Oneshots and fanart by Alex Way

[liminalweirdo]

poll: wonderful, beautiful people who comment on fanfiction

first of all, thank you. second, what is your preference?

I like it when the author responds to my comment

I don't want the author to respond to my comment

Only respond if I've explicitly initiated discussion with a question, etc.

Secret option I'll clarify in the tags

Voting ended onNov 15, 2023

[hollyethecurious]

New Ask game. Send me one of my fic titles and I'll tell which was THAT SCENE for that fic.

[babycharmander]

[ID: a tweet by @\kirinhannie that reads "Writing a fic consists of having one scene you want to write and scrambling to come up with an entire plot just so you can write that one scene." /end ID]

[eviltoxicmosssauce]

you understand my entire soul

this has been in my drafts for like a year now and I have yet to make context but uhh

"You're a very frustrating man, Lance," Gwaine drawls one night, which Lancelot thinks is rather rich coming from the ridiculously gorgeous man currently sprawled shirtless across his bed. He suspects, however, that the frustration that elicits in him is of an altogether different sort than the frustration he elicits in Gwaine, and so he holds his tongue.

“Why’s that?” he replies, averting his eyes as he draws a sip from his wine goblet.

Gwaine hums, pretending to contemplate before a slight smirk tilts across his face. “Well, for one, you never lace your shirts, which is incredibly unfair when you think about it.”

Lancelot chuckles, shaking his head. “Are you still on about that? I’d have thought you'dve found someone prettier to joke around with by now."

The hazel-eyed knight places a hand over his heart. "I have eyes only for you, my love."

"Sure," Lancelot scoffs.

Gwaine takes a lazy sip of his wine, letting the comfortable silence drag on.

"And for another thing," he says eventually, tone holding an unreadable weight, "you never quite say what you mean."

Their eyes lock, and the intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down Lancelot's spine.

"Don't I?" he replies quietly, not breaking eye contact.

@fashionstatement-deathwish @paxopalotls @a-star-is-here

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

(ty for the tag lmao)

Gwaine grinned, feral and utterly angered, stood up, and prowled over to where Lancelot was. His gait spelt danger and recklessness and they felt glorious pumping throughout his body; they felt at home, they felt familiar. This was who Gwaine was meant to be.

“You give up your needs, your desires, your everything to serve someone who may deserve it, but only barely. I can see that you yearn, that you long so deeply, but you never allow yourself to have.” Gwaine scoffed, smirking to himself when Lancelot also stood to face him. “Do you ever think about yourself? About what you may want without it benefitting others? Have you any pride?”

Entranced by the presumed power that he now held, Gwaine didn’t realise that the other man had stepped closer to him until his hand was fisting Gwaine’s grey shirt and pushing him back against a tree. There was something vicious in his eyes. Something savage and menacing and utterly wrong had overtaken Lancelot’s usually kind eyes, something that was a far call from the subservience that normally glazed them.

“Don’t you see it?” The man growled.

And there and then, looking into Lancelot’s eyes, Gwaine understood for the first time.

He knew that look in his eyes. He knew that crazed, angry, disgusted look.

He had seen it enough in the mirror.

“You and I?” Lancelot continued, oblivious to Gwaine’s revelation. “We’re the same. Sure, you may brag about not caring, swagger around with a drink in your hand and a stupidly self-satisfied smirk on your face, not giving a damn about what others think or say about you, but in reality? You’re just as afraid of not being enough as I am! You don’t want to be the one who’s left out, huh? You don’t want to be useless so you play the jester and then run headfirst into danger, sacrificing yourself just to feel useful! How are you better than I am?!”

They were almost nose to nose now and, as concentrated as Gwaine might have been on Lancelot’s lips (it wasn’t on purpose, he could swear, but there was something about your whole self being torn apart and analysed by someone like him), there was a glint of tears in the corner of Lancelot’s eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by the long-haired man.

“You know why you hate me so, Gwaine? For the same reason that I hate you too. We both see too much of ourselves in each other.”

Gwaine’s lips parted. Just a bit. And it was then that Lancelot realised what he was doing, what he had just revealed. His eyes widened and his face turned a light shade of grey, then he quickly moved away from the other man, as if his mere presence burned him, and Gwaine could almost hear the apology forming in his lips. 

@beenovel

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Charred Wings

GO Season 2 finale broke me, so here you go: poem based on Crowley's POV

What happened, Angel, to you and me?

Where are the people we were meant to be?

Where did our moments of quiet joy go?

Was there any other way

You could have told me no?

I thought I knew you better, almost,

Than I knew myself. I was wrong.

I could hear your doubting song.

It was music to my ears.

I found a kindred spirit at last-

Or so I thought.

Where are the centuries of companionship?

The damning wait, the winded trips.

The silver morning coiling around our wings,

The books, the plants, all of our little things

They’re dear to me. Remind me of us.

Remind me of the person

I thought I could trust.

You wanted me to be Good.

And I was! Couldn’t you see? I tried!

But I’m not built for white wings.

Pearly gates rust with my touch.

I don’t fit into the tight-winded ropes

That their idea of Good represents.

They hate you, they hate Us.

It’s not what you believe,

And yet…

I won’t ask you where your love for me went;

I know quite well it wasn’t Heaven-sent.

You tempted me and, Curse me! I fell

Into Hell or Humanity- I really can’t tell.

I guess I was hoping you’d fall with me too;

But now that you’re gone,

All I think about is you.

I embraced a side of me that I despised.

For what? For love.

Repulsed and regretful, I took it in stride.

For what? For love.

I waited and waited, time and time again.

For what? For love.

But you made me return to what caused me pain.

For what? For love.

So, Angel, I beg for as long as I live,

For what? For love.

Don’t come back. It’s not me you need to forgive.

For what? For love.

[oursaviorkellinquinn-deactivate]

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Who would you call if the world was ending?

Prompt 887 by @creativepromptsforwriting (@creativepromptfills xo)

Fandom: DC

Summary: The world is ending and, of all the people he could have called, Jason ends up calling Bruce

Pairing: Jason Todd/ Roy Harper (minor)

Beep beep. Beep beep.

The caller you are trying to reach is occupied or out of service. Please, leave a message.

Beep.

Hey Bruce, It’s… It’s Jason. I’m pretty sure you already know, given that it’s you and all, but… yeah. The world is ending and people are doing jack shit about it! Big surprise there. I… you weren’t the first person I was planning on calling. I mean, you didn’t even make the first fucking ten, but… Look, I didn’t want to tell you about this, but Roy’s also doing it and I suppose I should too. Come clean about shit, I mean, tell you stuff. 

I’m not going to apologise for what I did. We both have different ideas of justice and yeah, I killed, but I killed because those fuckers had too many second chances and didn’t fucking take them. I may have gotten a morbid sorta thrill out of it at first, but I don’t fucking like it. I do it ‘cause it’s what I gotta do now. But, whatever I do, whatever your fucking reasons are not to let me come back home, I’m not the only one at fault here.

Dickface always said that taking care of family is one of the most important things, hypocritical as that may be, and I ain’t gonna be at fault for that. I have taken care of my family as well as I fucking could, and the fact that none of you bats have noticed should give you a hint about the problem, huh? The fact that none of you knew? 

…

Joder, no puedo hacer esto. Esto ha sido un error.

…

I have a husband. I have a daughter too, and they are the best fucking thing to happen to me, possibly in my whole life. I feel the luckiest man to have them, and I honestly don’t fucking get how you could fuck all of us up this badly if this is what having a child feels like. The reason I never told any of you (except for Alfred. You can’t hide secrets from Alfred) is because… well… they’re my family. You would judge and think they’re not enough, or that I’m not enough and drive us apart somehow, even if you don’t mean to.

And that’s without mentioning any bat business.

I- Roy is asking me not to be too mean to you. I guess he’s right, but he can’t really have a full conversation with Ollie without it ending in a screaming match, so who’s winning here?

Okay, he’s telling me now that he can, thank you very much, but Oliver’s a fucking prick so he won’t even try to. And he’s also telling me that daddy issues aren’t a competition, Jaybird. Que se joda.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that… yeah, well, the world is ending and there is nothing Roy or I could do about it. I mean, is there anything anyone can do? Arrows and guns? How the fuck would we be useful? 

I know that if you had actually answered the call, you would be yelling at me about duty and shit; asking me to do the fucking impossible like always. Well, guess fucking what? I am doing my duty to my fucking family because they are the most important to me, and I fucking wonder what-

…

Roy’s telling me to stop fighting with you, and he’s right. It ain’t my business anymore. What you decide to do with your fucking dysfunctional family, leave me out of it. I was just hoping, for their sake… Fuck, I’m going to regret this, aren’t I? But hey, the world is fucking ending, so who cares, right?

I miss my dad, okay? I miss the guy who would take me to museums and watch movies with me and comfort me when I had nightmares. Yeah, he might have kinda sucked at it but at least he was trying and he was there and I thought he might have fucking loved me. Because a parent’s love is meant to be unconditional and maybe the other brats and Dickface miss you as much as… as much as I do. 

You can actually be there for them, make me the guinea pig or whatever.

I wanted… I wanted a home and a family to come back to when the world was crumbling down and mira por dónde, now it is! And… and Roy and Lian and I will stay together as a fucking family until we get pulled under. I called to apologise, but fuck that. I doubt you’re even at home with your kids, so right now I don’t owe jack shit to you because you can’t do the bare fucking minimum to be a father. 

I guess… I guess this is goodbye, then.

Seems fitting that the one chance I get for this you can’t even answer the damn phone.

Goodbye da- Goodbye, Bruce.

____________________________

Unread messages: (1)

From: B stands for Bitch

Come home, Jaylad. The whole family is here. Bring Roy and Lian too, they’ll be safe… Read more

Translations:

Joder, no puedo hacer esto. Esto ha sido un error.→ fuck, I can’t do this. This has been a mistake.

Que se joda→ He can go fuck himself

Mira por dónde→ guess what

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Partners in drinks and partners in woes

Gwaincelot week day 7- Free space! (Prompt: soulmates)

Lancelot had always dreamt about his soulmate. The stories his father used to tell him about how he met his mother and they had found- beautiful, precise- their words written on each other's skin. He became soft-spoken and, lacking a better word, adoring. He wanted that. He wanted to be that. He wanted to be able to share his life with someone who understood him, with the other half of his soul.

"Partners in woes and partners in drinks, hey Lance?"

As a young boy he had memorised his soulmate's first words because, romantic as he was, he didn't want to forget them once his soulmate said them and they inevitably got erased. This way he would hold out hope that he would meet them, not wanting to entertain the possibility of not… no. He would meet them. He had to. He would. He wasn't scared of novelty; he wasn't scared of risks.

Lancelot was a dreamer, but his dreams had been crushed during his first days in Camelot. 

He met Merlin and in him he found a kindred spirit. Lancelot could see that he was subdued, that he had been much more cheerful before (before what? He may be curious, but he knew it was Merlin's choice whether he told him or not), but he recognised the glimmer of hope that he occasionally saw in the mirror. At first, he had hoped that Merlin was his soulmate, but he hadn't uttered those words he had so ardently memorised, those words that he so fervently hoped to hear.

