(no subject)
notes: MERLIN WANTTS THE DDDDDDDDDDDDESTINY.
this is just really quickly written fic. i hope you didn't expect quality. you have been deCIEVED
i keep chaNging what the ntoes say
“I’m surprised you came. And you shaved!”
The voice comes from behind Merlin, and there’s suddenly a woman settling onto the stool next to him. Merlin touches his jaw, feeling the smooth skin. “Not that I didn’t like the whole shaggy hipster thing you had going on,” she pauses, “- okay, I didn’t like it at all. Thank you for shaving off the rug. Your cheekbones look so much better clean shaven.”
Merlin frowns. “Well, I’m glad you thought to call or text or even scry me while you disappeared to the Alps or Peru or wherever the hell you’ve been for the last seven months.” She didn't.
She scoffs, pushing back a long tress of black hair out of her face, “Are you still upset about that? I left a note.” That she did, Merlin remembers finding it a week later under his laundry basket. Damn her for understanding his appalling laundry habits. Some things just don’t get better with age. He sighs and presses his fingers to his temples.
“I missed you too, Merlin.” she gives him a smug smile, and Merlin isn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with this.
“So what is this all about, Morgana? You disappear for over half a year and then decide to spontaneously invite me clubbing? We’re a bit old for clubbing, don’t you think? What's your angle?”
“We don’t look it. Let’s dance.” Merlin shakes his head as Morgana pointedly ignores most of his questions and picks up his glass of beer which has been idly sipped at.
“Sorry, busy drowning my immortal sorrows. Especially when I'm stuck with someone like you.”
“Come on.”
Morgana just smiles like she has a secret (which Merlin knows she does) and plucks the glass out of his fingers. She sets it on the bar before grabbing his hand and trying to tug him away from his stool.
“Just trust me.” Merlin cocks a brow at her, refusing to move.
“Shall I ignore the time you framed me for that burglary in Rijeka a decade ago, then? Or the several other messes that ‘trusting you’ has gotten me into?” There’s really no bite to his words - even if there are old wounds, the scar tissue has built up enough for him to ignore any lingering hurt. Or hurt of substantial worth, at least.
Morgana grins, because 1883 was a good year for her, and Merlin knows it. “That’s the spirit. Now shut up and dance with me.”
With a roll of his eyes, Merlin consents. He lets himself be led through the mass of bodies, and his magic curiously trembling under his skin because he can feel Morgana’s excitement.
“What are you planning, Morgana?” He asks her, one of his hands sliding to the small of her back. She tosses her arms around his neck then... that’s it. They’re dancing. It’s honestly quite strange. He knows that she’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what.
“Be patient.”
They've been dancing for almost fifteen minutes when Merlin decides that enough is enough when Morgana is holding onto him with a vice-like grip.
“There,” she whispers into his ear, and Merlin manages to get over the way Morgana’s nails are digging into the skin under his button-up shirt like claws to look up. There are a few couples (or they might not even be couples, if Merlin’s honest) kissing, and many of them are dancing. Or grinding. And for a moment, he doesn’t quite know what the hell Morgana is going on about until he sees -
And he stops time.
A magical mistake he hasn’t made in ages, back when he barely understood the extent and strength of his powers. Back when his control was as uncontrollable as his hormones. Stopping time releases a huge amount of magical energy, and Merlin finds himself disconcerted by the sudden silence of the club. He wills time to start again, and his grip on Morgana’s hips might have bruised. She lets out a breathy laugh from the rush of magic he’d accidentally sent through her that brushes hot against his neck.
“I knew you’d like my little surprise.” They’re not really dancing now, mostly swaying back and forth while Merlin stares past her head at blond hair and a strong profile. He thought he’d know when he was back. He thought - Merlin doesn’t know. He thought maybe the world would feel different when he was back. Better? Maybe the world would let him know. A flux in his power. A dream. Some kind of a sign.
He guesses he was wrong.
“Is it really him?” He would spend time hating the thrum of desperation hidden under the question, the way his hands have started trembling, pressed against Morgana’s hips as they are, and his magic feels like it’s bubbling under his skin - but he’s so very distracted. Morgana places one hand over one of his hands, stilling the tremble and the other on his jaw. He glances down at her, reluctant to tear his gaze away from his target.
