patrick wishes for his mouthguard as he stares up at the clock, chewing on the inside of his cheek instead, half-standing as the time ticks down to zero, and then throwing himself over the boards as the final buzzer sounds.

The celebration is reminiscent of the last time they’d won the Cup, slightly subdued because it isn’t on home ice, but no less crazed and enthusiastic. Patrick almost kisses Johnny right there on the ice, and Johnny almost looks like he wants him too, but then they’re being pulled apart by their teammates, and they line up to do the handshakes.

Patrick does an interview, blinks tears out of his eyes and says “unbelievable” more times than he count, barely even thinking about what comes out of his mouth as he’s asked to compare this time to last.

“It’s even better,” Patrick says, catching sight of Johnny a few yards away, doing his own interview, Sharpy just beyond, grinning up at Abby as she carries Maddy down onto the ice. He shakes the reporter’s hand and skates off, dodging people to get to the Sharps.

Sharpy is eyeing Abby up like he wants to get her naked right there on the ice, and Patrick reaches for Maddy so they can at least make out a little without scarring their daughter.

“Uncle Kaner, you won!” she shrieks, and grabs two handfuls of his hair, her manic little face up close to his.

“We did,” he says, and she peppers his face with kisses, laughing about how he’s “sweatier than Daddy, gross.”

“D’you get the Cup now, Uncle Kaner?”

Patrick looks around him, trying to see over the sea of people crowding the ice, and finds where they’re laying out the red carpet, setting the Conn Smythe onto the pedestal. It goes to Johnny, of course it does, and Patrick flashes back to 2010, to Johnny skating towards him with the trophy in his hands, pointing and mouthing, “you should’ve won this.” Patrick feels like he might burst, standing there on the ice holding Maddy, watching Johnny skate towards him now, and he’s not mouthing anything at all but he’s smiling so hard, eyes on Patrick, that Patrick feels breathless.

Johnny hands the trophy off after he takes a few pictures, and comes to stand next to Patrick, one arm around both him and Maddy, hand twisted in Patrick’s jersey, as the Cup is carried out. Patrick can see the rest of the families coming out onto the ice, his parents and sisters followed closely by Johnny’s parents and brother, and Patrick’s eyes are stinging, his throat tight.

“Go ahead, babe,” Johnny leans down to say. “You know it’s acceptable for a dude to cry when he’s just won the Stanley Cup.” He grins down at Patrick before skating off to take the Cup, kissing it and then holding it over his head as he skates back towards the team.

Abby takes Madelyn right as Sharpy takes the Cup, and Patrick lines up for his turn. Johnny’s with the families, and Patrick sees his sisters jostling Johnny back and forth between them before surrounding him in a group hug, and he lets himself shed a few tears as he reaches up to take the Cup from Seabs.

He kisses it, skates around with it a little, the weight familiar and exciting, and soaks it in, then passes it off and heads towards his family.

“Uncle Kaner,” Maddy shouts, and he looks down at where she’s standing on the ice between her parents. She’s got her arms up over her head, the sleeves of her #88 jersey sliding down to pool around her elbows. Clutched in her hands she’s got a shiny silver cup, a smaller version of the one he’d just been hefting, and she’s grinning like crazy.

“What is that?” he asks, and Sharpy jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Tazer got it for her, apparently.”

“‘Cause I helped you win the big one,” Maddy says, and Patrick lifts her and her cup up to kiss her on both cheeks.

“Yeah you did.”

Patrick wants to kiss Johnny too, for winning the Conn Smythe, for winning the Cup, for getting a cup for Maddy, for standing in the middle of both of their families and looking at Patrick with his eyes dark and his smile blinding. But he refrains, grabbing him up in a crushing hug instead before launching himself at his family, letting his sisters cry all over him and wiping his eyes on his shoulders.

He kisses Johnny in the locker room, after the champagne and the media and the cameras, kisses him until his mouth is red and a little swollen and the other guys are hiding their eyes behind their hands.

“I can’t believe you got Maddy a cup,” Patrick says, pulling back and shoving his champagne-sticky curls off of his forehead.

“Too bad she can only drink apple juice out of it,” Sharpy says, brushing by and punching both of them on the shoulder. “Stop grossing out the kids and get dressed, we have to get back to Chicago so we can party.”

Patrick punches him back, but goes to his stall to pull on dry clothes. He can’t wait to see Maddy drinking apple juice out of her kid size Stanley Cup.

FIC: Brought Your Heart to Me (Merlin, Arthur/Merlin)

popfly — Sat, 29 Dec 2012 02:12:18 GMT

Title: Brought Your Heart to Me
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3584
Summary: “I feel like I’ve been here before,” Arthur said, both palms on the boulder now. Merlin’s heart knocked against his ribs. “I felt the same way on that trail earlier. And at the castle ruins yesterday. It’s been happening more and more.”

Merlin’s throat felt clogged, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. “Deja vu?” he asked, his voice brittle.

Arthur lifted his hands away from the rock and straightened, looking back over his shoulder. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
Notes: Title from the "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri, which was written for a Twilight movie apparently but is the best Merlin song I have ever heard in my life, and has spawned so many beautiful, heartwrenching fanvids.

I think everyone who has ever loved Merlin and Arthur has written or is writing a reincarnation fic after that finale, and with a lot of prompting and plotting by junkshop_disco, I decided to write one as well. It's not as silly as I wanted it to be, I got my feelings all over it, but I hope it does her idea justice.

Thanks to fr333bird for the speedy Brit-pick and read-through. Crossposted at AO3.

Avalon was not your typical souvenir shop. It certainly wasn’t anything like Camelot, whose tagline “ye olde gift shoppe” made Merlin gag every time he saw the advertisements. Camelot had plaster turrets painted a sickly beige color that looked nothing like stone and mortar, and the flags were blue. Blue! As if Camelot had ever flown a blue flag. Avalon was nothing like Excalibur either, the “foremost purveyor of Arthurian trinkets, gifts, and collectibles”, which sold tiny replicas of a sword stuck in a stone, and figurines of the great wizard Merlin in a purple robe with a flowing beard.

Merlin stroked his own beard, long but well kept and certainly not flowing, and looked around his own tiny, dusty shop. It was made of real stone, and squatted between two brightly lit shop fronts on a side road off the high street. It was drafty, and cluttered, bookshelves lining every wall and displays of pieces handcrafted by local sculptors and painters and potters filling the middle of the room.

He did have a few circular, spinning racks of the standard novelty items at the front, near the door, because he didn’t want to be Camelot or Excalibur, but he did want to attract customers. Tourists seemed to enjoy the dragon keychains with their names spelled out in licks of flame, and Merlin just hoped that wherever Kilgarrah was he would forgive him.

If Kilgarrah was still alive. Merlin still didn’t know, after multiple mortal men’s lifetimes, whether the dragon lived on as Merlin did, or if he was lost forever.

He tried not think about things like that, but the week had been grey and wet and he was tired of umbrellas and wet shoes and mopping the shop. That day was particularly nasty, the wind shoving fat drops of rain up against the front windows. Merlin glanced at the clock and wished he could close up early, go up to the flat he kept above the shop and sleep until the sun came back out.

He was distracted from that depressing train of thought by the tinkle of the bell over the shop door. A customer shouldered inside with a map unfolded over their head and stumbled directly into a postcard rack, sending it crashing to the floor with a clang.

“Buggering fuck, shit shit shit!” The customer cursed, toppling over the felled rack in a sprawl of limbs, and Merlin froze, staring down at the sopping wet blond head, his fingertips gone numb.

The man untangled himself from the rack and got to his feet, shoving his hair out of his eyes - shockingly blue eyes that Merlin had seen in his dreams, in his nightmares - and frowning at Merlin.

The look was so familiar, so dear that Merlin felt tears spring to his eyes, and he couldn’t make his limbs move, couldn’t lift a hand to wipe them away.

“I’m so sorry,” the man said, dropping to hands and knees and sweeping the scattered postcards into piles. Merlin felt a jolt go through him at the words, unfamiliar words from such a familiar mouth, and his heart clawed at his ribcage. “I feel like a buffoon, tripping in here and causing such a scene. I’ll pay for anything I’ve ruined.”