Lancelot wasn't too bothered by it. He knew Merlin was waiting for his own soulmate (Had he found them? Lancelot hadn't asked. Perhaps he had been too afraid to lose hope) and that they would still be friends despite everything.

With Gwen, though… 

Her first words hadn't been directed to him, but to Merlin. (Had it been about Arthur or about him? He didn't know for certain and he wasn't sure he was willing to relive that moment. Lancelot dealt better with denial than he did disappointment.) Nevertheless, when he saw the way in which her kind eyes didn’t just look past him and her smile became brighter, sincere. The warmth quickly spreading across his chest and the hammering of his heart told him she was his soulmate.

He was sure of it.

“I think you’ll make an excellent knight, Lancelot,” She smiled at him. “I’m sure of it.”

Her smile remained firmly on her face, oblivious at the sound of Lancelot’s breaking heart.

In a way, Lancelot was glad that he left Camelot. Merlin was his friend and it was best for both of them if he left, lest he accidentally betrayed his secret. Being away from Gwen also would help, he supposed. It was as if his hope had finally fully dimmed and he had nothing to wait for anymore.

He met Gwen again once, twice, more times, and his feelings hadn’t changed. He was in love with her. He had fallen in love with someone who wasn’t his soulmate and it felt… good God, it felt freeing. For the first time in years, he tried to forget about his soulmark because, if it wasn’t her that it led her to, it couldn’t be right. For the first time in years, he covered his soulmark and kept it covered.

He was… more or less happy from then on. Of course, the void left by Gwen’s tentative love eclipsed the permanent void of his soulmate, but he had made friends during his wanderings and could learn to be content with that. He slept a little easier at night knowing that he had someone to watch his back and his friends back in Camelot did so too.

He forgot about his soulmate in every aspect of his life but his dreams. Then he came back to Camelot a new, perhaps yet optimistic man; at least he matched the shadows behind Merlin's eyes now.

Enter Gwaine. 

Gwaine, with his carefree and double-edged nature; Gwaine, who smoothed people up with his honeyed words and then mercilessly slashed with his tongue; Gwaine, who didn't seem to care about nobility or rank yet held himself as if he was taught to be better than others. Everything about the man: from his hair, his mask of foolishness and his piercing hazel eyes to his smirk and the fact that he never interacted with Lancelot much more than a grin or a raised eyebrow.

Gwaine mostly ignored him (saved for pointed looks), so Lancelot returned the favour. He would much rather focus on himself, Guinevere and her blossoming relationship with Arthur. He loved her still.

The one thing that he admired about the older man was his devotion towards Merlin. In a shorter span of time, Gwaine had gotten much closer to the younger man than any of the other knights had. He flirted with him and teased him and miraculously managed to pull a shy yet pleased smile out Merlin, but Lancelot noticed that Gwaine never pushed whenever the warlock didn't want him to. He was smitten and, watching them, the idea of soulmates (that hadn't crossed his mind in so long) came back with no warning.

Perhaps Gwaine was Merlin's soulmate. Perhaps he was the man Merlin had been waiting for.

Lancelot then learnt to dislike Gwaine a little less, even though he hadn't said a word to the man.

Winter came around, spreading its cold wings and Yuletide decorations all over the land and, with Yule came the traditional Yule ball. And, of course, the Royal Couple attended, being as close to each other as ever. In a way, Lancelot understood why she chose Arthur over him or anyone else: the way that they looked at each other was proof enough of how they belonged together. The Noble Knight had been a fool for ever thinking they would part.

It was snowing. Lancelot liked the snow. Instead of going to the ball, he had bundled himself up with his warmest clothes and taken a walk across the citadel wall, clutching a goblet of spiced wine that he had snuck out along the way. He tried to clear his mind, focusing on the dark skies coated with clouds and the feeling of the warm drink on his fingers, but his mind and eyes strayed to the dancing people he could see from the window panes. Gwen was there.

Lancelot swallowed and turned away. A chuckle interrupted his thoughts.

"Partners in woes and partners in drinks, hey Lance?"

Gwaine smiled at him, soft and sad, swirling his own drink around and not-so-subtly nodding towards the ballroom, where their blond King twirled his wife around while Merlin (wonderful, fantastic Merlin whom Gwaine could barely look away from) stood diligently beside them.

"I know the world doesn't revolve around him but… sometimes it seems like people do." Lancelot sighed. "So… who brings you woe?"

He expected a debonaire grin and perhaps a teasing remark, but when he turned towards Gwaine, he found the man's hazel eyes to be wide and his jaw hanging open.

"What?"

"I-" Gwaine swallowed before continuing, running his fingers through his hair. "When I sat down it was Merlin, but now it's you."

Lancelot frowned and began to stand up, offended, until Gwaine grabbed his arm with a pleading look.

"Don't you… don't you realise what you've said?"

Lancelot blinked at him as if he had gone absolutely mad, but then he replayed their conversation and- oh.

Partners in drinks and partners in woes.

Gwaine was his soulmate. Gwaine was his soulmate and he didn't love him.

He didn't love his soulmate.

"You… but you don't love me."

Lancelot sat back down.

"You don't love me either, Lance. But that's not all that soulmates are, don't you think?"

That… that made Lancelot stop.

"Just look at us," Gwaine smiled tentatively. "In love with people who, in turn, love our King. Desperately wishing to meet our soulmate despunte having given up a long time ago. A commoner posing as a noble and a noble posing as a commoner, both chosen to be knights in a world in which otherwise we would be hated."

Gwaine had gotten closer and Lancelot could see something… kindredship perhaps? Acceptance? in the other man's eyes. 

"I'd love to have you as someone to confide in."

Lancelot smiled and, with one last look towards the ballroom (Merlin, Gwen, Arthur, dancing, adoration, destiny, devotion, love love love love love), he let himself fall. For once in his life he was certain that someone would be there to catch him.

"Start talking then… soulmate."

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

I'm a fool to hope

Gwaincelot week day 5- stare, jacket

Warnings: alcohol consumption

Lancelot was staring. Gwaine was laughing and drinking and joking around and Lancelot was staring. At first he didn’t really know what the hell he was doing, going to the tavern with the others, but they had managed to trade his guard duty with another knight and had dragged him there. Nursing his drink (because someone had to be alert and sober just in case), he spent his evening looking around. And, of course, his eyes returned to Gwaine.

Gwaine, with his long hair and his playful hazel eyes and the freckles dusting his cheeks and the mischief in his smiles. From the day they had met during the attack of the Immortal Army, he had been on edge around the other man. He had been usnure as to why for a long time, but recently he had realized that-

“You cold, Lancey- Lance?”

Gwaine was now in front of him grinning cheekily, drunkenly, but with a glint of concern twinkling in his eyes. Perhaps it was that which drew him in. It was too late when Lancelot noticed that he was shivering.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I guess it’s kinda drafty,” Gwaine continued, ignoring Lancelot. “I mean, you haven’t asked for another pint since you got the first one. Can’t be too warm, then. Can you?”

“I suppose,”

And, before he knew what Gwaine was doing, a warm jacket was draped around his shoulders. Instinctively, he adjusted it so it wouldn’t fall off, then raised his glass at Gwaine as a sign of thanks. The grateful smile he received in response kept him staring, even when Gwaine wasn’t staring back anymore.

~ooo~

Gwaine was staring. Lancelot was carefully avoiding his eyes every time he caught the other man looking at him while nursing his drink and with his jacket wrapped around him and Gwaine was staring. He knew that Lancelot had been more than reticent about going to the tavern with them and yes, perhaps he did feel a little guilty about convincing the others to bring Lancelot along, but he wanted to talk to him in private. And, for the time being, he was not achieving this.

Gwaine had not always liked Lancelot. At first, he seemed like a goody-two-shoes, a priss, a perfect little soldier who follows orders without thinking, the paragon of nobility. He frustrated Gwaine. The man was not of noble blood but had wished to be one of them so badly despite multiple rejections that it had only increased his holier-than-thou attitude; and that infuriated Gwaine to unimaginable lengths.

Then he learnt what Lancelot had done to achieve his status as a knight. He learnt of the cheating, of the tricking, of the cage-fighting and the blood, and all with that passive-agressive (but never impolite) smile on his face. His respect for him grew tenfold there and then. Had he known how chaotic the curly-haired knight was from the start and how damn well he hid it, he would have fallen for him much, much sooner.

So Gwaine was staring.

He still wasn’t quite sure why he had given Lancelot his jacket, but he had seen the other man shiver the one time their eyes met and his lack of filter had taken over. He supposed that the shivers being from the cold were much better than the alternative; Gwaine’s heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the main reason he was drinking was to gain the courage to speak to him properly. He hadn’t counted on Lancelot’s eyes following him all night. An all-too familiar feeling bubbled in his gut, threatening to spill over alongside his laughter, but he did his best to force it out: no use hoping if he wasn’t prepared for disappointment. 

“Hey Lance!” He called, and it was clear to him there and then that his brain to mouth filter had turned in for the night. “According to our dear friends here, I’ve had enough to drink. Join me outside?”

Some people whistled, many with mischief in their smiles, but Gwaine paid no mind to them. Hoping Lancelot wouldn't mind too much (he couldn't tell with the blush coating his face), he winked before walking outside. The cold air of the night immediately sobered him and the bubbling pit of hope that had taken hold of him inside the tavern had frozen into a solid block of dread.

"Gwaine," Lancelot called.

"I hope I wasn't too forward, Lance," He tried with a smile, but it never reached his eyes. "You did look quite uncomfortable overall, and I hope…"

"No."

Gwaine frowned and tilted his head.

"I think… you're going to…" Lancelot opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure and remorseful, but carried on anyway as gallantly as he could. "You like me, do you not? And you're going to tell me now,"

Gwaine chuckled but looked away. Staring, as much as he might want to, was not Gwaine's best bet. As stupid and pointless as it may be, he still held out hope. Was that a fool's hope?

"Am I that transparent?" He tried to smile.

He was baring his feelings: for the first time they were not merely being reflected in his eyes, in his stare: they were falling from lips alongside his heart.

"No. I just… I saw it in your eyes."

"And what do you say, then?"

Lancelot was silent and, for the first time, when Gwaine looked at him he wasn't looking back.

"Come on, I'm baring my heart out for you here. This isn't-"

Lancelot fought to keep his voice steady and his eyes dry. He counted his breaths in and out, in and out. And finally…

"No, Gwaine. My answer is no."

Gwaine's eyes widened and his hopeful grin broke into a blank, fake one.

"Oh. I-" He swallowed. "I hope… Well, I mean, we can still-"

But Lancelot didn't seem to have heard. He was struggling with words, trying his best to let his thoughts leave his mind like Gwaine had done.

"I didn't mean- I meant, not now. Not while you're like this."

"What?"

"Look, Gwaine. It's not that I doubt you, but… I've had bad experiences with this already,"

Gwaine didn't understand what Lancelot was trying to tell him, but then the other man's arms were around him and he was pulling him into a hug, taking this chance to whisper into his hair:

"Go to bed, Gwaine, sleep it off. Tell me tomorrow when you're sober, yes?" 

