(ILY TOO LOVELY ANON. You did not specify a happy ending so…bwhahaha).

Tony doesn’t realize he’s shouting, doesn’t see the shattered pieces of the glass he’s thrown on the ground into a thousand pieces, doesn’t comprehend the shoves and pushes and angry words until he hears the three that seem to make time itself stop:

“It’s over, Tony.”

Steve’s eyes are shining. Somehow in the course of their screeching match, he’d swallowed his pride, let the seemingly ever-present image of the All-American Hero fall through the ground, seep through the walls of Stark Tower, until there was nothing remaining but this: Steve Rogers, tattered, broken, and finished. “I can’t—we can’t do this anymore.”

“You always say that.” Tony zones in on a cut on his right thumb, spurting blood, open. He suddenly remembers the glass. The one he’d thrown at Steve’s feet.

Steve nods, laughing humorlessly. “I know,” he replies, “and that’s the problem. This has been a long time coming. Too many times risking the mission, risking lives … your life. Mine. And I’m through.” The shake in his voice is canceled out by the resolve in his tone. “I think it’s best for both of us. We can’t … we can’t fit, Tony. We never have. And I think we tried so hard that we … we lost sight of ourselves.”

Tony hates that Steve can be so objective about this.

Tony hates that Steve is the reason the hot saltiness behind his eyes won’t cease.

Tony hates Steve.

He hates that he knows that’s not true.

“You think I’m gonna let you just walk away?” He tries not to stutter. Tries to be Genius-Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist-Occasional-Hero Tony Stark. But right now he’s just Tony. The guy who lives his life in alcohol-induced slurs and life-threatening risks, and whose only salvation has been the man about to turn away from him.

Steve nods. “Yes. Because you know there’s nothing left of us.” He reaches out, brushes a hand against Tony’s face, who pulls away roughly. “I’m always gonna love you, Tony. But I can’t love us. And neither can you.”

A voice in Tony’s head is screaming, goafterhimgotellhimhowmuchyoufuckingneedhimtellhimheiseverything—

Steve Rogers is walking away.

Tony Stark doesn’t stop him. He stands outside the looming doors of Stark Tower, and watches blood drip onto the pavement, thinking oh, what a mess he’s made …

(I took that ‘optional’ and made it REALITY~~~. Sorry if this sucks. I took a bit of an angsty spin on it, as I often do.)

Spike may not have a soul, but he damn well keeps his promises.

Well, no, that’s a lie—he keeps his promises for her. And even though Buffy Summers is dead and has been for a while now, he doesn’t intend to let the same happen to her sister.

Even though it kind of has. More or less.

Spike does not hear the hum of Dawn Summers’ blood pumping through her veins anymore, because it doesn’t. And yet she lives, or makes at it—just as he does. She belongs to the darkness now. Just like him.

He could make it so easy for himself. He could send her out to do the killing and he could taste the sweet tanginess of human blood on his tongue once again without the chip in his brain hurting like fire.

But instead he sits in his crypt clinking a glass of pig’s blood from the butcher shop against hers, and Dawn grins and it’s the smile of a girl who’s known loss, the smile of a girl who is no longer a simply girl (was she to begin with?) but pretends—tries to be.

It is not the grin of a monster.

“Wanna watch Passions?” she asks, and Spike knows she knows it’s his favorite program and that’s why she’s asking, and he nods a little.

She flips on the television and starts poking fun at Spike’s favorite character (Tabatha is a complex creature, okay?), and Spike throws an insult her way and she throws one back, and it’s like how things used to be, except while there used to be one heart beating between them, there are none at all, now.

But it’s still his lil’ Niblet sitting next to him, Spike thinks, no matter what anyone says.

The two vampires sit in the dark in front of a blaring screen, surrounded by darkness they know as comfort, and Spike thinks for all intents and purposes, he really is keeping his promise.

In the soulless quiet, he keeps her safe.