Merlin wanted to laugh, or cry, he couldn’t decide which. The man stood and righted the rack, reaching down for the postcards and holding them out towards Merlin.

“I should hope so.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to speak, and his voice was gravelly, as it always was when he was aged. He sounded gruff, like the old codger he pretended to be, and the man looked taken aback.

“It was an accident, I’m wearing the absolutely wrong shoes for this weather, I slipped.”

Merlin took the postcards and slapped them on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “The floor is dry, I just cleaned up.”

“I’m sure you did. Look, I’m not going to sue or anything, add up the cost of the damaged cards and I’ll pay for them.”

Merlin felt a thrill at the tone of the man’s voice, his posture gone stiff, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Merlin had missed that look, and fought back a grin. He waved his hand dismissively and took his seat behind the counter, sifting through the postcards and sorting them to be restocked. The man stood near the door, looking around and blowing out a sigh.

“Was there something I could help you with?” Merlin asked.

“I’m looking for Emrys? I was told he ran this shop?”

Merlin’s hands stilled over the postcards and he tilted his head at the man. “I’m Emrys.”

“I’m Arthur.” He stuck out his hand, his jaw set, and Merlin gaped at the silver ring on his index finger. He took Arthur’s hand, his mind flooded with memories as he slid his fingers against Arthur’s palm, and he searched Arthur’s face to see if he felt it as well. It didn’t seem as if he did, he didn’t flinch a bit, while Merlin felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Arthur, eh?” Merlin said, coughing a little to hide the extra roughness in his voice. In his head Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed, his heartbeat stilling under Merlin’s fingers. “In an Arthurian knick-knack shop? Quite the coincidence.”

Arthur gave a rueful chuckle and scrubbed a hand through his wet hair. It was longer on the sides and in the back than Merlin’s Arthur had worn it, but it fell across his forehead in the same way, and Merlin’s fingers itched to reach up and brush it aside. “Not a coincidence. That’s why I’m here. My parents named me after the legends, and I’ve always been interested in them. I decided to take a little time off from uni and go looking for the real Arthur. I’m staying at a hostel not far from here and the clerk pointed me in your direction. Said you were the local expert.”

Merlin’s eyes roved over Arthur’s face as he spoke, taking in the rueful curve of his mouth, the crinkles by his eyes. He still couldn’t quite believe that after so many years Arthur was finally back, stood in front of him with rainwater dripping off his nose, and totally ignorant to the situation.

“Are you alright?”

Merlin shook his head to clear it, brushing wetness from his eyes. “Fine, just fine. I have some books, if you’d like.”

Arthur frowned, and the lines that formed between his eyebrows were so familiar to Merlin he wanted to leap up from behind the counter and throw his arms around Arthur. “I was rather hoping I could get a little more hands on while I was here. I’ve read so much on the subject already.”

“The books I have here are much more in depth than most you’ll find elsewhere.”

“I have no doubt that they are.”

Merlin tugged on his beard, an idea forming. “Why don’t you take a few of them back with you tonight and look them over. If they don’t give you what you’re looking for, come back tomorrow and we’ll figure something out.”

*****

The bell over the shop door dinged twenty minutes after Merlin flipped the open sign, and when he looked up from behind the counter Arthur was deliberately side-stepping the postcard racks with a grin. Merlin could feel a blush creeping up under his beard, and ducked his head to smile down at the cash register.

“Good morning,” Arthur called, his voice robust. Merlin’s shoulders hunched under the weight of a flashback, a vision of the round table, Arthur in his mail.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice gruff.

“You were right about the books.” Arthur slid them across the counter, his fingers tapping on top. “Much more in depth than the ones I’ve read. But still not quite what I’m looking for.” When Merlin looked up Arthur’s eyes were hopeful, and Merlin thought his chest might cave in. “You said we’d figure something out?”

Merlin had come up with an idea, but he wasn’t sure it was wise. Arthur clearly had no memory of his previous life, their previous life. Merlin didn’t know if he ever would. But he desperately wanted to try. “I have a nephew. Rather more spry than myself. He may be able to take you around, show you some things.”

“That would be great. Would you ask him if he’d mind? All the tours I’ve found you have to ride on a coach with American tourists and the guides wear wizard hats or carry plastic swords.”

Merlin laughed like it was pushed out of him, a gust of noise and breath that he turned into a cough. “I could,” he said, rubbing his knuckles against his mouth. “He’s actually in the back, let me go ask him now.”

He pushed to his feet, keeping his back hunched. As he rounded the counter he paused, and blurted out before he could talk himself out of it, “His name is Merlin. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Arthur held up a hand, his other laid over his heart. His face was solemn but Merlin could see a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “I swear I won’t.”

Merlin leaned against the counter in the tiny bathroom, both hands wrapped around his beard. He hadn’t dropped the aging spell in so long he wasn’t sure he remembered how. What had once taken up much of his concentration was now easier than breathing, and to let go of it would be difficult. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t seen his young face since the day he’d let Arthur’s body go.

He let the spell slip away slowly, eyes fixed on the backs of his hands as the wrinkles flattened out, skin tightening up until it was smooth over bumpy knuckles. He could feel his body straightening, and soon he was grasping at air as the beard disappeared. His eyes stayed squeezed closed, and his heart thumped in his chest.

He knew he had to look, he had to make sure that the spell was fully lifted. He opened his eyes, and felt them immediately prickle with tears. There, staring back at him, was the Merlin that had watched the love of his life die. His cheekbones were more prominent than they’d ever been, and he had hollows under his eyes the color of storm clouds. But he was young again, and Arthur was there, and he needed to change his clothes and go back out in the shop.

Arthur was looking at a display of neckerchiefs, lifting a red one up to himself and checking his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He caught Merlin’s eye in the reflection and turned, still holding the fabric up to his throat.

“You must be Arthur.” Merlin rushed forward, stumbling slightly, his newly-young limbs getting away from him. He ended up with his hand jammed up against Arthur’s stomach, and he backed away so quickly that he almost fell over a table full of ceramics.

Arthur cocked his head, his eyes squinting, and shook Merlin’s hand. “I am.”

“I’m Merlin. Emrys’s nephew. He told me you were interested in the legends.”

“Nice to meet you, Merlin.”

The emphasis made Merlin grin, despite having told Arthur not to make a big deal. It was exactly the way Arthur had said his name before, and it drove a spike of warmth right through Merlin’s gut. “Nice to meet you, Arthur,” he replied, and they both laughed. Arthur’s eyes stayed squinted, as if he was studying Merlin. He brushed a hand over his cheek, making sure he didn’t miss a wrinkle or whisker, but felt nothing but smooth skin.

“I had hoped to see some of the sights, though I know some of them are further away. Even if I only get to the Tor, or maybe go to Queen Camel.”

Merlin reached up to stroke his beard, remembering at the last second that it was no longer there and pinching his chin instead. The movement was awkward, and Arthur’s head tilted further. “I can show you those places, and a couple more. How many days do you have?”

“I’m here a week, and then I was going to move on, but I could extend it if I need to.”

A week. A week wasn’t nearly enough. But it was so much more than he’d ever dared hope. He cleared his throat. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. So you haven’t been to the Tor yet?”

“I haven’t. I was hoping to get your uncle to show me, but he nominated you.”

“He has a hard time with the hills, bad knees.”

“You don’t mind then?”

“Not at all. But I do think we should save the Tor. We could drive out to Tintagel?”

Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Tintagel. Yes, let’s start there.”

*****

They spent their days driving around in Arthur’s tiny rented car. Merlin spread his map out on his lap and traced routes with his finger, and Arthur navigated the sodden roads with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around a cardboard cup of tea.

Burial places, birthplaces, woods where battles against sorcerers and Saxons took place, Merlin took him to every one in a 200 mile radius. He told stories of Arthur and Merlin, Lancelot, Guinevere, the knights of the round table. He showed Arthur the place where Percival dropped the rockslide on Morgause’s army, and the place where Arthur had been struck by the questing beast. He lay on a bed of leaves and moss and recounted nights spent the same way, riding out on hunts.

They sat on the beach where Anhora administered his last test, and Merlin brought wine and goblets from the shop. They ate lunch in a cave where they’d once hid from bandits, Merlin unpacking hard bread and grapes and stew.