And the cracks in his voice, the whispers, the closeness, the intimacy, it all made Gwaine understand. He didn't need to look into his eyes to see it. So he melted into Lancelot's arms and Lancelot welcomed him there.

"If I do, will the answer change?"

"Perhaps,"

"Then I will. I'll ask you tomorrow."

Despite not being able to see it, Gwaine could feel Lancelot's smile against his skin, and he closed his eyes.

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

I'll find you among the stars

Gwaincelot week Day 4- stars, "I promise"

Two children, both of around eight years of age, were rushing down a hill, giggling and playing all the way. They hadn’t known each other for long, but they had become fast friends all the same because, despite the differences in birth and family, they had a common goal: knighthood.

Though they knew, logically, that their friendship would soon be carelessly torn apart by status, families and swords, they still stood close when they walked and they still held hands when they were playing together. The boys, long past their bedtime, lay down on the grass among the daisies and gazed up at the stars like they had done countless times before.

“They are different everywhere you go,” One of them muttered.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never left.” The other boy answered, aiming for nonchalant but the hint of bitterness in his voice was evident. “I’d love to, but I’m no noble. You have better chances of seeing them than me.”

The first boy hummed, unbothered by his friend’s pessimism, and linked their hands together between them.

“Would you like to learn about them? The stars, I mean.”

“Yeah,”

“We could… we could always learn about the stars together,”

They looked at each other and the softness in the sky was reflected in their smiles.

“You… you promise you’ll wait for me?”

“Yeah, Lance. I promise.”

“Well, I promise too.” The other boy grinned.

~ooo~

It had been years since Gwaine had thought about his childhood friend. Deaths, threats, kings and nobles, then rogues, slavers, thieves and pirates. His nobility and dreams of knighthood had been long forgone and even despised, and he had taken to travelling as far as possible from the place that had watched him grow. He was content.

Well. As content as he could be.

As fate would have it, hsi wanderings brought him to the borders of his former home and, in the spur of the moment, he rode in. what he found, however, as he neared the place where his house once stood, was nothing but ruins. His heart dropped as he dismounted, gradually walking faster and faster until he reached Lancelot’s old house. It had been some time, but he still remembered the way: the streets, the corners, and the steps it took. The house was now nothing but a pile of rubble and blown-away ashes.

His jaw dropped. His fists clenched. His eyes watered. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the ground because L, his childhood friend, his wonderful and gentle and kind and beautiful L was gone along with his childhood home.

It had been a harsh blow for Gwaine, who still cherished the memories of his long-lost friend, but years of hardships and adversities had taught him to keep a brave face in times of sorrow, so that is what he did. Sighing, he closed his eyes and turned away, not once looking back while he left.

Gwaine rode for a long time without stopping after that. In order to purge the happy memories of his childhood, as well as his friend’s cheerful smile, Gwaine took to visiting taverns and staying there, drinking until he got kicked out.

Time then passed relatively quickly. Despite having built up a fairly decent resistance to liquor during his time at sea, alcohol made his days blur in a haxe of dim lights, bright colours and endless nights. One day, among the stench of stale ale and the sound of misery, two new faces walked into the tavern and, as soon as his eyes met those of the other men, his smile widened.

They promised adventure, that was certain, and a good time if he played his cards right. The dark-haired man seemed younger, more cheerful, but there was an air of wisdom and loneliness to him, as if he had lived through more than anyone in the tavern combined. The other man, the blond, seemed to have an untrustworthy airl, like he didn’t really belong in a griny place like this, but he was good-looking enough for Gwaine to ignore this. 

He was about to approach them but they got into trouble saying the wrong thing (Gwaine was honestly surprised at how long it took them, truth be told) and Gwaine, ever the kind gentleman with broken dreams of knighthood, helped them out.

“What’s your name?”

Ale, pots and plates flew everywhere.

“Merlin.”

“Gwaine,” He shook Merlin’s hand with a flirtatious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Gwaine had grabbed Merlin and Arthur (whom he learnt the name of later) and sped out of the place, stealing three horses and sprinting away as quickly as the horses’ legs could carry them.

“So,” He began after a large distance between them and the tavern was ensured. “What brings a couple like you to a place like that?”

The pleasant blush that had coated the younger man’s face quickly died at his companion’s curt reply.

“We’re not a couple.”

Gwaine raised his eyebrows and wisely decided not to comment on the clear fondness in both their eyes whenever they looked at each other. His self-preservation instincts may be weak, but they were still there.

“My mistake, mate. I’m not one to judge, in any case,”

He shot Merlin a wink and received a playful shove in response. Arthur cleared his throat, shot them both a scathing and mildly embarrassed look and urged them to continue their journey.

It wasn’t until later that he found out that he had unknowingly saved the Prince of Camelot’s life (and gotten wounded in the process), and even later when he saved it again willingly and for some godforsaken reason. He got exiled for his troubles, unsurprisingly, but being somewhat of a knight for a few hours caused an onslaught of bittersweet memories to invade his mind. His eight-year-old self. His eight-year-old friend. Their quickly shattered dreams. 

“I had a friend once,” He commented offhandedly the next time he met Merlin.

(And wasn’t that a thought. Even in exile he could play knight for people who didn’tn care for him as much as for his skills, and he would do it not only willingly, but without second thoughts too.)

“He was kind, hardworking. Dreamt of being a knight.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” He answered, truthfully for once. “I hope he’s happy- I mean, he’s determined and I don’t doubt that anything he puts his head into he’ll achieve, but…”

“You lost track of him?”

“You could say that, yes. And… I suppose it scares me,”

He saw Merlin and Arthur not long after that and got pulled into yet another life-threatening adventure. An immortal army had taken over Camelot and Arthur needed help. He needed friends, and apparently Gwaine was one of them.

“Gwaine!”

They had set up camp in a cave, but he had wandered off. Merlin was calling him now, but he was quite comfortable sitting on the grass in a meadow he had found, staring at the sky.

“Gwaine, there are a couple of new people joining us!”

He lay down among the daisies, counting his breaths and the constellations he could find out loud. It had been a long time since he had had some time alone among the stars, so newcomers be damned.

“Bit far off from the North Star, but you’re doing well,”

A new voice, much closer this time. He scrambled to sit upright and his eyes widened at the voice that, though it had changed, undoubtedly belonged to his childhood friend.

“Lance?”

“Hello Gwaine. It’s… it’s been a while,” He smiled. “I see you learnt about the stars without me,”

“Well,” Gwaine began, slightly irked. “So did you!”

“That’s good,” Lancelot smiled, seemingly ignoring Gwaine’s rebuttal. “That way we can teach each other, right?”

Gwaine’s heart raced and his grin widened when Lancelot laced their fingers together.

“Of course, Lancelot."

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Mercenary on the run

Gwaincelot week Day 3- linger, friends with benefits, "you matter to me"

When people thought of Gwaine and Lancelot, they thought of a golden-hearted scoundrel and the kindest and most Noble man one could ever meet respectively. Gwaine was flirty, flighty, careless and unbothered, and yet for some unknown reason, Lancelot hung around him still. Nobody knew why, but people assumed that Lancelot would be a good influence on Gwaine and Gwaine would make Lancelot less uptight. They could not be more wrong.

There was a bond there that nobody expected, or rather understood; a secrecy that rivaled even Merlin's loomed around the two men. So, of course, their perfect little dynamic had to be broken somehow.

"We heard, King Arthur, that a known mercenary was hiding in your kingdom, posing as a knight."

The knights of Camelot, who had been summoned but asked to wait outside the throne room at the specific request of the visiting king and the royal entourage, all turned to look at each other with worry bleeding into their gazes. They all knew at least a little about each other's pasts and deeds, and they were all eyeing Gwaine with both concern and protectiveness written all over their faces.

"We won't let anything happen to you, Gwaine. Don't worry," Leon began, determined, and Lancelot bit back a frustrated groan.

"You'll be safe, Gwaine. Stand behind me so they don't see you when they call us in and-"

Percival was cut off by Lancelot who, features schooled in a carefully neutral expression, had grabbed Gwaine's arm and pulled him to his side.

"I'll take him to Gaius'. We can just say he got hurt during training or something and we'll hide him in Merlin's room. It'll be safer."

Ignoring Gwaine's confused- and quite offended- look, Lancelot pretended to preen a little at the praise. After nodding at his friends, he clapped each of them on the shoulder and, without lingering for a single second, he grabbed Gwaine's hand instead and left.

"What the hell was that about?" Gwaine whisper-shouted angrily when he was sure they were out of earshot. "I know I'm not the mercenary they're looking for- I remember everyone that may have debts to settle with me."

"Listen, Gwaine. I know they're not looking for you. I know!" Lancelot snapped back, irritation évident in both his face and his voice.  "They're looking for me!"

Gwaine's eyes widened, disbelief a clear picture on his face. Despite spending perhaps more time than any of the other knights with Lancelot and knowing definitely more of him than the other's did due to their arrangement, he hadn't really expected this. their conversations in bed hardly delved into their past, perhaps because they both were trying their damndest to keep the 'No strings' part of their arrangement intact. Not that either of them were being too successful but denial was all they had, so they would work with that.

No. Their conversations, always in hushed tones and breathless words, revolved around their current lives or  their future. Never what they had done. So it came off as somewhat of a surprise to Gwaine that Lancelot had been not only a mercenary but a wanted one at that.

"Well, I always knew you weren't as much of a goody-two-shoes as everyone here paints you as," He smirked.

He earned a light smack on the shoulder for his troubles, but the nervous tension that Lancelot's body had been prisoner of had slowly dissipated and was replaced by weak chuckles.

"Thanks," Lancelot muttered.

"Not an issue, mate." Gwaine winked. "We have all done things we're not proud of."

Gwaine thought of his situation for a while and, assessing their situation, he quickly turned towards his chambers, then closed the door behind them.

"So," He began, more serious than anyone had heard him in a long time. "What's the plan? I'm sure Arthur will protect you, you're his best knight! But-"

"It all comes down to the other man's power," Lancelot nodded. "And I'm afraid it's not little."

Gwaine clasped his shoulder in sympathy. He knew how stubborn noble picks could be and was very familiar with the multiple ways they could fuck up one's life. Gwaine's chambers were in a relatively secluded place, where the throne room could be seen and heard but not the other way around; so Gwaine and Lancelot sat beside the window and listened.

"Why do you think one of my knights is-"

"I understand why you might be ashamed, King Arthur, as this proves how your decision to knight… commoners… May have not been the wisest,"

"Excuse me, how dare-"

"But you couldn't have known, my Lord, so fret not. This man is slippery and ruthless, and it would be very easy for him to infiltrate your court."

"I assure you-"

"Capturing this criminal, my Lord, would ensure peace between our kingdoms. He is vicious, efficient and heartless, and I can assure you that he'll be executed as soon as we step foot on my kingdom."

"None of my knights…"

"I know it may seem hard to believe, but my men will do the job just fine. They know how to deal with this scoundrel and… well… perhaps your knights would prefer to keep their memory of Lancelot alive as it is."

Silence filled both the throne room and Gwaine's chambers.

"Well, efficient is right," Gwaine whispered into Lancelot's ear.