“It is,” she says, and Merlin lets his gaze soften. Morgana brushes her thumb against his cheekbone, before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. They have a rocky history, where there were times when Merlin didn’t know if he’d ever begin to forgive her - but immortality makes keeping grudges hard. They’ve had years to rehash their problems, to dig out shrapnel and make tentative amends, even if Merlin is secretly a pragmatic bastard and Morgana is a shrewd harpy.
“How -” Morgana gives him a look, oh right, Seer, “- thank you,” he says, before he looks back up at the guy, and Morgana slides the hand down to rest against his chest. It’s a distant thought, but he wonders if she can feel his heart beating against his ribcage. He knows she can feel the magic - she’s had centuries to soak in it, just as he has in hers.
“Go to him.”
As he’s about to let go of her, he’s hit with sudden insecurity that leaves him feeling queasy. Merlin can’t help it, he hesitates. His flirting skills are a little rusty. He knows he isn’t bad at pulling someone if he’s interested in just sex, but this is, this is hardly just Merlin looking for sex. This is - well, this isn’t just sex.
This is his destiny.
“Shut up, Emrys. I can hear you thinking. You’ve been waiting literally forever. Just go.” And she shoves him off, and he glares without heat at her.
The walk towards him would have been more picturesque if people hadn’t kept getting in his way. Then again, he never really pictured their reunion to be in a club and for Merlin to look like he was on the pull. He swears he can hear Morgana laughing in the background as he shoves people who thinking jumping back and forth counts as proper dancing out of his way. He scowls a little, narrowly avoiding someone’s elbow being thrust into his path. There also might have been a little magic involved in getting past the gaggle of girls celebrating someone’s bachelorette party without anything phallus shaped getting stuck to his person.
Merlin finds it sounds funnier in his head, whereas in real life it’s a bit tragic to be experiencing.
Of course, once he’s there, as all of Merlin’s most important ventures tend to do, it goes completely sideways.
“Hey. You’re fit. Want to dance?” Merlin says, and gives himself a mental slap to the face. The guy turns to look at him properly, and his eyes feel like a suckerpunch to Merlin’s stomach.
“Fit? Did you just call me fit?” His accent is American. Of course. He’s American this time. It’s hilarious enough to almost make Merlin giddy, but he makes himself look casual. Or he tries. Merlin shrugs his shoulders, a lopsided smile on his lips that may also just make him look dumb.
“Not from around here, sorry.”
“Do I know you?” The guy asks next, and his eyes are dark in the lights of the nightclub and they’re close enough that Merlin can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he’s so young looking (and alive, alive!) but Merlin can’t help but grin a bit wider.
“Ah,” he extends his hand, which looks out of place in a club of all places, but Merlin is a sucker for nostalgia, “I’m Merlin.”
“So I don’t know you.” The guy looks down at Merlin’s hand but makes no move to take it. But there’s no disgust on his face, no rude haughtiness in his tone. Merlin’s joy is genuine as he registers interest in Arthur’s expression, remembers the cocky twitch of the other’s smirk when he’s intrigued.
The guy glances at his friends and gives them a nod, and they leave with knowing looks on their faces and obnoxious catcalls. Merlin’s face would be burning red, but he’s an immortal being who once accidentally flashed the Queen of Denmark (Morgana’s fault.) so there’s very little that gets him riled up. The guy is a completely different story, though.
“No, but now you do. Dance?”
If Merlin remembers correctly, the last time they had this conversation, it ended with Merlin bent over and thrown in jail. Merlin thinks this is going infinitely better.
“Only if you put your hand down. It looks ridiculous.” And Merlin drops his hand with a laugh, letting it fade away when he turns around and presses his back to the guy’s chest. Merlin lets the guy guide him to the sway of the music, his hands resting against on top of the guy’s and simply letting himself enjoy this. It’s almost like he can’t quite register that it’s happening. That this is actually happening. He realizes that this is also possibly another ploy of Morgana’s for some nefarious plan she has, but it feels right. It feels real.
They dance for a few minutes, and it’s comfortable and familiar in a way that Merlin’s never experienced before. Not like this. But he has to ask. He has to. Merlin needs to hear him say it.
“So... do I get a name?” The guy laughs, his long fingers fanning over his hips, one pressing against Merlin’s lower abdomen.
“Arthur.”
As if it could be anything else.