Arthur showed up at the shop every morning, the bell dinging and making Merlin’s skin heat under his beard, and he’d flip the shop’s sign to closed, ducking into the stock room to let the aging spell slip away and change his clothes. Each day Arthur would cock his head when Merlin emerged, a brief hesitation before he smiled and clapped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

On the fourth day they stood in a forest, in front of a boulder with a slit in it, covered in lichen.

“Arthur didn’t believe he could do it,” Merlin said, laying his palm on the stone, his fingers in the space that Excalibur had once occupied. He could picture the scene so clearly in his mind, and his eyes slid closed as he spoke. “Merlin told him a story about the first king of Camelot, but he knew Arthur didn’t believe a word. It wasn’t until he saw Excalibur sticking out of this very stone that he started to believe. Merlin knew that if he could pull the sword from the stone he would accept his destiny, that he would know in his heart he was the king that would someday unite all of Albion, the harbinger of peace and prosperity.”

Merlin felt Arthur come up next to him and opened his eyes. Their shoulders brushed as Arthur leaned forward to run a finger around the split in the stone. Merlin watched him out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched and the sunlight limning his hair.

“I feel like I’ve been here before,” Arthur said, both palms on the boulder now. Merlin’s heart knocked against his ribs. “I felt the same way on that trail earlier. And at the castle ruins yesterday. It’s been happening more and more.”

Merlin’s throat felt clogged, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. “Deja vu?” he asked, his voice brittle.

Arthur lifted his hands away from the rock and straightened, looking back over his shoulder. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

*****

Merlin planned the trip to Glastonbury Tor for the last day of Arthur’s visit. He walked by it every day, taking the route that circled where the lake had once been, pausing at the place where he’d set the boat in motion to let sorrow rush over him before pushing it down and carrying on. He didn’t know what it would be like to go there with Arthur at his side, but he knew it was time. Not only because Arthur was meant to board a train for the north the next day, but because Arthur had been having his “deja vu” more and more, and Merlin was hoping that seeing the tower would be the final push he needed.

If he didn’t come into the memories himself, Merlin was going to tell him. Even if it resulted in Arthur thinking Merlin was crazy, he couldn’t let Arthur leave without at least trying.

They packed a lunch and Arthur brought his sleeping bag, and they drove out to the Tor.

Merlin felt the familiar despair clawing up his spine when the tower first came into view. He reached out to adjust the volume on the radio and let his hand brush against Arthur’s on the gear shift, the brief touch grounding him.

“There it is,” he said. Arthur ground his teeth in the driver’s seat.

They climbed the hill in silence. Merlin felt unsettled, and his hands shook as he helped Arthur spread the sleeping bag out on the grass. Arthur looked at him expectantly, and Merlin knew that he was waiting for a story.

Merlin opened his mouth and started, his voice quivering as he began the story of Arthur’s last days.

The sun had set by the time Merlin was finished, and he felt a tear slip down his cheek when he told of Arthur’s request for Merlin to just hold him. The Arthur there with him on the sleeping bag reached out and brushed it away, and Merlin ended the story with Arthur’s hand warm on his shoulder.

“Merlin stood on the shore and watched the boat float away, not knowing when or if he’d ever see Arthur again.”

Merlin tipped his head back and looked up at the stars, and beside him Arthur exhaled, his fingers tightening in Merlin’s shirt.

“But he does,” Arthur said, and Merlin turned to find the shine of his eyes in the dark. “He does see him again.”

“How do you know?” Merlin asked, and the moment felt suspended, like moving through honey, and Merlin couldn’t catch a breath.

“Because I’m here right now.”

Merlin stared, and all of his nerve endings felt frayed, too close to the surface. The air was pressing down on him, warm and sticky against his skin, and Arthur’s fingers were creeping over the collar of his shirt to press against his neck.

“Arthur,” he said, his voice creaky, and then Arthur leaned forward to kiss him.

Merlin laughed at the shock of it, a burst of noise that made Arthur pull away. He could feel his eyes prick with tears, and he laughed again, wetly this time, and sniffled. “I’m sorry, I just can’t quite believe this is happening. Do you actually remember?”

Arthur touched the tips of his fingers to the hollows under Merlin’s eyes, and nodded. “I don’t know how, or why, but I remember.”

Merlin felt like his smile would split his face in two. Arthur slid a hand around the nape of his neck and grinned.

“Let’s try that again.”

Merlin squared his shoulders and blinked away his tears, and pressed his mouth to Arthur’s.

It felt like he’d been struck by lighting, all the hairs on his arms standing on end and his skin buzzing. Arthur’s tongue slid against his own and Merlin felt a jolt up his spine, heat pooling in his stomach. He couldn’t help but moan against Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur’s lips curved into a smile against his.

The kiss seemed to go on forever at the same time it seemed to be over in an instant, and Arthur pulled Merlin down to lie on the sleeping bag with his head pillowed on Arthur’s chest.

“I want to go back to your flat, see where you live, get you out of these ridiculous clothes,” Arthur said, and Merlin curled his fingers in Arthur’s shirt. “But first” he hesitated, and Merlin lifted his head to look at him. “Make me a dragon, like you did in the forest.”

Merlin lifted his hand and conjured a shower of sparks, shaping them into Kilgarrah with a lick of flame coming out of his mouth, making them soar through the air before the blew away on the wind.

*****

Merlin woke up from a nightmare, a nightmare he’d had many times. In the years past he’d woken up grasping at empty air, reaching out for something or someone that was always floating away from him. But that morning his fingers were curled around a wrist, warm skin and solid bone, and when he opened his eyes Arthur was there, his hair stuck up in the front and his chest bare.

“You’re really here,” Merlin said, and Arthur reached out to curve his palm against Merlin’s cheek.

“I am,” Arthur said. “And I’d like to stay.”

Merlin turned his head to press a kiss to Arthur’s palm. “I’d like you to never leave again.”

“Then I won’t.”

FIC: Moon Dogs (Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, 9/13)

popfly — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 21:08:11 GMT

Title: Moon Dogs 9/13
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: PG (so far)
Word Count: 1976
Summary: Derek spends the summer season playing for the Mankato Moon Dogs, hoping to catch the eye of a major league scout. He doesn't count on someone catching his eye.
Notes: I blame Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O'Brien for loving baseball so much. And for making me love them so much. All the love to accordingtomel for agreeing to beta something for a show she doesn't even watch.

I am playing fast and loose with ages and the structure of summer collegiate baseball leagues.

WORK IN PROGRESS. Literally. I am writing as I post, and I don't know how long this is going to be or how quickly I'll be posting. I'm hoping (for my own sanity) it'll be pretty regular. Rating and pairing is endgame. Crossposted at AO3.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight

Moon Dogs, Chapter Nine

Derek had always loved waking up next to another person, the warmth of another body, the sound of someone else breathing. It had always been comforting, never awkward, even with his few one night stands.

It wasn’t awkward with Stiles, either. Derek woke up first, his head pounding and his mouth tasting sour. The tent was filled with muted sunlight, filtering in through the nylon walls of the tent, and the smell of damp woods and warmth. Stiles was on his back with his sleeping bag shoved down around his waist, mouth open and snoring softly. One of his arms was flung out to the side, fingers curled up near Derek’s chest like he’d been reaching for something in his sleep.

Derek was muzzy from whiskey and groggy from a night’s sleep on the ground. Stiles’s eyelashes were a dark sweep against his pale cheeks, and Derek couldn’t bring himself to stop staring, even when Stiles started to stir, coming awake in stages.

Stiles turned his head and grinned sleepily, a morning after kind of smile, and Derek’s heart clenched up.

“Morning,” Stiles said, and stretched his arms up over his head. Derek tried to un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Stiles scratched low on his stomach where his shirt had ridden up and exposed skin.

Derek yanked his gaze away when Stiles looked back up at him, and swallowed hard, grimacing.

“Yeah, I feel pretty shitty, too. Damn that Jack Daniels for being so tasty. I need bacon. And hashbrowns. So many hashbrowns. And a fountain soda as large as my head.”

“Fountain soda?” Derek’s stomach had started gurgling as soon as Stiles said “bacon”, and he sat up.