The outraged shouts in the throne room fell deaf to Gwaine's ears, replaced fully by Lancelot's relieved chuckles.

"I'm… I'm going to have to leave for a while, Gwaine. Lay low until I deal with the problem and then… maybe return to Camelot. Arthur can't suffer because of this; it wouldn't be fair. He didn't know."

The thought of losing his friend (and nighttime partner) made his chest constrict in a weird way, but Gwaine thought nothing of it, deeming his friend’s escape more important.

“You can hide in my chambers for a while. There’s a corner in my closet with a crevice you can fit in and at night we could sneak out. I’ll deal with the fallout for you.”

Lancelot seemed to want to protest, but then Gwaine squeezed his hands, nothing more than earnest desire to help in his eyes, and his protests died out.

“Won’t people ask? About why you are covering for me.”

“Are you planning on coming back?”

Lancelot sighed, not wanting to meet Gwaine’s eyes.

“A lot has changed today… and a lot will change in the time I’m gone. I don’t know if I’ll be welcome even if I do want to come back, so… I don’t know. I’m not certain I will.”

Footsteps and a few harsh knocks interrupted them, so Gwaine shoved them both into his closet and closed the door behind them.

“Weren’t you meant to stay outside? To keep guard and distract them? What the he-”

Gwaine simply kissed the deadpan tone out of Lancelot’s mouth.

A few hours later, both of them emerged from the closet with their clothes slightly askew and flushed faces.

“Everyone will be asleep now. Let’s go,” Lancelot whispered, and Gwaine nodded behind him.

They browled down the empty, darkened halls until they reached the stables and Lancelot, with a cloak stolen from Gwaine’s closet wrapped around his frame, clasped  Gwaine’s shoulder one last time.

“Thank you for this, really. You are the greatest friend I’ve had,” He smiled in an effort to wipe the sadness in his eyes away.

Gwaine’s heart got stuck in his throat. Logically, he knew that he should be urging Lancelot to leave, lest they were found by an oncoming patrol, but his voice seemingly refused to cooperate.

“I- I will miss you, Lance,” was the only thing he managed to say.

And then: “You matter to me. You matter to me a great deal.”

Had any onlooker been watching, they would have seen the fondness in Lancelot’s smile and the heartbreak in his eyes.

“You matter to me a great deal too, Gwaine. I hope I get to see you again.”

And, after pressing his forehead against Gwaine’s for a few brief moments, he climbed onto his horse and rode off.

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

I'm very fond of you

Gwaincelot week day 2- candlelight, only one bed.

Warnings: Mentioned child abuse.

Summary: Gwaine is afraid of the dark and can't sleep. Lancelot is afraid of his dreams and can't sleep either. They meet each other, as always, halfway.

Gwaine shivered. The cold that had seeped into his bones earlier that day had yet to leave his body. No matter how many blankets he dumped onto himself he never quite managed to get rid of that freezing, nauseating sensation or the stench of mildew and perfume that always hung around him on nights like these, fuelled with nightmares. A weak flame flickered from the quickly melting candle, ever present in Gwaine’s nights, painting the room with long-faced spectres and distorted shadows. They didn’t jeer at him anymore, but now they merely stared, sombre and melancholic.

Gwaine couldn’t stand it anymore. 

He crawled out of bed, huffing before turning the small mirror he had on his table towards the wall. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him he looked awful, thank you very much. Then, after getting dressed, he snuck out of his room and across the corridors. Moving from lamp to lamp as to not stay in the darkness for too long, he clumsily made his way towards the only person who wouldn not judge his panicked eyes and who would most probably be awake at this hour.

Lancelot’s door always creaked when it opened, and there was a floorboard just in front of it that was slightly loose. Gwaine skillfully avoided it and opened his friend’s door  as slowly as he could. When he walked inside,  after closing the door behind him, he found that the other man was not in his bed. He didn’t want to call out, so he waited with baited breath until…

A lamp flickered to life. Gwaine turned to face the light, purposefully ignoring how the tension bled from his body, to face his friend. Lancelot, despite his deep eyebags and pale face and panicked eyes, looked beautiful. Candlelight kissed his face the way a long-time lover would: soft, careful and flattering.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He rasped out. 

“Cold,” Gwaine answered. “You?”

Lancelot merely hummed in response and placed the lamp on the bedside table, then opened his arms and waited for Gwaine to curl up around him. The other man didn’t hesitate to do just that. 

“Nightmares,” Lancelot whispered into Gwaine’s hair.

Gwaine hummed and buried his head in the crook of Lancelot’s neck, holding him even tighter if at all possible.

“Come here, let’s go to bed.” 

They both crawled inside the covers and lay on Lancelot’s bed, legs tangled together and with Lancelot’s head on Gwaine’s collarbone, like they had done countless times before.

“I felt it again today, when I fell into that lake," Gwaine began. "I wasn't able to move. It was like my stepfather-"

"The bastard," Lancelot supplied helpfully, making Gwaine chuckle.

"He was grabbing me again, holding me underwater and lifting my head and dunking it again and lifting and dunking and lifting and-"

"Gwaine," Lancelot called.

He hadn't noticed the tears rolling down his cheeks until Lancelot wiped them with his thumb. Long after they were gone, Lancelot's thumb was still there, still wiping away as much of Gwaine's hurt as he could. 

"Thanks,"

"Well, we have each other, right? Get us out of our own minds when it gets a little too dark in there."

"Yeah… I suppose."

They stared at each other for a bit longer, letting the warm, dim light of the candle bathe their faces. The reflection of the flame flickered in Gwaine's eyes, but Lancelot's eyes sparkled all the same. 

Gwaine wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline, the fears still coursing through his veins, the cold in his bones or the burst of affection that had overtaken him that made him kiss Lancelot. And yet, the fact remained that he did. It was nothing but a quick peck, but it seemed to shock Lancelot to the core; Gwaine scuttled back, the fear that had left his eyes from the moment the candle was lit had returned full-force. This time, however, it ended quicky. Lancelot grinned and dived back in and Gwaine melted.

Bright sparks in a pink haze took over Gwaine's mind and, just like that, the darkness residing inside Gwaine drained away: he was in peace, if only for a night..

"It took us some time," Lancelot smiled in the near darkness.

"It would have taken us longer still if I hadn't been so out of it."

"You mean you didn't want to-"

"Wait, no. I did, don't get me wrong! It's just… I'm shyer than it seems at first glance, I suppose. I care about you, you're my friend first and foremost, and nothing can or will change that, really."

Lancelot ran his fingers through Gwaine's hair to disguise how they were trembling. It didn't work.

"What is it, love? What happened?" Gwaine asked sweetly.

"I had the same dream again."

"Of you dying?"

Lancelot swallowed and exhaled a shaky breath.

"I came back this time, but I came back… wrong, I guess. I felt feral, I only saw red. But… but when I tried to gain control of myself and talk to you, because somehow I knew that you would bring me back on track, you just… you didn't know me, Gwaine. You smiled at me but it wasn't you, it was the smile you give other nobles and people who don't know you. And… I, I guess I didn't know how to cope with it."

"I wouldn't be able to cope with your 'noble' smile either, sunshine," Gwaine teased, but the underlying comfort in his voice overpowered it all.

"Excuse you! I'm not called the Noble Knight for no reason, you know?"

"You're a right bastard, Lancelot. And a chaotic one at that," Gwaine grinned and both mischief and the candle flame flickered in his eyes. "Perhaps that's why I'm so fond of you."

Lancelot chuckled and wrapped himself around Gwaine once again.

"I'm very fond of you too, Gwaine. I really am."

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Fly, Little Bird

This is my submission for Gwaincelot week 2023! (A bit late, I know, but it's here now)

Day 1- Catch, "This is a terrible idea"

Summary: Lancelot can shapeshift and Gwaine has set out to catch a beautiful bird.

“This is a terrible idea,” Muttered Lancelot. “Why are you so eager to please Arthyr all of a sudden?”

The other man gave no signs of having heard Lancelot’s complaints and continued dodging stray branches and braving the dangers of the forest and his two left feet. It wasn’t that Gwaine was clumsy- you couldn’t be a knight with terrible balance- but he had a knack of both getting distracted too easily by the most mundane of things and at the same time focusing so much that he often forgot about things around him. Many people found this annoying, no matter how efficient he may end up being, but Lancelot found it endearing. 

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Lancelot rolled his eyes and grabbed Gwaine’s arm before he tripped again on a root. “That this is a terrible idea. How are you planning to catch a bird with… a net and seeds? Arthur won’t care whether it’s alive or dead,”

Gwaine steaddied himself with Lancelot’s arm and grinned in response, squeezing his bicep lightly.

“The bird seems to like me, and it’s not like I’m going to hurt it. I just want a feather, that’s all.”

“A… a feather?” L asked, unsure.

Gwaine’s eyes softened and he finally sat down beside a tree, running his fingers through his hair.

“I want to prve that this bird is real and not magical. Arthur hasn’t said it outright, but I know that as soon as I give the word and prove the bird’s existence, he’ll send every knight after it and then the bird will have no place to go. They all say that his wings are made of fire and brimstone and jewels and whatnot, right? If I prove that this bird has normal feathers, then it means it’s not magical, so they don’t need to go after it.”

Lancelot was once again taken aback by the other man’s unusual display of thoughtfulness. 

“So you’re trying to protect it?”

“I sometimes think the bird can understand me. I’d hate to see it hurt.”

Lancelot nodded and sat beside Gwaine, dropping his head on Gwaine’s shoulder, unsure of whether he should pull back when he felt the other man stiffen beside him. Gwaine didn’t give him a chance to do so, however, as he melted against the other man.

“I’m sure the bird appreciates the sentiment.”

Lancelot thought about the events that had brought them to that particular moment and almost chuckled hysterically. He composed himself. Gwaine didn’t need this right now. 

~ooo~

Arthur had received news of another magical sighting with impassiveness and no little boredom. He knew the laws against magic were becoming weaker by the day around Camelot’s borders, but people inside the city were unconvinced. 

There had been several sightings of a bird, each more fantastical than the last. Between wings of fire, human words falling from its beak, diamonds for claws and bright red eyes, Arthur had almost fully lost interest, believing that it was more a product of bored minds than anything else. He was unwilling to follow the rumours, if not because he himself was beginning to doubt his father’s laws against magic, due to his worry at Morgana’s state.

She had fallen ill short of a month ago, and no doctor had been able to find a cure. Arthur was not supposed to know, but both Gaius and Merlin believed her disease to be caused by magic and would try to find a magical cure. Arthur was worried, just as the rest of the kingdom was, but if her fate was in Merlin’s hands, then he was more relaxed. 

Then he heard it. 

~ooo~

Lancelot had been careless. 

Usually he walked far enough not to encounter anyone during his sifs and he definitely wouldn’t fly close enough to any town, nevermind a city. But lately, for some strange reason, he had been flying closer and turning into a bird more often.

He would say that he didn’t quite remember when the change first took place, but he would most certainly be lying. It was one of the last days of winter, and he had hit himself with a tree branch during his flight and his wing was hurt. It was just his luck that a group of knights was patrolling nearby and Gwaine (Gwaine of all people) had split from the group. It was Gwaine who found him and bandaged, albeit haphazardly, his wing. After that, getting closer to him in his bird form had been a temptation that he couldn’t help but falling prey to. 