Merlin bites his lip, and pulls Arthur’s hands off his hips and turns around. He places Arthur’s hands back on his hips, and places his own where they feel right, one against the side of his neck, almost curled around the back of his head and the other cupping his elbow. Arthur's a little thinner than he was back then, muscles a little less defined, but Merlin's magic practically sings with every touch.
He prefers dancing face to face with Arthur. It lets him examine all the similarities and differences. The same lips, the same jaw, a little less tanned and oh, straighter teeth - he’s almost a little stunned at being reunited with a face he’s only been able to see in his dreams. (but more likely, his nightmares.) Arthur needs a haircut, he wants to say - but that would be a lie. It’s perfect, he might even say. But Merlin has always been a bit of a sappy moron when it came to Arthur.
Maybe it’s the crowd, or maybe it’s Merlin - and it's most likely Merlin - but soon they’re pressed close against each other, their hips rolling against each other in a way that still counts as dancing. He feels himself harden a little under his pants (well, more) but he makes no attempt to make their dancing any dirtier than it already is. The song changes, and the new song is faster, the drums pounding a rhythm that makes it almost feel like his brain is rattling around in his head. The night has dragged on long enough for most of the occupants to get a little more drunk and sloppy in their movements, it seems, because someone bumps into Arthur and their faces are now only breaths apart.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, almost too quickly, too quietly for Arthur to hear. Arthur purses his lips, before grinning and shaking his head.
“Nope. Not easy or drunk enough to kiss random strangers. Even ones who ask politely.”
Merlin huffs a laugh, knowing he should have expected an answer like that. It almost makes him want to stop time to steal a kiss - but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be like him to do that. So instead he leans a bit forward to softly bump his nose against Arthur’s. It’s an intimate gesture, one that he hopes doesn’t scare him off.
“What if I promised to buy you another drink?”
But Arthur doesn’t flee. He just pauses, tilts his head to the side a little and there’s a wrinkle in his brow that he gets when he’s thinking that Merlin wants to kiss. Merlin wonders if Arthur remembers anything of his past life, or if he ever will, but even if he doesn’t, Merlin doesn’t mind, because he’s here now.
“There’s something about you, Merlin. So maybe. We’ll see.”
And that’s really all Merlin can ask for.
this is just really quickly written fic. i hope you didn't expect quality. you have been deCIEVED
i keep chaNging what the ntoes say
“I’m surprised you came. And you shaved!”
The voice comes from behind Merlin, and there’s suddenly a woman settling onto the stool next to him. Merlin touches his jaw, feeling the smooth skin. “Not that I didn’t like the whole shaggy hipster thing you had going on,” she pauses, “- okay, I didn’t like it at all. Thank you for shaving off the rug. Your cheekbones look so much better clean shaven.”
Merlin frowns. “Well, I’m glad you thought to call or text or even scry me while you disappeared to the Alps or Peru or wherever the hell you’ve been for the last seven months.” She didn't.
She scoffs, pushing back a long tress of black hair out of her face, “Are you still upset about that? I left a note.” That she did, Merlin remembers finding it a week later under his laundry basket. Damn her for understanding his appalling laundry habits. Some things just don’t get better with age. He sighs and presses his fingers to his temples.
“I missed you too, Merlin.” she gives him a smug smile, and Merlin isn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with this.
“So what is this all about, Morgana? You disappear for over half a year and then decide to spontaneously invite me clubbing? We’re a bit old for clubbing, don’t you think? What's your angle?”
“We don’t look it. Let’s dance.” Merlin shakes his head as Morgana pointedly ignores most of his questions and picks up his glass of beer which has been idly sipped at.
“Sorry, busy drowning my immortal sorrows. Especially when I'm stuck with someone like you.”
“Come on.”
Morgana just smiles like she has a secret (which Merlin knows she does) and plucks the glass out of his fingers. She sets it on the bar before grabbing his hand and trying to tug him away from his stool.
“Just trust me.” Merlin cocks a brow at her, refusing to move.
“Shall I ignore the time you framed me for that burglary in Rijeka a decade ago, then? Or the several other messes that ‘trusting you’ has gotten me into?” There’s really no bite to his words - even if there are old wounds, the scar tissue has built up enough for him to ignore any lingering hurt. Or hurt of substantial worth, at least.
Morgana grins, because 1883 was a good year for her, and Merlin knows it. “That’s the spirit. Now shut up and dance with me.”