Title: The Haircut
Author: JLT/Jenna/je-suis-loser/juxtapose/caughtfire (lol multiple accounts
Summary: Arthur is giving Merlin a haircut, and don’t worry, Merlin is just as confused as you are about it. Post-Series 4.
Notes: Filled for an anon ask prompt on tumblr. For Anon: I actually filled a prompt where Merlin cuts Arthur’s hair which you can find here. I figured I wouldn’t skimp out on you, and do vice-versa!
Rating/Genre: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur, mentions of Arthur/Guinevere
Disclaimer: I own nothing

“Arthur, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Are you doubting me, Merlin?”

“Well, no. Except for the fact that I am…ow!” Merlin scrunches up his face as Arthur reaches from behind to give his arm a light punch. “That hurt!”

Arthur huffs a sigh. “For the last time. I am going to cut this ridiculous mop you call a head of hair.”

Read More here, at my dreamwidth

(I wanted to set this in canon era to differentiate it from another famous fic that shall not be named, but because it wouldn’t work characteristically, this is a modern AU. I hope this fic is what you wanted. Also, Merry Christmas, followers!)

“So, here’s the plan.” Morgana Pendragon’s voice is low, dipped in the secrecy of one of her infamous plots. Her best friend Gwen Thomas scoots closer to her on the couch, eyes alight as she follows Morgana’s gaze to the mistletoe hanging over the mantelpiece. “I’ll bring Arthur right over there the same time you bring Merlin. We’ll wander off, they’ll have their moment, get married, and then we’ll be aunts to various adopted children.”

Gwen laughs. “Are you sure this will work? They’ve been dancing around each other for ages now, Morgana. Avoiding each other. What makes you think they’re going to own up to their feelings tonight?”

“Because it’s Christmas, Gwen. A Christmas party, no less,” retorts Morgana matter-of-factly. She stands up, linking arms with Gwen, gesturing dramatically. “Between the influence of a bit too much egg nog and the bright lights of red and green, how can they resist the temptation? ‘Tis the season, after all.

“You ready?” She exchanges a determined look with Gwen, who nods firmly. “Right. Mission: Get Merlin and Arthur to Snog Each Other’s Faces Off is underway. Let’s go!” And with that, they scurry in opposite directions to capture their prey.

Read More

Arthur Pendragon felt foolish.

The memory replayed over and over in his head, chastising him, taunting him.

Just … take it. And his fingers had brushed Merlin’s as he’d handed him a token of his mother’s, that which bore her sigil. An item that meant a great deal to him, containing half-memories and blurred truths of a woman he wished every day he could have known.

He’d given Merlin the pendant as a token of every word he’d never spoken, of his every Thank you and I care for you that slipped through the cracks, covered by a Shut up, Merlin or You’re completely useless. The fact was, Arthur cared about Merlin more than anything. Afraid of what that meant for himself, for Merlin, for the Kingdom…Arthur kept his feelings quiet, hoping Merlin would be able to see through the walls he’d built around himself.

(Read More)

(OOC: I don’t usually write RPF because of reasons, but here you go, anon, I tried)

“Bugger. There’s so many people out there, Col. Too many. Pretty sure this is a fire hazard or something.”

Bradley stuffs his hands in his pockets as he peers out at the large Comic Con audience. He casts a side glance at Colin, who shrugs and smiles. “It’ll be fine, Bradley,” he says, his voice low and even.

Bradley snorts. “What do you mean? ‘Course it’ll be fine.” He crosses his arms, tapping his foot.

“You’re panicking.”

Bradley stares down at his shoes, hating how right Colin is. “Am not,” he says anyway.

“Bradley.” The slow drawl of his name has much else behind it. In the familiar Irish tones that remind Bradley of safety and warmth and late mornings and kisses that taste like coffee, Colin is saying, Stop trying to hide from me.