Every day he flew closer, every day he spent more time with Gwaine, every day he took longer to shift back. Lancelot barely remembered a time in which he had felt more comfortable in both his skins. However, when the farmer that arrived to court claimed that:

“The bird’s blood can cure Lady Morgana.”

His fate was sealed.

And thus the quest to find and catch himself was born.

~ooo~

“Gwaine,” Lancelot called just as Gwaine was about to stand up again.

The man’s eyes glinted with childish excitement and Lancelot’s resolve melted.

“I’ll give you a feather if you keep a secret for me.”

“A feather? Wait how can you-”

“Please,”

Gwaine nodded and sat back down.

“Lancelot, whatever it is-”

His words died in his throat as Lancelot began to shift before his eyes. When the bird, the same creature that he had befriended, appeared before him hopping from one leg to the other awkwardly, Gwaine could not restrain the gasp that left his lips.

“Lancelot? Oh my God, Lancelot.”

The bird, Lancelot, carefully plucked a feather from its wings and laid it in front of Gwaine’s feet. The other man took it reverently and hurried to store it safely inside his bag while Lancelot changed back.

“This is it, I guess. My secret.” Lancelot croaked.

“Why?”

“What do you mean? I can’t exactly stay too long without shifting. Since birth I’ve found it hard to-”

“Why did you come back after I helped you? I just made it less safe for you.”

Lancelot stared at him for a while, then chuckles ebgan falling from his lips. He laughed and laughed until Gwaine was almost holding him in his arms.

“I don’t think I’ve felt safer with anyone else, Gwaine. Not in a long time, at least.”

Lancelot could feel Gwaine’s heart speeding up and his leg starting to bounce. He clung onto him just a bit tighter for just a bit longer.

“How about…” Gwaine cleared his throat. “How about we bring this back to Arthur and then you tell me about the sky?”

Lancelot smiled and, in lieu of any response, linked their fingers together.

(@gwaincelot-week)

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

If you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his cape

For @ilikedumbknightsinlove and @eviltoxicmosssauce , my beloveds who gave me the prompt (and consequently made me cry with it :). This is your fault <3).

Also, don't let the title fool you, it has nothing to do with the Shoop Shop song (despite the name in the original drafts being 'saddy sad')

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Pairing: Gwaincelot (Gwaine/Lancelot)

Warnings: Major character death. Angst. Period-typical homophobia (but minor)

If you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his cape

He never thought these chambers would eventually become his closest confidant. He had memorised every knick knack his lover had placed around: from his armour neatly placed on the chair to the goblets that had once contained wine and were now toppled over on the table. Two pairs of boots along with the clothes they had been wearing the day prior were the only thing out of place, as they were strewn carelessly across the floor. The sun filtered in just as it always did, hitting only half the bed and gently touching his lover’s tan skin like a mother might caress her sleeping child.

The curtains were closed just enough to hide him, as it always was, and the bird that visited them every morning began chirping and fluttering its wings against the window, waiting for someone to hear it. The sheets rustled beside him as his lover turned around in his sleep but the restless calm that often came with the break of day now enveloped him so he allowed his mind to fall into a pit of white and his thoughts flow to and fro, not blocking any of them out like he usually did, but allowing them to invade every corner of his mind instead; he lay down beside his lover, who instinctively curled up around him, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“What are you thinking about, Gwaine?”

His lover’s voice was raspy, as it was every morning, but it never failed to make the long-haired knight grin- there were, of course exceptions, and today seemed to be one of them.

“Not much,” He hummed with fake nonchalance.

This made his companion perk up and look at him. 

“You’re not usually this quiet, what’s wrong?”

“I've been thinking about this, about us,"

"And?" 

The other sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it enough to make Gwaine snort, earning him a gentle punch on the shoulder and a fond smirk.

"I… do you think we should tell the others? That we owe it to them?"

At that, Lancelot's worry faded away and he nuzzled his face on Gwaine's neck.

"We can tell them, if you want to,"

"Are you sure, because Arthur still likes you, and if he finds out you're…"

"He won't treat me any differently, Gwaine. Not because you're you,"

"It's frowned upon here,"

"But not outlawed. Gwaine," Lancelot lifted his face to look at the other man's hazel eyes and stroked his cheek. "I noticed how the others are trying to set us up more recently and that you look… slightly uncomfortable, but it's your choice whether you want to tell them or not. We don't owe anyone an explanation for anything, regardless of who they are, and less so for this. It's a marriage, it's not a crime,"

Gwaine chuckled, yet doubt still hung over him like a storm.

"Can we wait a little longer?"

"Of course, my love."

Gwaine swallowed thickly as the tears he had been holding back during the whole ceremony, but as soon as he was alone after comforting Gwen and Merlin, who stayed longer than the rest, the tears that had not rolled down his eyes that day did so now, staining his cheeks until his knees buckled and he fell onto the floor, sobs escaping his lips like phantoms running wild. He remained there, curled up in Lancelot’s cape- which he had managed to exchange for his own, until the funeral pile was nothing but ashes.

Their marriage had started off as one of convenience, for status reasons Gwaine refused to understand, but Lancelot had asked for this particular favour and Gwaine had never been able to refuse him (not that he ever wanted to). They had fallen in love along the way; nobody in Camelot had known (it was not exactly a common occurrence and they both had reputations), but now that everything had come to an abrupt end between them, Gwaine was devastated, searching for someone whom he could share his grief with, whom he could confide in, who would understand. But no one would.

The moon wept beside him until there were no more tears to be shed. He allowed the stars to guide him back to his chambers and the veil of darkness that cloaked the night sky to cocoon and carry him so his weary feet and weakened legs didn't have to. He walked like in a dream, or rather a particularly grotesque nightmare he was not allowed to wake up from; he should have known not to trust his feet to lead him back, however, but he realised when he found himself in front of Lancelot’s chambers that maybe that was the best place to be at the moment. He sighed deeply, trying to swallow down fresh tears, and walked inside. 

It was just as he remembered: same bedding yet this time spread neatly atop the bed, same curtains half-open but now only a shy glimmer from the moon crept inside, determined not to leave him alone in his misery. The knick-knacks Lancelot had had around the room- the books, the goblets, his spare pair of boots and his clothing- were still there, yet his armour was gone. There were no birds now, yet the soft rustling of the leaves that hit the window reminded him that, much as he despised it, he was alone. He took his boots off and placed them neatly beside Lancelot's, then wrapped himself up in the cape and lay down on the bed. There was no rustling of sheets, there was no sleepy voice beside him, there was no arm wrapped around his torso and no gentle kiss goodnight. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts flow in ways he had avoided until now, when he was sure to be alone, and the tears returned.

“He will be missed.” Arthur choked out.

It was clear he was fervently trying to avoid crying but not being very successful. Gwen had latched to his side and was nearly burying her face in his neck. Elyan, Percival and Leon were huddled together, exchanging mournful whispers about Lancelot with the other knights- praising his bravery. Merlin was alone, tears streaming down his face and putting out the last embers of shame he might have felt: he had never been one to hide his emotions when mourning a friend. Gwaine hated to be the one who knew.

And Gwaine himself… he was a wreck. Unwashed hair, dark eyebags, unkempt beard, trembling hands and alcohol-clouded breath. He could barely stand straight without his knees buckling but he was trying- he was making an effort for him; he shook as he curled up in the cape he had stolen the night before the funeral and replaced with his own, always keeping his tears to himself. It would soon stop smelling like him to gain the stench of misery that now followed Gwaine wherever he went. He twisted the wedding band around his finger as a vague attempt at distraction. He couldn’t allow himself to cry, it wouldn’t do him any good, and it wouldn’t bring his husband back.

He missed Lancelot.

“Gwaine,”

He didn’t care enough to recognise the voice. He was so tired, he didn’t want to.

“Come on, Gwaine. It’ll do you no good to stay here, you’ll get cold.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I know you changed your cloak for his.”

Only then did Gwaine sit up to glare at the newcomer. Unimpressed blue eyes stared back before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

“I could have loved him too. Not the way you did, but if… If the circumstances had been different, if we had lived someplace else- or a different time we could have been…”

Gwaine clenched his jaw.

“We could have been friends.”

“Arthur…”

“I know you were married. He didn’t… tell me, not exactly. But the way he’d look at you, the way he’d smile when he thought nobody was looking… you’re not discreet about your wedding bands either. You both had marks.”

Gwaine’s body trembled. He brought his hands to his face and wept while Arthur sat beside him, his hand on his back acting as an empty jar of comfort.

“I miss him,”

To his credit, Arthur didn’t compare his feelings, he didn’t mention anyone else, and he didn’t focus on his grief.

“You’ll learn to live with it, Gwaine. We’ll all have to. But… remember you’ve got us. Okay?”

“You know, princess?” Gwaine chuckled between sobs. “You’re not half bad, for a noble,”

“Surprising, isn’t it?”

Unbeknown to them, a transparent figure watched them from the corner of the room, itching to hold Gwaine, comfort him and kiss all his troubles away. But maybe it was for the best that Arthur was there to do so: after all, there was not much comfort a dead man could provide at his own funeral.

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Buy me a drink and I'll hate you less

For @merlinswizardhat

(Do you think Lancelot and Gwaine met in their cage fighting days?)

Pairing: Gwaine/Lancelot

Warnings: Violence, swearing

Lancelot bit onto his belt to muffle his screams as he poured alcohol onto his wound, panting heavily when he was done and furiously rubbing the tears that had been forced from his eyes; he whimpered softly as the pain subdued slightly, but his eyes immediately snapped open as soon as he heard a cough from the doorway.

“Looking pretty rough, mate,” The shaggy-looking man commented. “Need any help?”

He glared at the man and bared his teeth, growling a soft ‘fuck off’, making the man chuckle sardonically and shake his head.

“Wow, okay. That’s what I get for trying to be civil in a shithole like this one.” He commented, grabbing the flask from Lancelot and taking a swig, ignoring the other man’s weakened protests.

“Eh… not too bad,”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Lancelot screamed hoarsely.

“You are aware that we are fighting each other after, right?”

Lancelot’s fiery glare made him shake his head and leave, leaving him alone again with his thoughts and wounds. When he first ended under Hengist’s command he had thought that after one fight he would be gone, but every day he was held back and beaten up and the sheer thrill of facing off against one- the sheer adrenaline of watching the maddened glint in their eyes fade away along with their life… it was the only thing that kept him sane after the long nights of numbness and fallen tears. Long had he mourned what he was forced to leave behind, he had kicked himself for leaving Merlin and Gwen behind, but there was nothing he could do now.

He was trapped, as the stranger had so accurately described it, in this shithole, and there was no chance of escaping this time.

The next person he had to fight was the long-haired man. As the other was an admittedly skilled fighter the fight was a challenge: they twirled and slashed and parried their hits, hitting each other mercilessly until they both drew blood and in the end, both panting and hunched over and glaring at each other with nothing but fire in their eyes. Hengist shouted. They were pulled away from each other and thrown into the same cell. They were given their rations of food and left alone. 