With a roll of his eyes, Merlin consents. He lets himself be led through the mass of bodies, and his magic curiously trembling under his skin because he can feel Morgana’s excitement.
“What are you planning, Morgana?” He asks her, one of his hands sliding to the small of her back. She tosses her arms around his neck then... that’s it. They’re dancing. It’s honestly quite strange. He knows that she’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what.
“Be patient.”
They've been dancing for almost fifteen minutes when Merlin decides that enough is enough when Morgana is holding onto him with a vice-like grip.
“There,” she whispers into his ear, and Merlin manages to get over the way Morgana’s nails are digging into the skin under his button-up shirt like claws to look up. There are a few couples (or they might not even be couples, if Merlin’s honest) kissing, and many of them are dancing. Or grinding. And for a moment, he doesn’t quite know what the hell Morgana is going on about until he sees -
And he stops time.
A magical mistake he hasn’t made in ages, back when he barely understood the extent and strength of his powers. Back when his control was as uncontrollable as his hormones. Stopping time releases a huge amount of magical energy, and Merlin finds himself disconcerted by the sudden silence of the club. He wills time to start again, and his grip on Morgana’s hips might have bruised. She lets out a breathy laugh from the rush of magic he’d accidentally sent through her that brushes hot against his neck.
“I knew you’d like my little surprise.” They’re not really dancing now, mostly swaying back and forth while Merlin stares past her head at blond hair and a strong profile. He thought he’d know when he was back. He thought - Merlin doesn’t know. He thought maybe the world would feel different when he was back. Better? Maybe the world would let him know. A flux in his power. A dream. Some kind of a sign.
He guesses he was wrong.
“Is it really him?” He would spend time hating the thrum of desperation hidden under the question, the way his hands have started trembling, pressed against Morgana’s hips as they are, and his magic feels like it’s bubbling under his skin - but he’s so very distracted. Morgana places one hand over one of his hands, stilling the tremble and the other on his jaw. He glances down at her, reluctant to tear his gaze away from his target.
“It is,” she says, and Merlin lets his gaze soften. Morgana brushes her thumb against his cheekbone, before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. They have a rocky history, where there were times when Merlin didn’t know if he’d ever begin to forgive her - but immortality makes keeping grudges hard. They’ve had years to rehash their problems, to dig out shrapnel and make tentative amends, even if Merlin is secretly a pragmatic bastard and Morgana is a shrewd harpy.
“How -” Morgana gives him a look, oh right, Seer, “- thank you,” he says, before he looks back up at the guy, and Morgana slides the hand down to rest against his chest. It’s a distant thought, but he wonders if she can feel his heart beating against his ribcage. He knows she can feel the magic - she’s had centuries to soak in it, just as he has in hers.
“Go to him.”
As he’s about to let go of her, he’s hit with sudden insecurity that leaves him feeling queasy. Merlin can’t help it, he hesitates. His flirting skills are a little rusty. He knows he isn’t bad at pulling someone if he’s interested in just sex, but this is, this is hardly just Merlin looking for sex. This is - well, this isn’t just sex.
This is his destiny.
“Shut up, Emrys. I can hear you thinking. You’ve been waiting literally forever. Just go.” And she shoves him off, and he glares without heat at her.
The walk towards him would have been more picturesque if people hadn’t kept getting in his way. Then again, he never really pictured their reunion to be in a club and for Merlin to look like he was on the pull. He swears he can hear Morgana laughing in the background as he shoves people who thinking jumping back and forth counts as proper dancing out of his way. He scowls a little, narrowly avoiding someone’s elbow being thrust into his path. There also might have been a little magic involved in getting past the gaggle of girls celebrating someone’s bachelorette party without anything phallus shaped getting stuck to his person.
Merlin finds it sounds funnier in his head, whereas in real life it’s a bit tragic to be experiencing.
Of course, once he’s there, as all of Merlin’s most important ventures tend to do, it goes completely sideways.
“Hey. You’re fit. Want to dance?” Merlin says, and gives himself a mental slap to the face. The guy turns to look at him properly, and his eyes feel like a suckerpunch to Merlin’s stomach.
“Fit? Did you just call me fit?” His accent is American. Of course. He’s American this time. It’s hilarious enough to almost make Merlin giddy, but he makes himself look casual. Or he tries. Merlin shrugs his shoulders, a lopsided smile on his lips that may also just make him look dumb.