And as always, Bradley crumbles under the beautiful weight of Colin, and admits, “Yeah. Fine. Maybe I’m not comfortable with hundreds of people gawking at me. So what?”

He lets his hands drop to his sides, feeling his face grow hot. It’s only then the sensation of Colin’s hand brushing against his fills him up, and Colin’s whispers-of-fingers find their perfect place locked with Bradley’s. It’s a simple gesture, without words. And yet a calm washes over Bradley, and for this brief moment the crowds and Katie and Tony talking loudly nearby and the blaring lights go away.

For a second, it’s Bradley and Colin and nothing else.

“Hey, Morgan,” Bradley says when he hears the announcer call his name.

“Yeah?” is Colin’s whisper.

“Don’t let go.”

And if anyone notices them holding hands under the table, or picks up on the way their eyes linger on one another in a quiet secrecy, no one says a word.

So at times like these Bradley thinks, with Colin’s hand in his, of stolen moments, of simplicity—of him and Colin and nothing else, and lets the rest of the world fall away.

“Useless. Absolutely useless.”

Arthur stalks into his chambers to find Merlin sound asleep under Arthur’s royal blankets, snuggled up on Arthur’s side and clutching Arthur’s pillow.

Although Arthur would never say so, it’s a sight for sore eyes. He’s been in meetings all day following a long morning of training, and his body and mind are heavy with the stress from the day. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Merlin. Wake up.”

Merlin makes a noncommittal mmph noise and burrows deeper under the covers. Arthur refuses to lose this battle. He smirks, leaning over to press kisses to Merlin’s forehead, nose, the corner of his mouth. “Idiot.” Kiss. “Wake.” Kiss. “Up.” Kiss.

Merlin smiles in his sleep, arching his neck a bit, and Arthur lets his lips and tongue roam about the sleep-warm skin there. “Don’t know what I’ll do with you,” he whispers into Merlin’s collarbone, nibbling at the skin there, peering up just in time to see Merlin’s eyes pop open in surprise.

“A-Arthur,” he says, with a combination of surprise and something else entirely that makes him blush, “Erm, sorry, I was cleaning your room, I swear! But we were up all night last night and since you used me as your favorite punching bag again this morning-thanks-by-the-way I was really tired and honestly I don’t even remember falling asleep, really, and—”

“Merlin.” Arthur sits up, crossing his arms, eyebrows furrowed.

Merlin gulps visibly and squeaks, “…Yes?”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re the worst manservant I’ve ever had. Now move over, will you? You’re on my side.”

And with that, he all but tackles Merlin onto the other side of the bed, pressing kisses to every part of him he can reach, feeling the weight of the day begin to lift with Merlin’s touch.

(JLT 2011)

(You anons are so angsty. SRSLY. This takes place post-reveal.)

Merlin looks so focused, scrubbing away at Arthur’s sword, and Arthur can’t help himself. It’s too opportune of a moment. And one of the many things Arthur had learned from his father in the past was to seize opportunities as they came. That’s what good Kings do, right?

Arthur tries not to make a sound as he glides across his bedchambers, creeping up behind his unsuspecting manservant. He lets his eyes wander up and down, relishing the way the sun illuminates the outline of Merlin’s slim, uniquely beautiful frame.

The King grins, leaning in so that his lips are at Merlin’s ear, and shouts, “Boo!”

Merlin jumps with a yelp and Arthur throws his head back in laughter. It’s only after a few seconds that he realizes why Merlin isn’t laughing too, or calling him a prat or something else entirely disrespectful.

Rather, Merlin is staring down at his right hand—which is now drenched in blood. “O-ow,” he stutters.

Arthur’s eyes widen, and he realizes that in his surprise, Merlin had cut himself with Arthur’s sword. “Dammit,” he mumbles, and then, louder, “Dammit! Merlin, always the clumsy fool!” which is his way of saying, I’m sorry.

Merlin drops the sword to the ground with a loud clatter and says faintly, “Sorry, sire,” but Arthur is too busy trying not to panic.