Nothing but their heavy breaths broke the silence in the room.

“You’re a good fighter,” Lancelot admitted after a while.

“You’re not too shabby either, but you’re too bloody propper.”

“Too bloody propper?” Lancelot scoffed.

“Come on, admit it.”

“No! I’m not-”

“Shhh,”  The long-haired man shushed him, putting his hand over Lancelot’s mouth, muffling his offended complaints. “Look, every day at this time those guards come by to bring other people to The Cage. They have the keys to every cell here. If we call their attention and attack them when they come in, we’ll be free in no time.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow but considered his chances to escape: Gwen, Arthur and Merlin were not going back for him and the probability of leaving on his own was low; he could ditch this man as soon as they left.

“On one condition,”

“What is it?” The long-haired man huffed.

“Buy me a drink when this is over,”

Hazel eyes looked at him incredulously and raised his eyebrows, but his shock soon morphed into smugness as he smirked and winked at him.

“You have a deal, mate.”

“Alright. What’s your name?”

The other man frowned. “Why?”

“If I’m going to trust you, I’d like to know your name at least.”

After a brief pause, the hazel-eyed man ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“Gwaine.”

“Lancelot.”

“Nice to meet you, Lancelot,” Gwaine flashed him a cocky, snide smirk and then called for the guards.

A few moments later they were both rushing out, without turning back to look at the flames that were engulfing the slaver’s den and flickering dangerously towards their direction. They stopped a few miles north, out of breath but blissfully free, and sat down on some rocks near a stream; Gwaine let out a hearty bout of laughter before smirking.

“You’re pretty decent at surprise attacks, mate.”

“You’re pretty decent at playing damsel in distress,” Lancelot retorted, but without any true bite, making Gwaine laugh again.

“What can I say? It’s fun,” He winked, standing up again. “I’d best get going, then.” He shook Lancelot’s hand firmly and smiled: for the first time since they met, it didn’t seem forced.

They stared at each other for a moment before Gwaine surged forward, pulled by pure impulse, and pressed his lips against Lancelot’s. The kiss was slightly rough and far shorter than either of them would have wanted but Gwaine still pulled back quickly, trying to make Lancelot ignore the bright red dusting his freckled cheeks; he whispered:

“Safe travels, Lance.”

“Don’t call me that,” Lancelot answered with an awestruck smile.

“My apologies, good sir,” Gwaine bowed with a flourish and winked one last time before leaving.

“You’re infuriating!” Lancelot called out after him.

“I only aim to please, love!”

Lancelot was left to stare at his retreating figure with a soft smile on his lips and a fluttering heart, taking in as much as he could for he knew he would not see him again. He never did get his drink after all.

He did see him again, as it turns out, but he was too distracted by Merlin’s smile to notice the rogue behind him. Merlin hugged him and he melted into the embrace and only then did his eyes meet the other’s hazel ones.

“I didn’t expect us to have mutual acquaintances, Lance,”

Lancelot pulled back and glared at the long-haired man, who smirked at him in response; his frown, however, dissolved quickly into a smile as he pulled Gwaine into a tight hug.

“I had the impression that you never wanted to see me again,”

“Well,” Lancelot drawled, much to Arthur, Gwen and Merlin’s surprise (‘Too bloody propper’- the words echoed in his mind.) “You do owe me a drink.”

Gwaine laughed and Lancelot’s smile softened at the crinkling of his eyes and the joyful sound spilling from his mouth.

“It’s good to see you,”

“As touching as this reunion is,” Gwen interrupted, pointedly ignoring Arthur’s coughed ‘concerning, more like’, “We really should leave. The army will be back soon.”

And so, they were thrusted back gracelessly into the reality of war. 

They didn’t get a moment of peace until they had taken over Camelot and even then they still had much work to do, so the drink was put on hold for some time. Until now.

Gwaine was on the floor wrestling with his boots and groaning in frustration, his hair pulled back in a haphazard bun.

“Am I intruding?” Lancelot asked as he knocked on Gwaine’s door carrying a jug of wine and two goblets.

The long haired man immediately stopped and gazed up at him, his smile brightening and his eyes glistening.

“I thought you hated me, Lance,”

“You grew on me, I must admit.”

“Because of my dashing looks and charming personality?”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow before huffing and sitting next to Gwaine on the floor.

“Let’s say that it’s that and not the possible concussion you gave me.”

Gwaine at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“Or the drink you promised me which, by the way, I have right here.”

At this, Gwaine’s eager smile returned and he poured the liquid into both the goblets; he raised his and clinked it against Lancelot’s.

“To whatever life may throw at us,”

“Unless it’s another cage,”

“Unless it’s another cage.”

Gwaine drank, but Lancelot merely raised the goblet to his lips and observed the other man.

“What?”

Lancelot smiled, feeling bolder and more stupid around Gwaine than he was often allowed to be.

“Nothing, it’s just…”

“What?”

“You have wine… here,”

And with one swift movement, so uncharacteristic of him (the rogue was starting to rub off on him)he licked the corner of Gwaine’s mouth before pressing a kiss against his lips, the sweet taste of wine flooding his tongue. 

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

A token of favour

For @ilikedumbknightsinlovelove

Pairing: Gwaine x Lancelot

Warnings: Mild language

Gwaine raised an eyebrow as Lancelot stormed into his chambers, slamming the door behind him and muttering a string of very creative curses that the long-haired knight had never thought possible to come from the other man’s mouth, noble as he claimed to be. So of course he decided to be a little shit and smirk.

“Someone’s angry,”

Lancelot’s startled jump and his ‘deer-in-headlights’ face was enough to make Gwaine chuckle.

“Gwaine?! I- uh… what are you doing here?”

“Last I checked, these were my chambers and I’m getting ready for the tournament. Maybe you should do the same, mate.”

“Wait wha-” Lancelot opened the door and checked out the corridor, groaning when he saw that these were, in fact, not his chambers. “Oh gods, I’m sorry. I should probably leave.”

Gwaine laughed, before stopping him, pulling him towards a chair and offering a goblet of wine.

“We still have time, don’t worry,” He drawled lazily, “So… tell me what’s wrong.”

Lancelot hesitated, but then accepted the drink and the offer to talk, and ran his fingers through his curly hair.

“It’s just… it’s strange to have attention. Not that I mind it, but sometimes it can be a little overbearing, especially when they don’t take a hint! And-”

“Whoah, Lance, hold on.” Gwaine interrupted him. “I still don’t understand what the problem is.”

Lancelot pursed his lips. “Women like me, apparently.”

Gwaine opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and, biting his lip, managed to get out: “I… don’t see how that’s a bad thing?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Lancelot glowered. “You’re not the one getting assaulted at every corner with women brandishing hankerchiefs as if they are swords claiming they are a ‘token of their favour’.”

The hazel-eyed knight couldn’t help it: it began as a chuckle but in mere seconds he was roaring with laughter, leaning against the floor and clutching his stomach. Lancelot huffed.

“Only you, Lance, only you.”

“If you’re not going to give me any actual advice, I might as well go.”

“No wait!” Gwaine grabbed his wrist, tearing with his other hand a piece of his shirt. “I know it’s half-assed but it will have to make do for the time being,”

He tied the piece of shirt to Lancelot’s bicep, patting it twice when he was done and standing back to admire his work.

“There! Like that the ladies won’t pester you,”

“You… just gave me a token of favour,” The Noble Knight deadpanned.

“Aye, I did!” Gwaine grinned. “And it would be very nice of you to keep it during the tournament,”

Lancelot looked positively scandalised, making Gwaine struggle to contain his snickers. 

“I- what?! No!”

“Oh my!” Gwaine fake-swooned into Lancelot’s arms. “My Noble Knight has turned down my most sincere token of affection! However will I live?”

“Oh quit being melodramatic, Gwaine,” The coffee-eyed knight muttered, pushing Gwaine off of him and walking towards the door.

“But Lancey! Being melodramatic is what I do best! Along with bar brawls, of course,”

Lancelot just left, shaking his head as he did and trying to calm down the furious blush that had invaded his cheeks and ears when he heard Gwaine say ‘my Noble Knight’.

Later, Percival, Elyan, Arthur and himself were waiting for their turn to fight, sitting side by side, when Elyan noticed the cloth around his arm.

“You have a lady friend that we don’t know about, Lancelot?” Elyan smirked.

The knight looked up at his friend with confusion written in his eyes, making Percival chuckle and Arthur choke.

“What are you talking about?”

“The-” Percival pointed at his arm where the cloth was tied.

Lancelot felt his cheeks redden. 

“No! That’s not… it’s just…”

“Save it,” Arthur cut him off curtly, the awkwardness bleeding into his words. “Whoever she is, she is truly lucky to have you, Lancelot.”

The curly-haired knight opened his mouth to protest, but before he could he was called outside, so he resignedly grabbed his sword and left just as Merlin was walking inside. The servant did a double-take then looked back at the remaining knights and king.

“Was Lancelot wearing something on his sleeve?” He asked, cocking his head.

Elyan grinned, Percival nodded and Arthur sighed.

“Huh.” Merlin mused. “I guess Gwaine finally got the courage to ask him on a date,”

The blond king choked on his spit and began coughing violently, before he asked, equally as forcefully: “Gwaine whAT?!”

“That was a piece of Gwaine’s shirt around Lancelot’s arm. I guess they didn’t have time to find a propper handkerchief or cloth or something, but I find it sweet.”

And, as if he hadn’t let loose the largest animal in a cage, he went back to his duties, whistling all the while and smiling at the cheerful Gwen and Morgana, who were watching by the sidelines.

The tournament went on for days, and both Gwaine and Lancelot had made it to the second round without any major damage, save for their egos when Merlin called them idiots, but nobody was safe from that and, if Gwaine was being completely honest, Merlin was right. The long-haired knight had seen the piece of cloth around the other man’s arm and, though he refused to admit it, that had made the already-blooming warmth that invaded his chest at the mere mention of Lancelot multiply.

The next tournament took place a couple of months later and both Gwaine and Lancelot were lounging in the knights’ tent, waiting to be called. Gwaine had brought, as per usual, a pitcher of ale and two goblets and they were sharing one last drink and companionable silence before the fight. After doubting for a few minutes, Lancelot stood up and walked towards his bag, rummaging inside and pulling a handkerchief: it had obviously accompanied Lancelot through many of his travels and it was now dull where it had once been bright crimson and slightly frayed around the edges. He turned to Gwaine and raised an eyebrow, holding it up to him.

“Token of my favour?” 

Gwaine could have laughed, but he didn’t. He merely smiled and held his arm out, holding his breath when Lancelot crouched down before him, tying the red piece of fabric around his bicep with utmost care and allowing himself to stare at the older knight, to commit every line, scar and curve of his face to memory, from how his curls fell over his eyes and he absentmindedly shrugged them away to how his brow furrowed in concentration to the almost imperceptible, proud smile that his lips displayed once he was done.

“There you go.”

Hazel eyes met coffee-brown ones and the air that Gwaine was holding rushed out. Lancelot leaned forward.

A young and stressed servant burst in the tent, announcing that Gwaine was up next, forcing them apart and allowing the blush to spread across their cheeks.