“Yes. Not a can, not a bottle. It’s gotta be a fountain drink. There’s a diner in town that knows exactly how I like my hashbrowns. You in?”

*****

You home?

The text came in while Derek was still in bed. He was fighting a cold and had slept later than he usually did on an off day, hoping that the extra sleep on top of the meds he was taking would keep him healthy enough to play well.

Since their camping trip Stiles had taken to texting Derek every now and then. Sometimes it was pertinent information, about a game or going out or asking if Scott was home (since he couldn’t trust Scott to be there when he said he would be after he’d been “stood up” multiple times), sometimes it was silly stuff about what Stiles was watching on TV or a conversation he’d overheard that he thought would make Derek laugh.

Derek still wasn’t used to it, still got a little buzz under his skin to accompany the buzz of his phone, and had started keeping his phone in his front pocket so he always knew when a message came in.

Yeah., he typed back, and laid the phone on his chest, waiting for it to vibrate.

It did three seconds later, and Derek grinned at the screen.

Can I come over? I have a pile of stupid movies guaranteed to cure any ills.

Derek rolled his eyes, not even questioning how Stiles knew he was sick. Scott probably mentioned it to Allison, or Melissa mentioned it to the Sheriff, or Stiles was just psychic. He always seemed to know everything, it wouldn’t surprise Derek at all.

If you get my cold, you asked for it.

Ten minutes later Stiles let himself into the house and came downstairs, his arms full.

“What is all that stuff?”

Stiles shrugged. “Movies. Soup. Tea. Normal sick stuff?”

Derek rolled his eyes and scooted over on the couch. “Did you bring a blanket? You do know I live in a house where there is bedding, Stiles.”

Stiles’s hand spread out over the fuzzy thing in his arms protectively. “Shut up, I have a Florence Nightengale thing, okay?”

Stiles laid everything out on the table and Derek eyed the Tupperware container. “Is that soup homemade?”

The sheepish look he received confirmed his suspicions and he sighed to cover the wave of affection that swept over him. “My dad tells me I can be a bit overbearing when he’s sick. I always hope other people will think it’s charming.” He cleared his throat. “It’s my mom’s recipe. She used to make it for me when I was sick.”

Derek felt lightheaded, and it wasn’t from the cold. Stiles kept fiddling with the DVDs, shuffling them in their stack, and Derek wished he could tuck them both under the blanket and forget about batting averages and scouts and signing bonuses. Instead he reached out to still Stiles’s hands, tugging a DVD case out from the pile and slapping it against Stiles’s chest.

“This one. And don’t make my soup too hot.” Derek saw the corner of Stiles’s mouth tilt up before he got to his feet with the bowl clutched in his hands.

“Charming’s still a stretch,” he called out as Stiles loped up the stairs, and his laugh trailed behind him.

*****

The stretch of games that led up to the All-Star Game was a cakewalk, and Derek played better than he had all season. He made the All-Star team as a starter, Isaac and Boyd were both back-ups, and everyone in town started making arrangements to spend a couple of days in Madison.

The Moon Dogs had a few away games the week before the All-Star Game, and Derek barely had time to do laundry and re-pack before he had to board the bus to Madison, where the game was being held.

The night before the game was the All-Star dinner, and Derek didn’t know what to expect. Coach Finstock had given him a lecture about the bigwigs that would be attending, and Derek had come home freaked out about not having a suit. Scott and Stiles were lounging around the living room with their XBox controllers and bags of chips, and Stiles showed up the next day with a garment bag, telling Derek that he may be able to squeeze his “ridiculous shoulders” into his dad’s suit coat.

Derek shifted said shoulders in the borrowed coat and looked around the banquet room. The attendee list was impressive, current major leaguers and managers, franchise owners and scouts all mingling together with drinks in their hands. The current all-stars stuck out with their deer-in-headlights looks and cheaper looking suits.

He lingered near the hor d'oeuvres table, holding a plate but not touching the crackers or veggies he’d filled it with, and tried not to look too awkward. He was debating going over to the nearest group of people and jumping into the conversation when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Being anti-social?”

The voice made him jump, and he almost dropped his plate when he turned around and saw Stiles standing there, grinning like a loon with Scott and Allison at his side. Derek gaped, and the three of them chuckled.

“We bought a table,” Allison said, and smoothed the front of her party dress. “It’s for charity, and we all wanted to be here.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Scott said, and reached out to thump Derek’s arm. “Surprise.”

Derek was surprised, but more by the way Stiles looked in his suit, tie knotted at the base of his throat, his cheeks pink. Derek couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“I am definitely surprised,” Derek said, his voice rougher than usual, and all three of them beamed.

They trailed away to the bar after that, claiming they didn’t want to keep him from “rubbing elbows with important baseball folk”, as Stiles said, but Stiles seemed reluctant to leave Derek’s side. Scott had to drag him away by the elbow, and even then Stiles looked back at Derek over his shoulder as he shuffled away. Derek could feel his face getting hot, and wanted nothing more than to plaster himself to Stiles’s side, where he’d feel more comfortable than he did in this room full of strangers.

He made an effort to mingle, talking to a few other players from teams the Moon Dogs had hosted at the Frank, introduce himself to a scout and a former big league manager. After that he needed some air, and he ducked out of the ballroom doors to find the exit, loosening the knot of his tie.

“Trying to escape?” Stiles said, coming up behind him.

“Are you following me?”

“Nah, just had to pee.” Stiles gestured down the hall towards the bathrooms, then cocked his head. “Having fun?”

“It’s a little nerve-wracking.” Derek hadn’t planned on telling Stiles that, but that happened a lot with him and Stiles. He never meant to tell Stiles all the things he told him, and he thought maybe he should stop fighting it. He wasn’t winning. “I was going out for air.”

“Do people really do that?” Derek shrugged. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Don’t you have to pee?”

“I’m an adult, Derek, I can hold it. Let’s go outside so you can freak out about being a big important baseball player, I’ll hit the bathroom on the way back in.”

They found a side door that led out to a parking lot and propped it open with a trash can, and Derek dropped down on the curb and propped his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Stiles perched next to him, fingers digging at his collar.

“I hate dressing up like this. I feel like I’m being choked to death. Suits and ties are not good for my anxiety.”

“You look good in a suit,” Derek said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Stiles stopped plucking at his tie and glanced over, eyes narrowed. It was a calculating look, one Derek had seen a few times. Like Stiles was trying to read his mind. Derek thought maybe Stiles really was psychic, and was about to make a joke about it to break the tension when Stiles leaned over and kissed him.

It was a brief, dry press of lips, but it went through Derek like an electric shock, and he jerked back so hard he almost knocked himself off the curb. The look of disappointed and hurt that raced over Stiles’s face took Derek’s breath away, and before he found enough of it to explain Stiles was on his feet, pacing.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot. You just, we were starting to be friends, but you look at me sometimes, and I guess I thought, but then I guess I was wrong because of course I was wrong, I’m me. And you’re you, and god we’re at a banquet for your all-star game and there are scouts here and I’m an idiot, Derek, I’m sorry. You’ve got a game tomorrow and a contract to sign and you can’t be kissing spazzes when you’re trying to get signed, why would you want to kiss a spaz anyway, when you look like you do - “

The rant was gathering steam, Derek could tell, Stiles’s fingers frantic at his throat until the tie was undone, the two ends hanging limp against his shirt, and Derek’s mouth was still tingling from the feel of Stiles’s chapped lips.

Stiles was right about the banquet and the scouts and the game and the contract, but he was wrong about Derek not wanting to kiss him, and at that moment Derek really wanted to correct him. He did it the only way he could think of, by pushing to his feet and grabbing the ends of Stiles’s tie, stopping him in his tracks.

His eyes were still open when he leaned in, and he watched Stiles’s go wide before they fluttered shut, then closed his own as he pressed his mouth to Stiles’s.

Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue

FIC: All Fingers & Thumbs (Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles)

popfly — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 04:11:49 GMT

Title: All Fingers & Thumbs
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3013
Summary: Allison loses her hearing, Stiles makes the pack learn ASL, Derek likes Stiles's hands.
Notes: For sonicbookmark and filmatleven because they love Stiles's hands as much as I do, but maybe not as much as Derek does. Crossposted at AO3.