“Shut up with the sorry, sire, Merlin. You’re losing a great deal of blood; I don’t know if we have time to take you to Gaius. There are bandages somewhere here—of course I haven’t the faintest idea where you put anything when you attempt to clean … ” All the while he’s dragging Merlin to the bed, and when he sits him down, Arthur realizes what can be done. What needs to be done.

“Merlin,” he says, and the man looks up, losing color in his face. “Hey. Focus. Listen. Can you … can you heal yourself?” It’s a question he never thought he’d ever find himself asking until only recently.

Merlin’s expression changes to one of sheer surprise. Arthur’s acceptance of Merlin’s magic has been a very gradual process, and even now, they both tend to avoid the subject when it comes up. “I-I don’t know if I shou—” Merlin hesitates, hissing sharply.

“Do it, Merlin. For God’s sake, you’re in pain! We don’t have time.”

“I-I … ” Wince. “I don’t want you to … be disgusted with what I am.” Merlin looks away, ashamed.

Arthur shakes his head. Is this why Merlin, after all this time hiding, has been choosing not to use his magic in front of Arthur? He finds Merlin’s gaze, holds it, and, not knowing what else to do, says this: “I’m ordering you. To heal yourself.”

Merlin gulps. He takes a deep breath, lifts his uninjured hand and hovers it above the other. In a whisper, he says, “Gelácne.”

His eyes flash a bright yellow, and Arthur watches with wide eyes as the deep gash in Merlin’s hand begins to mend, all on its own.

When it’s over, Merlin looks down at his lap, wringing his hands, until Arthur reaches over and clasps his fingers over Merlin’s, steadying them.

“So,” Merlin mumbles, “Did I scare you? Merlin your manservant, the monster.” He chuckles bitterly.

Arthur is silent for a moment. He lifts a hand to run his fingers through Merlin’s hair before cupping the side of his face in his hand. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

When they kiss, the sunlight seems to come through just a bit brighter, and the crystal clear sky and the warm air hum with the promise of a united Albion.

(JLT 2011)

(Hey, Anon. I’m going to fit this nicely into my modern domestic AU thing I’ve sort of developed over the course of answering these prompts. XD)

One of the stranger ways to rise from a deep slumber is waking upon having one’s face licked. And needless to say, Merlin is none too happy about facing the morning in such a way.

“Arthur,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut an pulling the covers over his head, “I know you appreciate my wonderful face and all, but that is genuinely disgusting.”

When he receives a high-pitched bark in reply, Merlin nearly jumps out of his skin as he is met face-to-face with a pearl white terrier puppy peering at him with big eyes.

“Bloody hell!” Merlin shouts, and at the sound the dog bounds toward him, jumping onto his lap and sending Merlin flopping down onto the pillows again, confusion plastered on his face.

Merlin blinks a few times before reaching up to scratch behind the puppy’s ears. “Who’re you, little guy?” A panicked look flashed across his eyes. “Did I accidentally turn Arthur into a dog in my sleep? That would be worse than the time I made him a toad while he was getting ready for a meeting with those executives—”

“Woof,” interrupts the puppy, bobbing his head enthusiastically, and that’s when Merlin notices the bow tied around his little neck, a note attached to it. Must have just missed Arthur on his way to work, Merlin thinks.

Raising an eyebrow, Merlin steadies the bouncing puppy on his lap, sits up, and unfolds the small piece of paper attached to the ribbon:

Hey, M. I know I’ve been busy lately and our schedules are opposite in a way that makes all the sense that doesn’t.

Merlin rolls his eyes. Arthur, ever the wordsmith.

 … I know you said you and your Mum grew up with cats, but I thought this might be a good time for a change. I hope he’ll keep you good company. See you soon x

Merlin appraises the excited little dog. “Arthur’s too busy for me so he buys me a dog. What a prat.” Merlin crosses his arms, and the puppy continues to stare at him expectantly. “Well, what do you want?”