“Good luck, Gwaine,” Lancelot called before Gwaine left.

“I don’t need it. I have your favour,” The long-haired man winked.

These moments between them became more common throughout the next months, with the two men giving each other both tokens of their favour and hours after training, which they often dedicated to talking, playing cards or- in some memorable occasions- getting drunk. Everyone noticed the new development, even if they refused to comment on it, but now Gwaine received more shovel talks and Lancelot received more good-natured pats in the back and knowing grins.

Another day, another tournament, another soft moment shared.

Gwaine was struggling to tie his hair back, which would be needed this time as they would not be wearing helmets (Merlin had thrown a fit but Arthur had decided to ignore him), when a pair of hands slipped underneath his and tied his hair properly.

“I had long hair once. I know how annoying it can be.”

Gwaine smirked, turning around to meet Lancelot’s amused eyes.

“Any chances you will grow it out again?” He asked cheekily.

The curly-haired knight seemed to consider it for a moment. “Maybe. But don’t hold your breath,”

“I got something for you,” Gwaine grinned, pulling out a deep blue handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s fancier this time,”

Lancelot allowed himself to chuckle, shaking his head and pulling his own tattered red handkerchief, clearly washed despite the age. Gwaine tied his first, allowing his fingers to linger on Lancelot’s bicep as he did and quickly retracting his hand when the other man noticed; Lancelot rubbed the back of his neck before tying his own cloth around Gwaine’s arm, biting his lip as he did.

“Sir Gwaine! It’s your turn!”

Once again, a servant interrupted them, but this time there were no ‘good luck’s traded, save for a chaste kiss Gwaine pressed onto Lancelot’s cheek before leaving. 

Lancelot was left behind, his cheeks aflame and his jaw hanging.

He was not called out until later, after his thoughts and feelings had been left to fester; his cheeks were still warm and he had not stopped fiddling with the deep blue fabric around his arm when Merlin called his name.

“Lancelot?”

His mind refocused. “Hmm?”

“You’re up,” The servant smiled.

“Thank you, Merlin. Uh… who am I fighting?”

He should focus, it was not like he was going to fight- 

“Gwaine.”

Well fuck. 

The next thing he knew he was facing a grinning Gwaine and waiting for the start signal from Arthur. He smiled back at Gwaine, but the smile quickly fell as soon as the other man mouthed ‘token of affection’ and winked at him.

“Knights! You may begin!”

The fight was quick: they twirled gracefully around each other, landing swift blows and dodging expertly in a hypnotising dance in which everything but them melted away until they were the only ones left onstage. Eyes meeting eyes, sword meeting sword, bodies twisting against each other and secret winks being exchanged led to Gwaine miraculously taking the weapon off of Lancelot and throwing it far away. He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Do you yield?”

Lancelot bit the inside of his cheeks to avoid his lips from curling into a smile; with everyone’s expectant eyes on them he huffed out a laugh and raised his hands.

“I yield,”

Just as Gwaine dropped his sword and Arthur announced the winner, Lancelot surged forward with a sudden burst of confidence and roughly grabbed Gwaine’s face and smashed his lips against the other man’s. It took a couple of seconds for the long-haired knight to react and kiss back ardently. They broke apart for a second, their foreheads pressed together and whispered ‘I love you’s before pressing each other’s lips together once again.

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

The World bleeds away when you dance with me

For @ilikedumbknightsinlove and @donttouchtheneednoggle

Pairing: Gwaine x Lancelot

Warnings: Slight angst, maybe some language

“A royal ball?” Arthur asked, tailing behind his sister, her maid and his best friend.

“Yes! It has been two years since we defeated Morgause, after all,” Morgana cheered as she strutted down the halls to her bedroom. “And we have all been working so hard,” -she winked at Gwen, making her laugh- “That we simply deserve this. Wouldn’t you agree, Merlin?”

Merlin, the traitor, looked back at him in the eye and gave him the most innocent smile he could muster.

“Absolutely, my lady.”

At Gwen’s laughter, the only thing he was left to do was grumble about how they ganged up on him.

The news flew fast, and soon everyone in the palace was buzzing with excitement at the upcoming ball; the only person who was more nervous than ecstatic was the noble Sir Lancelot, who had taken to pace in his rooms whenever he was allowed a moment’s peace. He wanted to ask Gwen for a dance, to spend a pleasant evening twirling around with her before backing off completely and to have him be the cause of the smile he so adored; there was a slight problem with his plan, though.

He had no idea how to dance.

He had considered asking someone for help, but Arthur was most definitely a no-go, most of the knights as well as Morgana would just laugh at him, asking Gwen would just defeat the whole purpose and Merlin was busy enough as he was, so he resigned himself to watch other people dance and then try to imitate the steps alone in his chambers. He was in the process of doing so, watching his feet intently and grumbling every time he misstepped (which was often) when a vigorous knock and the door swinging open interrupted him.

“Hey, Lance! The other knights and I are going drinking, care to jo─oh? What are you doing?”

The curly-haired knight’s head shot up, his cheeks instantly aflame.

“Um… nothing, Gwaine, I-”

“Were you dancing?” The long-haired knight smirked.

“What? No!”

“You’re a terrible liar, my friend,”

“I wasn’t-”

A raised eyebrow from Gwaine made him fumble through the rest of the sentence.

“Fine. I…  I wanted to dance at the ball but-”

“You don’t know how to?”

Lancelot nodded shamefully and expected Gwaine to laugh at him and leave, but to his surprise, he heard the door closing and felt a distinctly warm presence in front of him; as he looked up, coffee-coloured eyes met hazel ones and the smirk decorating Gwaine’s face broadened into something happier.

“I can teach you, if you like,”

Unsure of what to say or how to respond, Lancelot merely nodded, prompting Gwaine to grasp his left hand and put his right one on Lancelot’s hip, waiting for the noble knight’s free hand to fall onto his shoulder.

“I’ll lead first, okay? When you have the hang of it we can change,”

“... Okay,”

“So, we start with the right foot…”

Gwaine was, much as it pained Lancelot to admit, a great dancer. He had the grace of a nobleman and held him gently enough so that he did not feel awkward yet remaining a steady constant, muttering quiet ‘one-two-three’s to keep the beat constant; he wasn’t proud to admit that he fumbled and misstepped many times (Gwaine would probably have sore feet by the end of it), but the long-haired man would merely smile at him and say: “You’re doing better than most, Lance.”.

By the time he realized that night had fallen, they had been dancing for hours, safely cradled in each other’s arms and feet moving instinctively, then Gwaine pulled back with his usual flirty grin, yet with underlying specks of something softer.

“Would you like to do this again tomorrow?”

His voice was soft as to not break the spell that had fallen over them, and Lancelot could not be more grateful for that.

“I’d love to, Gwaine.”

“Great then.” ─ Gwaine disentangled himself from the other knight and ran his fingers through his hair, like he always did in the rare occasions when he didn’t know what to say. ─ “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

And he left.

“Right… I’ll see you.”

Warmth filtered into the room, cocooning him into a safe, gentle haven. 

The next day Gwaine did not mention the dancing at all during training, and he did not acknowledge Lancelot more than he did any other day, something the noble knight was grateful for, as it allowed him to pine (it wasn’t pining, he didn’t pine) for Gwen. In the afternoon, however, he found Gwaine already in his chamber with a pitcher of mead on the bedside table and a book in his hands.

“Ah! Lance!”

“Hello, Gwaine.”

With a grin, a flourish and a bow, Gwaine got onto his feet and took Lancelot’s hand once again.

“Do you want to lead or should I?”

“Maybe it’s best if you lead,”

“Alright then,”

This time, it was not quiet ‘one-two-three’s accompanying them, but the gentle tune of a forgotten waltz that Gwaine was humming under his breath, making Lancelot wonder, and not for the first time, who Gwaine really was. This time, Lancelot allowed himself to close his eyes and he allowed Gwaine to pull him closer, the lilting lullaby now being sung next to his ear.

The days passed and the dancing became a routine. Sometimes Gwaine would bring food and they would eat between pauses, sometimes he brought mead, ale or something stronger and they would end up dancing drunkenly (those nights they would end up sprawled in the same bed, sleeping entwined in each other without a care in the world. They were the nights Lancelot regretted the most yet could not help but secretly crave more of). Sometimes Gwaine would hum to old lullabies or waltzes or just keep the beat with ‘one-two-three’s that remained ingrained in Lancelot’s memory as they were whispered into his ear. One memorable night he began singing sea shanties, with the abashed excuse of “Hey! Those are the songs I know, okay? Don’t make fun of me!” 

Gwaine, Lancelot had to admit, a wonderful voice.

It was rough and lilted around the edges, yet gentle and soothing when it counted; it was obvious he had been involved in many tavern singalongs, yet Lancelot could also tell that he was used to either singing softly to himself or to others in the cold hours after nightfall. He even sang some songs he recognised, even when he changed the words (only to rile him up, Lancelot suspected) because he claimed that they had similar rhythm to waltzes.

Lancelot would just chuckle at that, but when he found himself alone in his bed, his dreams were not of a kind-hearted serving girl, but of a shanty-singing rouge instead.

He tried to keep his distance after that, he truly did, but every choice and every thought that crossed his mind inevitably led him back to Gwaine. It was frustrating.

It was the last night before the ball. They all had their clothing prepared and the servants had been run ragged to prepare everything to perfection and everyone was absolutely ecstatic; Lady Morgana had tried to pry whom he was going to go with and, though he indulged her graciously, he avoided giving any signs: though Gwen’s name was almost on his lips, he would not have stopped himself from blurting something else.

It was the last night before the ball and Gwaine was in his chambers once again. He allowed Lancelot to lead and softly sung his songs, pressing himself closer and willing his heart to beat at a slower rhythm because if he could feel Lancelot’s heart Lancelot could feel his.

“Gwaine?” 

“Yes, lov- ah, Lance?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I won’t be dancing at the ball, so I’m making up for it now.”

“You won’t be dancing?” Lancelot asked, pulling away slightly.

“Why?”

“The one I want to dance with is besotted with someone else,”

“I hardly think anyone would refuse you.”

“Trust me, mate. He’s not interested.”

“Give it a try, at least?” Lancelot pleaded. 

“Fine,” Gwaine huffed out a laugh, feigning annoyance, his hazel eyes boring into Lancelot’s coffee-coloured ones.

“Lancelot… would you save a dance for me tomorrow?”

Lancelot froze, eyes widening and jaw hanging open. At once, every little detail of every interaction between Gwaine and him connected and what he had found strange now made sense. The realization hit him like a thousand-pound block of ice. He stepped away. Gwaine scoffed and put his hands back at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists; a careful mask of nonchalance placed on his face. 

“I’d… I’d best get going. Goodbye, Lancelot.”

And the noble knight was left alone once again in his chambers, yet this time the cold had crept inside, wrapping vines around his limbs and chilling him to the bone.

It was the night of the ball and Lancelot was dressed in his finest clothes and laying on his bed. Thoughts of the day before invaded his mind like a particularly persistent ache that would not dull. Someone knocked on the door and he dutifully ignored them, his reputation be damned. The knocks became more insistent and Lancelot just groaned and considered putting his head in his pillow, but the door opened before he could.