After the dust has settled (literally and figuratively, the Hale house had been dusty enough without one of Argent’s hunters going rogue and blowing it to smithereens) Stiles crawls out from behind his Jeep, coughing, and calls out for the pack.

Everyone emerges mostly intact (Isaac’s leg gets crushed when the stairs collapse on him and Derek has a truly impressive array of shrapnel sticking out of his back), but Allison is bleeding from the ears in a way that has Scott unable to shift back to human, whining over her and nudging her neck with his nose.

Stiles’s ears are ringing and he hadn’t been nearly as close to the blast as Allison had been. He opens the door to his Jeep and fidgets while Derek lays Allison out in the backseat, thanking whatever instinct had made him park farther back than usual when the Jeeps starts up easily, and he drives as carefully and as quickly as he can to the hospital.

When the doctor says the chances of her hearing coming back are slim, Scott looks like he’s going to crawl out of his skin, and Stiles can imagine how badly he wants to go out to the preserve and claw at a tree or howl at the sky, because Stiles feels almost exactly the same. Mr. Argent is as white as the sheets on the hospital bed, and Stiles drags Scott out of the room to give them time.

Allison spends one whole day staring at the wall, refusing to speak, and refusing the pen and pad of paper that the nurses have placed on the rolling table next to her bed. They say it’s normal that people who lose their hearing in traumatic incidents don’t want to talk because they can’t hear themselves and that makes it worse. Scott paces in the hall, Derek (after Stiles convinced him that he needed to dig all the shrapnel out of his flesh and heal, not to mention change clothing, before coming to the hospital) sits in the waiting room with the rest of the pack, all of them staring down at the floor and frowning.

Stiles goes home that night and Googles local ASL instructors.

The next day Allison is smiling, though thinly, and scribbling furiously on her pad. Done wallowing, she writes, pale but determined, what’s next?

Scott and Mr. Argent exchange looks, they’d already taken care of the guy responsible (and Stiles doesn’t want to know how violently, he can only imagine what he would’ve done in the same situation, not that he has an Allison, but he’d wanted to fuck Peter Hale up pretty badly after he attacked Lydia) but clearly don’t want to talk about it.

“Um,” Stiles interjects, pulling the papers he’d printed out the night before out of his pocket and unfolding them. “I found someone who can teach us sign language. If that’s something you’re, you know, okay with. I mean, some people who are deaf but can still speak prefer lip reading, but that’s a lot more subjective, and … ,” he trails off, realizing that, duh, Allison can’t hear him. He passes the papers over to her and lets her read over them, then takes her pad and writes on it when she gives him a look of obvious inquiry.

Someone to teach us sign language.

Allison ducks her head and writes on her pad. She holds it up but doesn’t lift her head, and Scott is gripping the railing of the bed so hard it looks like it might shatter at any second.

Teach us? The “us” is underlined three times.

Stiles thinks Allison may be wiping a tear out of her eye, and scratches at his jaw nervously, taking the paper back.

The whole pack should learn, right?

Allison’s eyes jump up to her dad’s face and Stiles wishes he had chosen a different word than “pack” but it’s out there already, and Mr. Argent doesn’t even flinch, he just looks grateful. Allison nods, a tear sliding down her cheek, and Scott leans over her to give her a hug.

“Thank you,” Mr. Argent says, his hand coming down on Stiles’s shoulder. Scott straightens up so fast Stiles thinks he can hear his spine pop and then he’s grabbing Stiles in an awkward hug.

Stiles pats him on the back. “No worries, guys.” He gives Allison a thumbs up, and backs out of the room before the gratitude makes him weepy.

He pitches his idea to the rest of the pack in the waiting room.

"That’s … a good idea,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t miss the hesitation. Like he never has good ideas.

“It’s brilliant,” Boyd says.

“Not a big deal, really. It’s just a dude who’s studying to be an interpreter, so he’s going to copy his books and DVDs from school and he’s pretty cheap, and he’s available weekends, which is when I figure we can all get together.” Stiles takes a breath. “We could start this weekend?”

*****

Stiles stays up most of Friday night watching signing tutorials on YouTube because once he’s decided to learn something he has to become an expert as soon as he can. He only stumbles to bed after he’s memorized the entire alphabet and is woken the next day by a thump and a muttered curse.

“Whazzat,” he mumbles, squinting towards the window and the dark shape outlined by bright sun.

“You left your shoes in front of the window again.”

Stiles shoves to a sitting position, thumbing drool from his lip. “Better than a pyramid of soda cans, you would’ve woken the whole neighborhood.”

Derek scowls. “Most of the neighborhood is already awake.”

“Most of the neighborhood wasn’t up until four thirty.” Stiles twists his shoulders until his spine pops. “I don’t think you have any right to scowl when you’re crawling in my window and waking me up.”

“You said to be here by ten thirty.”

Stiles gives the bright blue “10:01” on his alarm clock a meaningful glance before raising his eyebrows at Derek. Derek keeps scowling, but he breaks eye contact. Stiles doesn’t need any YouTube videos to interpret that one, in Derek Sign Language that means he’s conceding a point.

Stiles swings his legs out of bed and stretches to his feet, yawning. “Make yourself useful at least and drag the dining room chairs into the living room, I’m going to shower.”

Derek does one of his exasperated through-the-nose exhales and stalks past Stiles into the hallway.

“Make coffee too, you clearly need it,” Stiles shouts after him, smiling to himself.

The first lesson goes surprisingly well. They watch an introductory DVD (with subtitles) all about deaf culture and the history of American Sign Language, and everyone takes notes. Scott looks serious in a way he never does in school, and when Stiles glances at his paper his handwriting actually looks legible. The instructor has to replay the section on the importance of facial expressions twice, shooting a nervous glance in Derek and Jackson’s direction. Stiles coughs into his fist and receives a satisfying glare from both of them before they both try to smooth out their foreheads.

“Thanks again for doing this,” Mr. Argent says after the instructor has packed up and left. Allison and Lydia are typing furiously on their phones, holding them up in turn for the other to read. Scott is hovering over them, fretting the way he’d been doing since Allison had been discharged from the hospital.

“No problem, really,” Stiles says, and prides himself on not flinching when Mr. Argent claps a hand on his back.

Mr. Argent taps Allison’s shoulder to get her attention and then hitches his thumb at the door. She nods, hugging Lydia and kissing Scott, stuffing her phone and her notebook into her purse. She approaches Stiles with a smile and shining eyes, and Stiles ducks his head, embarrassed, but accepts her hug.

Derek and Boyd clean up, and Jackson almost smiles at him on his way out the door, and Stiles thinks all in all the whole thing is a massive success.

*****

They’re four lessons in when Stiles notices it.

He’s running through one of the model conversations in the textbook with Isaac, asking him “who hurt your feelings” (and fully expecting Isaac to break script and answer “everyone”) when he glances over Isaac’s shoulder and sees Derek staring at them.

Staring at Stiles.

Staring at Stiles’s hands.

Stiles falters slightly when he moves on to the next question, asking Isaac why he’s sad (and again expecting him to break script and answer “everything”), and his hands stutter halfway through the sign for “sad”, his fingers curled too tight. Derek’s eyes track the movement, and they look almost glazed. He’s out of it in a way Stiles has never seen before, and Stiles feels his heart beat a fraction faster.

Derek shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears, and goes back to frowning at Boyd.

“Uh, Stiles?” Isaac’s hands are suspended mid-air, and his voice is jarring in the quiet room.

“Sorry, yeah, go on.” Stiles focuses on Isaac as he signs the next part of the conversation, and they finish up the lesson.

It happens again the next week, the look on Derek’s face distracting Stiles so badly he skips from twenty-six straight to thirty when they’re running through their numbers. The week after Derek actually licks his lips when Stiles is shaping the sign for “red”.

Stiles pulls Lydia aside after the lesson, and she lets Stiles yank her into the kitchen with only one exasperated sigh and her hands on her hips.

“Derek keeps staring at my hands,” he says, and Lydia bursts out laughing.

She laughs so hard she actually doubles over, and Stiles is torn between finding it really freaking cute and being really freaking annoyed. He settles somewhere in the middle and waits her out, his arms crossed.