“Not from around here, sorry.”
“Do I know you?” The guy asks next, and his eyes are dark in the lights of the nightclub and they’re close enough that Merlin can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he’s so young looking (and alive, alive!) but Merlin can’t help but grin a bit wider.
“Ah,” he extends his hand, which looks out of place in a club of all places, but Merlin is a sucker for nostalgia, “I’m Merlin.”
“So I don’t know you.” The guy looks down at Merlin’s hand but makes no move to take it. But there’s no disgust on his face, no rude haughtiness in his tone. Merlin’s joy is genuine as he registers interest in Arthur’s expression, remembers the cocky twitch of the other’s smirk when he’s intrigued.
The guy glances at his friends and gives them a nod, and they leave with knowing looks on their faces and obnoxious catcalls. Merlin’s face would be burning red, but he’s an immortal being who once accidentally flashed the Queen of Denmark (Morgana’s fault.) so there’s very little that gets him riled up. The guy is a completely different story, though.
“No, but now you do. Dance?”
If Merlin remembers correctly, the last time they had this conversation, it ended with Merlin bent over and thrown in jail. Merlin thinks this is going infinitely better.
“Only if you put your hand down. It looks ridiculous.” And Merlin drops his hand with a laugh, letting it fade away when he turns around and presses his back to the guy’s chest. Merlin lets the guy guide him to the sway of the music, his hands resting against on top of the guy’s and simply letting himself enjoy this. It’s almost like he can’t quite register that it’s happening. That this is actually happening. He realizes that this is also possibly another ploy of Morgana’s for some nefarious plan she has, but it feels right. It feels real.
They dance for a few minutes, and it’s comfortable and familiar in a way that Merlin’s never experienced before. Not like this. But he has to ask. He has to. Merlin needs to hear him say it.
“So... do I get a name?” The guy laughs, his long fingers fanning over his hips, one pressing against Merlin’s lower abdomen.
“Arthur.”
As if it could be anything else.
Merlin bites his lip, and pulls Arthur’s hands off his hips and turns around. He places Arthur’s hands back on his hips, and places his own where they feel right, one against the side of his neck, almost curled around the back of his head and the other cupping his elbow. Arthur's a little thinner than he was back then, muscles a little less defined, but Merlin's magic practically sings with every touch.
He prefers dancing face to face with Arthur. It lets him examine all the similarities and differences. The same lips, the same jaw, a little less tanned and oh, straighter teeth - he’s almost a little stunned at being reunited with a face he’s only been able to see in his dreams. (but more likely, his nightmares.) Arthur needs a haircut, he wants to say - but that would be a lie. It’s perfect, he might even say. But Merlin has always been a bit of a sappy moron when it came to Arthur.
Maybe it’s the crowd, or maybe it’s Merlin - and it's most likely Merlin - but soon they’re pressed close against each other, their hips rolling against each other in a way that still counts as dancing. He feels himself harden a little under his pants (well, more) but he makes no attempt to make their dancing any dirtier than it already is. The song changes, and the new song is faster, the drums pounding a rhythm that makes it almost feel like his brain is rattling around in his head. The night has dragged on long enough for most of the occupants to get a little more drunk and sloppy in their movements, it seems, because someone bumps into Arthur and their faces are now only breaths apart.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, almost too quickly, too quietly for Arthur to hear. Arthur purses his lips, before grinning and shaking his head.
“Nope. Not easy or drunk enough to kiss random strangers. Even ones who ask politely.”
Merlin huffs a laugh, knowing he should have expected an answer like that. It almost makes him want to stop time to steal a kiss - but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be like him to do that. So instead he leans a bit forward to softly bump his nose against Arthur’s. It’s an intimate gesture, one that he hopes doesn’t scare him off.
“What if I promised to buy you another drink?”
But Arthur doesn’t flee. He just pauses, tilts his head to the side a little and there’s a wrinkle in his brow that he gets when he’s thinking that Merlin wants to kiss. Merlin wonders if Arthur remembers anything of his past life, or if he ever will, but even if he doesn’t, Merlin doesn’t mind, because he’s here now.
“There’s something about you, Merlin. So maybe. We’ll see.”
And that’s really all Merlin can ask for.