“Lancelot?” Merlin’s voice echoed in his ears. “What are you doing here? The ball is about to begin!”

“I’d rather not go.”

“Is it because of Gwen… or about Gwaine?” Another lilted voice interrupted, making him sit up lazily to meet Lady Morgana’s eyes.

“Your guessing ability both astounds and terrifies me, my lady.”

“He’ll be waiting for you,” Morgana mused.

“I know.”

Merlin asked, astounded: “He asked you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t answer.”

“Why not?”

“I panicked.”

“But do you want to?”

Lancelot paused. Oh, had that question been so easy to answer he would not be here, sprawled over his bed covers and rethinking every single one of his life choices and he would be at the feast hall, twirling Gwen (or Gwaine, the treacherous part of his mind he had been hellbent on ignoring helpfully supplied) around the dance floor and actually happy for once. He tried his damndest to forget Gwaine, but to no avail: he could still see their figures waltzing together under the moonlight, Gwaine’s gentle smile (nothing like the charming, fake one he usually displayed) and his eyes focused solely on him… he had never felt as wanted as he did during those nights.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

He could feel Merlin and Morgana smirking at each other from above him even with his eyes closed.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Morgana cheered. “He’s waiting for you! Come on!”

Reluctantly, Lancelot stood and allowed Merlin to fix his clothing and drag him down the corridors. Morgana peeked inside the ballroom and frowned, turning back to her partner in crime.

“Gwaine’s not there,”

“Where is he, then?"

Morgana gasped when she caught sight of a strange movement across the window.

“Try outside,” She grinned, nudging at the noble knight.

They both shot a pointed glare at Lancelot and he sighed, rubbing his face and lifting his arm as a sign of surrender; followed by the sound of their cheers, he was off. He found Gwaine sitting on a bench with his legs spread and a goblet of wine in his hand, staring at the sky with forlorn eyes.

“I never got to say yes,”

Gwaine scrambled to his feet, managing to tip the goblet far enough to make the wine spill to the floor, an extremely satisfying blush coating his freckled cheeks that only made Lancelot chuckle softly.

“You… bloody hell, Lance. You can’t just say things like that.”

“Well,” Lancelot rubbed the back of his neck and held his hand out shyly. “You never did let me answer.”

“Your silence and shock were answer enough,”

“Maybe not. Do you… do you want to lead or should I?” 

The question was nothing more than a whisper, but it successfully pulled Gwaine out of his reverie and made his lips curl into a hesitant smile.

“Maybe it’s best if you lead.”

And so, Lancelot pulled Gwaine into his arms and they fell into a comfortable rhythm, swaying slowly with the muffled music that came from inside and uncaring of who could see them or the consequences that would bring: for now, it was just the two of them and the warmth blossoming in between. They would worry about the world tomorrow.

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

How do you make a masterlist (link one post to another)?

(Help pls)

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

The Hangman's smile

Fandom: Marvel, LoTR, The Hobbit, The Witcher, Supernatural and BBC Merlin (In case you hadn't realised, this is, in fact, a crossover)

Word count: 1629

Warnings: I mean everyone is dead so Major Character Death ig, mild language too

“Hangman’s smile”

The sign dangled in front of her, creaking in the breeze and tempting her to walk inside; Natasha raised an eyebrow as she tousled her bright red hair, now loose. She didn’t know where she was or how she had arrived in this place; the last thing she remembers was her letting go of Clint’s hand back at Vormir, smiling at him, telling him that it was okay… then nothing. There was an ever-present, dull pain in her neck and head, but she thought nothing of it.

“Are you going to stay there all day or are you planning on coming in?” An irish-accented voice commented from behind her.

She turned around swiftly, grabbing the gun from her holster and pointing it at the stranger, guarding her eyes and almost growling at him before she noticed his appearance: despite the fact that his skin was far greyer than it was supposed to be, the dark eyebags that dented his cheeks and the various bruises, burns and cuts that littered his body, he was quite handsome. He had his hands raised and a gentle smirk on his face, not with the purpose to flirt but with the purpose to reassure.

“Who are you?”

The man chuckled. It should have infuriated her, but for some reason it didn’t.

“You mean now? Or who I used to be?”

“Is there a difference?” 

There is, her mind supplied, sounding far too much like Clint for it to be comfortable. There is and you know it.

“Well, in life I was a knight. Now I’m just another Wanderer of Taverns.”

“In life?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you join us inside and find out?” He asked kindly, with just a hint of challenge lacing his voice.

She knew better than to follow a stranger, but she had nothing left to lose anymore and a drink sounded great at that moment, so she followed, albeit warily. She quickly found that the silence and coldness that had reigned outside had been but an illusion, as the minute she stepped inside, a blast of misplaced warmth hit her as heads turned across the room to her direction. 

She scanned everyone quickly, finding a warrior with long auburn hair and a beard looking warily towards her, sat beside three dwarves: one with braided blonde hair, one with long and loose dark brown hair and the last with black hair and streaks of silver. Behind the bar a tall guy in a plaid shirt was smiling fondly at the bartender, a blond much shorter than him who (by the looks of it) would not stop cracking jokes; at another table, a dark-skinned long haired man dressed in full leather armour was chatting with a curly haired man with a kind smile, while occasionally looking behind the bar towards someone she couldn’t see. They were all far paler than any living person was, though the lighting of the tavern somewhat disguised that.

“What’s your name?” The Irish stranger asked kindly and, sensing her reluctance, he added: “Everyone knows everyone’s names here, but we don’t care about the story behind it.”

She took a deep breath and addressed the room, careful of keeping her voice neutral.

“My name is Natasha Romanoff.”

A couple of people nodded at her, the curly-haired man smiling and waving softly, but a familiar drawl made her stop in her tracks.

“My, my, Agent Romanoff. You’re earlier than I expected,”

She clenched her fists and her jaw, her whole body stiffening against the former knight’s, so she couldn’t disguise the flinch when he put a hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear.

“You know them?”

She nodded dumbly as a bartender dressed in green, gold and black sauntered towards them: their wavy black hair was tied in a loose bun behind their neck with a couple of stray strands falling over their face, their green eyes brimming with mischief and the slightest hint of (dare she say) happiness scanning her approvingly, but what shocked her the most was the light blue tinge of their skin and the hand-shaped bruise that curled around their neck.

“Loki.” She greets with a nod.

The god smirks.

“Miss Romanoff. Welcome to my humble tavern,” They did a flourish as he motioned around them. “Would you like a drink or a deal?”

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk threatening to break through her lips as the knight snorted behind her; she decided to play their game.

“I’ll take a deal.”

“Oh, I was hoping you would say that. Here’s my deal:” They inched closer, a devious smile on their face. “Let me buy you a drink and we can start anew, and in return you give me embarrassing stories of your colleagues.”

Natasha took a deep breath and pretended to think it through, looking carefully at the god for any hidden intentions yet finding none, save for boredom.

“Only if you tell me stories about Thor…” Loki’s eyes lit up in delight and her own softened. “And you call me Natasha.”

Their smile became more gentle as their back straightened.

“Come on then,” They drawled. “I expect you would like a table with our most charming knight,” They winked at the man behind her and he smirked back.

“If there is no other,” She teased, earning an offended gasp from her companion.

“Don’t worry, Natasha,” Her name sounded strange on their tongue. “Gwaine can be a perfect gentleman when he wants to, and when he’s not Lancelot is there to wrangle him.”

A few minutes later, Natasha was sitting between Lancelot and Gwaine and in front of a man who was introduced as Aiden, raising an eyebrow at the more than creative names of the drinks offered:

The Hangman’s smile

Drinks:

Hel Shots

Demonic sour

The Jolly Roger

Ghastly shots

Dead Man’s Head

Molten Freedom

Trickster’s treat

Death in the Afternoon

Fainting Amigo

Deathscape

Pink blood

Ghoul Rush

“Fainting… Amigo?” She questioned with a raised eyebrow, making the god roll their eyes and huff.

“That was probably Gabriel,” Lancelot commented kindly beside her. “His drinks, his rules- as he says.”

Aiden let out a hearty chuckle and ordered a Trickster’s Treat; Nat asked for a Deathscape and Gwaine and Lancelot both chose Molten Freedom.

“Look,” Aiden commented after taking a sip of his drinks. “The dwarfs over there? They are… were part of the Royal Family of Erebor. King Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews Fíli and Kíli- they only ruled a couple of weeks, poor guys. I heard they all left lovers behind.”

The green-eyed man’s tone turned forlorn as he mumbled the word ‘lovers’, something which Nat could not help but noticing; she put a hand on her shoulder and smiled sympathetically. 

“The man beside them,” Continued Lancelot. “Is called Boromir. He was the son of the last Steward of Gondor and was a member of the Fellowship of the Ring; he took three arrows protecting two of his friends. Brave man, that one.”

Natasha frowned, turning towards the Noble Knight. “I thought they were just…”

“Stories?” He finished for her, then chuckled. “We all are, even you. Loki and Gabriel opened this bar between realms, in a place where the best stories end, to welcome strays from every realm to a place where we can be more than what the legends make us out to be.”

Natasha hadn’t noticed how she was holding her breath and tears at Lancelot’s calm explanation. A warm hand on her back made her breathe again, and when she turned to the source, she found Gwaine’s kind smile.

“The man behind the counter,” The long-haired knight continued. “Is another trickster: the former Archangel Gabriel- stabbed by his brother, and the tall guy chatting him up is a monster hunter named Sam Winchester- one of the best that there ever is. He doesn’t stay for long because both he and his brother come back to life every now and again. This time he was killed by a werewolf apparently- the claw marks are still there.”

Strangely enough, as soon as she noticed the large claw-shaped marks on Sam’s abdomen she began noticing strange markings on the others too: Gabriel had a stab wound on his neck, Thorin and Kíli both had a hole in their chest, Fíli’s hair was matted with blood and Aiden had a multitude of bruises that coloured his pale skin and the threat blood beneath his eyepatch.

“And what happened to you?” She asked no-one in particular, yet sensing how the men beside her tensed.

“I gave my life for the kingdom.” Lancelot whispered. “For the kingdom and my closest friend.”

“As did I,” Gwaine smiled without any mirth.

“Far too noble,” Aiden drawled. “I tried to trick the wrong people and they killed me- still bear the mark under the eyepatch.” He turned back to the redhead and propped his head with his hand. “What about you?”

Natasha sighed, noticing subtly that Loki had stopped just within hearing range.

“I sacrificed myself so that my… my best friend could go back to his family.”

“The only reason worth sacrificing oneself for,” Loki smiled at her- a real smile, she noted, and she smiled gratefully back.

The tavern door was slammed open. 

Everyone turned to stare at the man, who just adjusted his suit, almost preening at the attention. 

Natasha gasped; Loki growled.

He twisted his lips into a cocky smirk, and only then did the former spy notice that his arm was completely destroyed.

“Agent Romanoff?” She stood up. He grinned. “We won,”

She allowed a smile to light up her face, only interrupted by a hiss next to her.

“Oh, that son of a-”