“You are an actual idiot,” is what she ends up gasping at him, and that pushes him right over the line into irritated.

“Why?”

“Because,” she says, and now she’s serious again, though Stiles can see the amusement lingering around her mouth. “Look, I’ll lay it out for you. Derek has been sniffing around you like a dog in heat for months. If he’s staring at your hands it’s probably because he’s imagining the dirty things you could be doing with them.”

Stiles gapes at her and she lets a wicked smile curl across her face.

“To him.”

He thinks the clunk of his jaw hitting the floor can probably be heard in the next county over, and Lydia tosses her hair and leaves him standing there stunned stupid.

*****

He mulls it over all night and decides to turn it into an experiment. He watches all the videos for their next lesson ahead of time, which isn’t abnormal, but this time he’s looking for the signs with the most elaborate movements, the ones where he has to curl his fingers in a way that maybe could be considered sexy.

Watching his own fingers doesn’t do it for him, so he tries to imagine Derek’s hands instead, and ends up getting hard so fast he feels lightheaded.

Stiles is hyper-aware of Derek all through the lesson, and has to focus on his heartbeat to keep it steady. He’s already getting weird looks from Isaac, and he doesn’t want to raise the hackles of every werewolf in the room.

When they get to the first sign Stiles had put on his “sexy signs” list, he glances up at Derek while his fingers make the shapes, and yup, Derek is staring. A lot. If Derek could shoot lasers with his eyes Stiles’s fingers would be burnt off. Which is decidedly unsexy and also leads Stiles’s brain on a tangent about werewolves having laser eyes and other superpowers than just increased strength and senses, and then he fumbles the sign and Isaac sighs.

Stiles still considers it a successful test.

All three of his tests are successful that day, and he decides something needs to be done about it. He’d always been attracted to Derek (he’s pretty sure inanimate objects were attracted to Derek) but over the last year Derek had become someone that Stiles could really like, especially now that the physical violence was saved for situations when it was necessary (like killing things that threatened the pack, not for expressing frustration with sarcastic teenagers), and if Derek was feeling any of that towards Stiles than that was a good thing.

Stiles shoos everyone out as quickly as he could after the lesson, taking advantage of Derek being in the bathroom to shove them out the door. He’s nonchalantly gathering empty cups when Derek comes back into the living room, his eyebrows drawn together.

“I wasn’t in there that long.”

“They were in a hurry, I guess?” Stiles shrugs, his arms full of mugs, and heads into the kitchen. Derek grabs the rest of the dishes and follows, and their shoulders brush as they unload the cups and plates into the sink.

“Want help moving the furniture back?” Derek asks, and makes a move towards the living room. Stiles stops him with a hand on his arm, and Derek’s eyebrows go up so fast they look like they’re trying to escape into his hairline.

“Wait. I have,” he starts, and shakes his head, feeling flustered already. He practiced what he wanted to say the night before, but now that he has the opportunity he doesn’t know if his fingers will stop trembling long enough to make it coherent. Derek’s eyebrows are still doing something complicated on his forehead, but Stiles thinks there’s something almost like hope in his eyes, and he takes a deep breath and lifts his hands.

The signs for “you”, “me”, and “date” aren’t on the sexy list as far as shapes go, but it’s the question that Stiles needs the answer to. Derek looks confused for a second, and Stiles worries that he doesn’t remember what the signs mean, they’d gone over dating already but not extensively, and then Derek raises one hand in a fist and makes it nod.

Stiles’s grin is so wide his cheeks hurt, and Derek smiles back, small and pleased and a little surprised.

“How’d you know?”

“I guessed, mostly. You’ve been staring at my hands, and Lydia said it was because you were imagining … “ Stiles trails off, and grimaces. He hadn’t been planning on mentioning that bit.

Derek crowds him against the counter in a blur of movement, and Stiles mentally curses werewolf speed when his spine knocks against the edge of the sink. The sting is forgotten when Derek’s hands curl around his hips, and he feels Derek’s breath fanning hot across the sensitive skin under his earlobe.

“I have been imagining,” Derek says, stubble scraping lightly across Stiles’s throat as Derek inhales deep, nosing along the neckline of Stiles’s tee shirt.

“What have you been imagining?” Stiles can’t believe the way his voice sounds, low and dirty like something out of a porn video, and he would be embarrassed if Derek didn’t respond with a rumble and a press of his mouth to Stiles’s collar bone.

Derek’s voice is just as raspy when he speaks, and Stiles feels like his knees are liquefying when he says, “I’ve been imagining your hands on my cock.”

That cannot be a thing that was just said, Stiles is sure that he’s dreaming. Maybe Derek responded to the request for a date by knocking Stiles out and now Stiles is in a coma. “Oh my god,” is the only response he can think of, and he punctuates it by grabbing fistfuls of Derek’s shirt.

“It’s a little lower, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel him grin against his neck before he bites, gently enough that Stiles doesn’t startle and instead lets out a breathy kind of moan.

“I would make the sign for ‘bedroom’ right now but I think you may have short-circuited my brain,” Stiles says, and slides his hands down, bringing one around to brush against the fly of Derek’s jeans. He’s definitely hard under the denim, and Stiles’s fingers shake as he cups the shape of him.

Derek gasps and drags his face along Stiles’s jaw to seal their mouths together, and if Stiles is in a coma he doesn’t ever want to wake up.

Stiles’s fingers drag along Derek’s jeans, and Derek shudders, pulling back to growl, “Upstairs, now,” an order Stiles is happy to follow.

Derek undresses Stiles and then himself when Stiles’s fingers tangle together in their haste to get under Derek’s shirt. Stiles is still busy gaping at Derek’s … well, at his everything, really, raking over expanses of skin stretching over muscle, trying to decide where he wants to touch first when he wants to touch all of it at once. Derek makes the decision for him, circling his hand around Stiles’s wrist and lifting it to his mouth, and Stiles feels the bristle of stubble against his fingertips before they’re sliding into Derek’s hot, wet mouth.

Stiles whimpers, his legs shaking as Derek’s tongue slides between his knuckles, and he has to grab on to Derek’s biceps with his free hand to keep from collapsing to the floor when Derek hollows his cheeks and sucks, sliding his mouth off with a slick pop.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

Stiles laughs breathlessly, letting his wet fingers drift down Derek’s chest. “Were there other things you’ve been wanting to do?”

Derek’s eyebrow tilts and he smirks in a way Stiles can only describe as naughty. He shoves Stiles back onto the mattress and lifts his hands, making a circle with one and holding out his other index finger, and Stiles wonders for a moment what he’s going to sign before he makes a crude gesture that has Stiles simultaneously blushing and rolling his eyes.

“That is not in the course work,” Stiles says, and reaches out to pull Derek in.

popfly — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 02:25:59 GMT

Oh boy. I actually did it. I wrote Merlin fic. YIKES.

The Heat of the Night, popfly
Arthur/Merlin/Gwaine

Notes: Loosely based on the last two episodes of season three. LOOSELY. I definitely took some liberties here. Also this was beta read by the lovely mclachlan. ♥

The night air was cold, bringing up chill bumps on the skin of Merlin’s arms, numbing the tip of his nose. His back was warm from the fire but the warmth seemed unable to cross some invisible barrier that ran down his side and over his hip, and his shoulder ached where it was pressed to the hard ground. His jacket covered Arthur’s sleeping form, lying with his head at Merlin’s feet, shivering from the temperature and the fever that came with infection, the wound high on his thigh still bleeding under layers of the gauze Merlin was quickly running low on.

Merlin turned over for the fourth time that night, and the fire flickered merrily, the smoke rising from it obscuring the sight of Gwaine’s head. The rest of him was still save the steady rise and fall of his chest, and Merlin could hear a slight snoring over the crackling of the fire.

The feeling was coming back to his nose, but the nape of his neck was cold, lacking the covering of his neckerchief which was tied tightly above the level of Arthur’s wound. Merlin sighed his discomfort and anxiety, and pushed up from where he lay to pace the small clearing as quietly as he possibly could.

He was standing behind Arthur’s shoulder, watching him twitch and shake, when Gwaine’s voice came from below.

“Go to sleep, mate, you’ll need your rest.”