The puppy barks again, snuggling up against Merlin’s chest, wagging his tail. “Dammit,” Merlin mumbles, running his fingers through the tiny dog’s fur, “You’re too cute. And you remind me of Arthur, you know. Annoying and high-strung, but completely irresistible.”

The puppy’s teeth are bared in what looks oddly like a smile, and Merlin smiles back. “Okay. We’ll have a lot of fun, you and I, won’t we?”

The puppy barked in reply, and Merlin scooped him up in his arms, ready to show him around his new home.

* * *

Arthur arrives home around one o’clock in the morning, and the darkness of his and Merlin’s flat greets him with quiet. He can just make out the silhouette of Merlin asleep on the couch (waiting up for him as always)—and in his arms is the white puppy, sleeping contentedly on the rise and fall of Merlin’s chest.

Arthur chuckles, shuffling over and leaning down to kiss the top of Merlin’s head. His eyes flutter open almost immediately at the touch. “Arthur,” he says, smiling sleepily.

“Hey. Have I been replaced already?” Arthur jokes, reaching to pet the puppy’s fur affectionately.

Merlin laughs. “He’s adorable. You’ll love him. When he’s not peeing all over your perfectly pressed suits, which I will definitely train him to do.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Merlin lifts his legs a little so Arthur can sit on the other end of the couch. “What did you name him?”

Merlin grins proudly. “Aithusa.”

Arthur snorts, not at all surprised by the sheer randomness thiat is Merlin. “Where in God’s name did you get that from?”

“I … I don’t know. Just came to me. I think I heard it somewhere before. It means ‘light of the sun’. Pretty, right? His fur almost shines, y’know? Look at him, Arthur. Just look at him.”

“Oh, God.” Arthur rubs his eyes. “It’s official. You’re leaving me for a puppy.”

“Hey. It was your idea to begin with,” Merlin mutters, “I was really annoyed with you about it, too But then he sort of reminded me of you so it was okay.”

Arthur chuckles a little. “Funny, I bought him because he reminded me of you.”

Merlin grins, petting Aithusa affectionately. “So, he’s a little bit of both of us, then.”

“I guess so.” Arthur leans over and kisses Merlin gently, and Merlin lifts his arms to wrap around his neck. They stay that way in the comfortable dark, affectionately squished between them their new (furry) addition to the family.

(JLT 2011)

(Again, this ended up being WAY longer than a drabble; hope anon doesn’t mind [if Anon is even still around since this request was sent AGES ago]. In addition I dedicate this one to DANIELLE because it’s her birthday! Have a good one, doll!)

Title: In the Quiet
Author: JLT/Jenna/je-suis-loser/juxtapose/caughtfire (lol multiple accounts)
Summary: Series 3 AU. Cenred captured Merlin and tortured him. Arthur rescues him, and truths are brought to light.
Rating/Genre: PG-13, angst.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur (as usual)
Disclaimer: I own nothing

The sky was gray and heavy, looming over the Prince and his manservant as they trudged side by side through the dark forest.

Because he couldn’t help himself, Arthur cast a side-glance at Merlin, hoping idly that his gaze could will the smaller man to speak. As he expected, though, Merlin said nothing, arms enclosed tightly around himself. His head drooped low, eyes cast down so it looked as if they were completely shut. Even in the dark, Arthur could see the bruises on Merlin’s face, the gash above his left eyebrow. The pain that seemed to ripple off him, staggering.

Arthur wanted to make it all go away. But he didn’t know how.

It had been this way for quite some time. Cenred and his men had snatched Arthur’s supplies and horses when he’d come to rescue Merlin, so now all the Prince and his manservant had were the towering trees—and each other.

But neither had spoken a single word since Arthur fled back to Camelot’s side of the border, all but dragging a wounded Merlin with him.

(READ MORE HERE)