“Can’t,” Merlin whispered, his eyes on the back of Arthur’s head, his blond hair bright in a sliver of moonlight.

Gwaine was quiet, but Merlin could feel his understanding.

“You must try. Arthur will need both of us strong and ready in the morning.”

Merlin pressed his fingertips to his forehead and glanced towards Gwaine, just making out the glint of his eyes in the firelight. He chuckled softly, without humor, and lowered himself to the ground behind Arthur’s back. “Too cold to sleep anyway. His highness needs my jacket more than I do.”

Merlin expected a laugh in return, and when he didn’t hear one he looked to see if Gwaine had gone back to sleep already. He hadn’t, but was watching Merlin, just watching him, with an odd expression on his face. Merlin shifted his weight and looked away, feeling uncomfortable once again.

“Couldn’t you share?” Gwaine suggested, his voice pitched low, the oddness in his tone matching what Merlin had seen on his face. Merlin felt a blush creep up his neck, and fingered the collar of his jacket where it rested against Arthur’s neck. He looked down the length of the prince’s body, covered only to the waist with the jacket, and the blush moved over his jaw line and into his cheeks.

The jacket had always been too big for him. And if Arthur needed to be warmed, a body would help more than a thin layering of fabric.

He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it.

Merlin saw Gwaine’s hand move out of the corner of his eye, and when the edge of the jacket was lifted Merlin pushed all thought from his head and moved to lie down underneath it. He made sure there was at least an inch of space – of warm, empty space – between the front of his body and the back of Arthur’s before Gwaine settled the jacket back over both of them.

“Much better,” Gwaine said, not a question, as if he knew something Merlin didn’t.

Merlin didn’t answer, and closed his eyes. He was slightly warmer now, and more comfortable, but he couldn’t get to sleep with Arthur so restless beside him. He lay still while Gwaine spread out on the other side of the fire, and waited until he heard the other man’s breath slow. He squinted and watched Gwaine for a moment, making sure, before placing his hand against the bandaging on Arthur’s leg. He whispered an incantation and felt the magic shimmer weakly in his palm. It took another two tries before Arthur stopped shivering, and only then was Merlin able to sleep.

*

“Merlin.”

The voice woke him from the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time, and he groaned in response, burrowing into the warmth that ran along his front and squeezing his eyes shut defiantly. He was too comfortable, couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that comfortable, and would not let whatever evil trying to wrench him from sleep succeed.

“Merlin.” The voice was louder now, and accompanied by a nudge in the small of his back. Something that felt like the toe of a boot. He moved away from it, pressing against the solid presence in front of him, wrapping his arms more securely around …

… he cracked open one eye. All he could see was gold. Bright, glinting strands of gold. His mind struggled to place itself. Woods, running, the cup, Cenred’s men, Arthur.

Arthur.

Merlin scrambled backwards, the heels of his hands scraping on the dried leaves, his boots leaving furrows in the earth. When his back bumped something that could’ve been a tree stump he stopped, looking up into Gwaine’s laughing face.

Merlin couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wasn’t totally and utterly ridiculous, so he was merely quiet, and accepted the hand up that Gwaine offered him.

Gwaine’s mouth was twitching and Merlin could see what he wanted to say as clear as day, so he spun on his boot heel and began clearing the camp.

“Did you try to wake Arthur?” He didn’t turn to look at Gwaine, but he could hear the breath of a laugh that escaped him when he started to reply.

“Thought it might be best to wake you first, mate.”

Merlin nodded down at the smoldering remains of their fire as he kicked dirt onto it.
Arthur began to stir and Merlin stopped cold, barely turning his head to watch as Arthur’s chin, then his chest, lifted from the ground, his arms wobbling just slightly. He blinked around, brushing leaves from his tunic, Merlin’s jacket sliding to the ground behind him.

“How do you feel, sire?” Gwaine stooped down, a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, as Merlin stood stock-still near the fire pit.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, his voice husky and weak from the fever and the night spent on the forest floor. Merlin felt the blush on his neck again. “Let’s get moving.”

Merlin waited until Arthur and Gwaine were busy sheathing their swords to collect his jacket, and moved as minutely as possible while pulling it back on. When the two men looked back he was standing ready, schooling his expression into something innocent, inconspicuous.

Gwaine grinned back, but Arthur merely nodded, turning to leave the clearing, limping only slightly.

*

They were a half day’s march from Camelot when Arthur decided they should stop, make camp, rest up for the final push. Merlin swallowed around a lump in his throat and offered to gather firewood, not meeting Gwaine’s eyes as he picked his way through the underbrush, heading towards a dense thicket of trees.

He heard the footsteps behind him, crunching over the ground, and hung his head resignedly. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to escape the discussion forever.

“We’re one night’s sleep and a few hours of walking away from near certain death, mate. Don’t you think it’s time to drop the virginal princess act?” Gwaine clapped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, his grin wide in his darkly stubbled face. Merlin worked up his best indignant face but when he opened his mouth all he could come up with was, “What?”

“Come on, Merlin. I’ve seen the way you look at him, and it didn’t just start with you waking up in each others’ arms this morning.” Gwaine’s grin went lopsided, lewd, and Merlin felt his indignant face droop into something more appalled, something guiltier.

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen the way he looks at you too, and it’s about the same. Dirtier, though.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin choked out, his face flaming hot. “What on earth on you talking about?”

“Honestly, Merlin. I would have to be blind, deaf and daft not to know that you two are stupid for each other. He may have some silly girly feelings towards Gwen but he wants you. And not in a ‘Merlin-shine-my-boots’ sort of way. More in a ‘Merlin-put-your-mouth-on-my’ – “

“Gwaine,” Merlin hissed, his head whipping back to find Arthur’s form through the trees, calculating the distance, and the pitch of Gwaine’s voice, and the crunch of the leaves underfoot, and oh god if he heard …

“Relax. There’s nothing to worry about really. You two have your hot and sweaty evening together in this cold, cold forest and tomorrow we’ll all be run through by an army of immortal men. No one will be the wiser.” Gwaine was too nonchalant, too loud for god’s sake, and Merlin could barely hold on to the small logs Gwaine was placing in the crooks of his arms.

“I can’t,” he all but squeaked, and cleared his throat, looking back at Arthur once more. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gwaine straightened up, his face suddenly serious. “Merlin. I’m serious. He feels the same as you. You have nothing to worry about. And please stop lying to me, I know you too well. We know each other too well.”

Merlin wished the ground beneath him would open up, cleave in two, and suck him down into it. He did not want to be having this conversation here in this forest with Gwaine of all people.
Or did he?

Gwaine was a trusted friend to him, and to Arthur. He was also a bit more experienced in these matters, and Merlin, well Merlin only had some pubescent fumbling with Will in the woods behind his mother’s house to his credit.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and then sighed, defeated. “Alright. You’ve got me. I’m in love with the prince. What would you like me to do about it?”

Gwaine smiled, a gentle smile which looked slightly out of place on his roguish face. “I don’t know about the love bit, mate, but I can help with some of the rest.”

Merlin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, but he could feel his head nodding, and resigned himself to whatever horrible fate Arthur would condemn him to.

*

The fire was lit and the moon was partially obscured by a low layer of scattered clouds. Merlin could barely hear the night sounds of the forest over the rushing in his head. His blood zinged in his veins, and he was having trouble getting breath. Gwaine and Arthur were checking the perimeter, settling their nerves before they could lie down to sleep. Only Merlin knew what Gwaine was about to do, and he wondered if any nerves would be settled at all.

When he heard the footsteps approaching, he almost wished they’d be bandits, or Cenred’s immortal army, that someone with something sharp and pointy would put him out of his misery. Then he heard Gwaine’s low, throaty voice and he knew that he wouldn’t be spared.
Merlin watched from under his lashes as Gwaine and Arthur approached the clearing. Arthur was saying something low, serious, when Gwaine grabbed his elbow, spun him around and pushed him up against a tree. Arthur struggled, but Gwaine was murmuring into his ear, working his knee between Arthur’s legs, and Merlin could see Arthur still, going almost rigid between the tree and Gwaine’s body. Gwaine’s dark head was bent, nuzzled under the line of Arthur’s jaw and Merlin felt his mouth go dry when Arthur’s eyes slid closed and his hands moved up to press against Gwaine’s back.

Merlin got to his feet, shaky, his clammy hands clenched into fists against his thighs. He took one step towards the two men, then one more, shuffling over the ground as quietly as he could. He could hear Gwaine’s voice as he got closer, deep and gravelly against Arthur’s neck, almost a whisper, and he could see Arthur’s nostrils flaring as Gwaine muttered filthy things into his skin.

“ … can see how you look at him, can feel how hard you get thinking about his mouth, those full lips, think about them on your cock … “

Arthur’s lips parted and a moan sounded into the night, making Merlin stumble and step right in the middle of a twig. The crack seemed to reverberate through his chest, through his skull, and Gwaine’s murmuring ceased, Arthur’s eyes flying open to land directly on Merlin.

Merlin stood still, his boot still placed on the now broken twig, his breath puffing white, his heart sounding like horse hooves in his head.

Gwaine chuckled in the bend of Arthur’s neck and moved away slightly, leaving Arthur propped against the tree, legs spread, arms falling to his sides. “Merlin. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Gwaine’s voice was thick, his hand pressed palm-open to the front of his trousers, and Merlin felt all the blood rush to his prick. “Why don’t you come closer?”

Merlin looked from Gwaine to Arthur, whose eyes were back to being squeezed closed, and to Gwaine again, who looked positively cheerful as he stroked himself through his clothing. “Come on, Merlin. We’re waiting for you.”

When Merlin stepped forward, his feet clumsy, he was no longer quiet, and Arthur flinched at every step. But his lips were parted and his tongue darted out to wet them, and Merlin couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. Gwaine took hold of his waist as he came closer and turned him to face Arthur, pressing himself all along Merlin’s back as he walked them forward, nudging the back of Merlin’s knee with his own to move it between Arthur’s legs, lifting Merlin’s arms to Arthur’s shoulders.

“Did you hear what I was saying earlier, Merlin?” Gwaine’s voice was in his ear, his breath ghosting over the skin, the hum of it going straight through Merlin. Gwaine pressed them closer to Arthur, and Arthur panted a little when Merlin’s groin came in contact with his. “About your mouth and Arthur’s cock? Now, what do you think about that?”

Merlin’s arms were stiff on Arthur’s shoulders, his knuckles grazing the rough bark on either side of Arthur’s head, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Arthur’s mouth, open and wet, his tongue waiting just beyond the crooked line of teeth, the breath coming fast between his lips. Merlin couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of what he could possibly say that would be appropriate and so instead decided to fit his mouth to Arthur’s, to take in those rapid breaths and to touch Arthur’s tongue with his own.

Gwaine’s noise of approval was lost to Merlin in the heat and the feel of Arthur against him, in the taste of his mouth and the slide of tongues. Arthur’s only response was a rumble in his throat, but when Merlin opened his hands against Arthur’s neck, tilting his head and widening his mouth Arthur suddenly came alive under him.

Merlin’s mind was shrieking, his hands clenched in Arthur’s hair and his mouth wide and hungry against Arthur’s. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening, couldn’t believe he was touching Arthur, was kissing Arthur, that Arthur was kissing him back, that Arthur was – oh. That Arthur was grinding against Merlin’s thigh, growling whenever their mouths were apart, holding Merlin to him with arms like steel against his back.

Merlin felt the warmth at his back disappear and started slightly, pulling his mouth away from Arthur’s to find where it went. Gwaine was leaning against another tree, just off to their side, and was watching them, eyes heavy lidded, undoing his laces before sliding a hand inside. He hitched his chin towards them, his lips curling. “Don’t stop. I want to watch.”

Merlin barely processed that request before Arthur was pulling his face around again, matching their mouths up and sliding his tongue inside Merlin’s mouth, his hands moving down to the hem of Merlin’s tunic and then under, his palms hot and damp as they skidded around Merlin’s waist and up his chest, fingertips brushing Merlin’s nipples as his ground his hips down, his hardness rubbing against Merlin’s hip.

Merlin needed more, couldn’t believe he was getting as much as he was, but still needed more. The night air was cold, but Arthur was hot beneath him and if he didn’t get his hands on skin soon he was going to explode. He skidded his mouth away from Arthur’s, over stubbled cheek and jaw, gorgeous jaw line, to the hollow behind Arthur’s ear, fastening his lips there as he focused on getting Arthur’s trousers undone. Arthur was panting against Merlin’s hair, something that sounded like Merlin’s name, and maybe “oh, god, yes” as Merlin worked his hand on Arthur’s prick, rubbing his thumb over the head and squeezing just slightly as he slid up and down.

“Stop.”

Merlin’s hand halted at Gwaine’s voice, but he didn’t move away from Arthur.

Arthur offered a dazed “What?” above Merlin’s head and Merlin wholeheartedly agreed. He watched Gwaine push away from his tree and come closer, almost stalking, his hands outstretched.

“I’m not ready to come yet. And besides, you know there are better things than hands, Merlin. Didn’t you hear what I was saying before?” Gwaine pressed Merlin’s shoulder until Merlin’s knees buckled and he sank to his knees. Gwaine followed him down, kneeling behind him and whispering in his ear, loud enough that Arthur could hear above them. “Don’t you want to suck your prince off?”

“Oh lord,” came the strangled voice of Arthur, and yes, that was exactly what Merlin wanted. He dragged Arthur’s trousers down until they pooled at his ankles and without hesitation took Arthur into his mouth. He tasted of salt and smelled heady, and Merlin felt drunk with it, sucking sloppily and pressing his palms to Arthur’s naked thighs.

Gwaine was grunting behind him, rutting against Merlin’s arse, and Merlin pushed back against him while his mouth stretched around Arthur’s cock. Arthur was fisting Merlin’s hair fretfully, his voice gone high and keening. Merlin was so focused on the sound, on swirling his tongue again to make Arthur groan, on hollowing his cheeks to make Arthur gasp that he didn’t notice Gwaine’s fingers on his trouser laces.

He gulped around Arthur’s cock when Gwaine’s fingers wrapped around him, and Arthur shuddered beneath his palms before coming, draining himself into Merlin’s mouth and shouting into the cold night.

Merlin followed mere seconds later, snapping his hips, thrusting into Gwaine’s fist, his face buried in Arthur’s thigh. Gwaine’s drawn out moan came immediately after, rubbing against Merlin’s arse.

Their panting was the only sound in the forest for a few moments, and then Gwaine chuckled behind Merlin, using Merlin’s shoulders to push himself to standing.

“You can thank me in the morning.” He gave Arthur’s cheek a light smack as he sauntered past, crouching down in the clearing to re-kindle the fire.

Merlin kept his head down, starting to panic, still tasting Arthur in his mouth, a little of his seed dripping down his chin. Arthur was quietly lacing his trousers, his fingers fumbling slightly.

Merlin sat back on his heels, feeling dizzy, feeling nauseous, feeling tears prickle in his eyes. Then he felt the hand in his hair, gentle, and tilted his head up to find Arthur smiling down at him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Arthur said, his lips quirking. Merlin took a steadying breath. “You’re thinking that it was desperation, or that it was Gwaine that did it, or that I was thinking we could die tomorrow so what the hell.” Merlin raised his eyebrows. Arthur could read him like a book.

“The truth is,” Arthur said, quiet, his eyes soft. He closed his hand in Merlin’s hair and pulled slightly. Merlin went with the pressure and stood. “The truth is, Merlin, that I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

Merlin felt the relief bubbling up inside him, the happiness, and schooled his expression as best he could before his smile flew off his face or his cheeks cracked. “You have?”

“Indeed. And if we make it through tomorrow unscathed, I should like to do it again.”

Merlin let a grin slip through, feeling light as feather and cheeky. “Is that an order?”

Arthur grinned back and pulled him forward for a kiss.

“Oy, save it you two. We have to march to our deaths tomorrow!”

They laughed, not caring if it were true or not, feeling sleepy and satisfied and ready to take on the world, and went to join Gwaine by the fire. The smoke rose up into the night and the moon peeked through, lighting their small camp briefly. When they lay down to sleep they all curled together, limbs intertwined. For the warmth, of course.

The End

OH LORD.