fic: Trinity (1/1)
Sep. 27th, 2011 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leashy_bebesTitle: Trinity (1/1)
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A triangle is the strongest shape, and Gwaine wants proof. Modern AU.
Notes/Warnings: Written for the kink bingo square of scarification. I went for branding. Please heed the warnings.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Word Count: ~3000
Gwaine first thinks of it one night when they're curled up together. He's stroking his fingers through the hair at the nape of Merlin's neck, feeling Merlin's warm breath fanning out over his collarbone. Arthur is behind them, forehead pressed to the top of Gwaine's spine, his thumbnail tracing a triangle on Gwaine's ribs. It was Arthur's gesture from the get-go, but Gwaine and Merlin have both picked it up along the way. It seems appropriate somehow. Arthur has his own little pattern, drawing the triangle twice in one direction, then twice in the other, the edge of his nail scratching again and again, until the patch of skin feels warm, verging on raw.
It's not a conscious thought at that point. He just notices the way that feels, the skin alive with tingling. Later, when Arthur's dropped off to sleep his hand slides down to Gwaine's hip instead, tangling with Merlin's fingers. As stealthily as he can, Gwaine frees his arm from under Merlin's body and wraps it around himself, fingers pressed to the hot skin Arthur's been scratching away at. He's too tired to organise his thoughts tonight so he just settles into the warmth of their bodies and closes his eyes.
The next day Arthur's up first, just like always. He clatters and bitches his way around the room while Merlin groans and buries his face in the pillows. Gwaine swears revenge and nuzzles his way under Merlin's arm.
"Fucking tosser," Merlin mutters grumpily.
Gwaine hums in agreement and pats at Merlin's thigh before regretfully levering himself out of bed. He and Percy have taken on a job rewiring a whole row of houses this week and he can't be late on the first day. He dives into the shower while Arthur's brushing his teeth, ignoring his squawk of outrage. By the time he gets out again Arthur's made coffee and Gwaine considers the whole morning routine a success. He kisses Merlin goodbye, smacks Arthur on the arse, grabs the van keys and leaves.
Percy lives above a cafe and he's waiting outside with two covered polystyrene trays of breakfast when Gwaine pulls up. The day goes on just like any other, really. Percy's a good guy to work with, sensible and skilled but not a totally humourless bastard. At lunch time, Percy takes the van out in search of chips and Gwaine sits on an upturned crate in the garden of the house they're tackling today. He's not really thinking of anything more than taking advantage of the unseasonably sunny day.
Almost unconsciously Gwaine's fingers skate over the decking and pluck up one of the twists of thick metal wire they use to keep the cables bundled. He flattens it out into a line and plays with it one handed while he smokes a cigarette. By the time he hears the van pull up out the front he looks down and isn't entirely surprised to find he's shaped the wire into a neat triangle. He frowns down at it for a moment and then shoves it in his pocket as Percy comes around into the garden and hands him a bag of chips.
"Brilliant. Pickled egg?" he asks.
"Piss off," Percy says good-naturedly. "I have to share air-space with you."
Gwaine just grunts. "Whatever."
He can feel the little metal triangle digging into his thigh.
He ends up fiddling with the little triangle on and off all day, warming it in his palm. And okay, maybe he does a little research when he gets home that night, before the others get in. He's been thinking of something like this – he has a few tattoos and a couple of piercings already – pretty much since the three of them fucking somehow morphed into the three of them in a relationship. Something permanent. Because Arthur might be a dick, and Merlin might be at least half over-sized puppy but God help Gwaine, this works better than anything he's ever known.
Here, he thinks, palming his upper arm, wondering what it'll feel like. Over the next few days he reads about the possibility of infection, the unreliability of the shape, the unpredictable healing process. He still wants it. God. Really wants it.
It doesn't take him a lot of reading to realise the little triangle he'd bent out of a piece of wire won't do the job at all. Still, he doesn't have to look far for a piece of stainless steel and the tools to shape it into a smooth straight line, narrow but a couple of inches long, with one end bent up sharply at a right angle. He tests it out, clamping the brand (and that's the first time he really thinks the word and it makes his hand shake for a second) between a pair of pliers. He heats it on a propane torch and presses it into a soft square of pine wood. The dark burn left behind is a starkly perfect line. He knows it won't be that sharp-edged, that well-defined on his skin, but still. Something makes his throat catch and he closes his eyes for a moment.
Job done, Gwaine just has the remaining problem of how the hell to broach this with Arthur. Because he's pretty sure Merlin will scream that he's insane for even thinking of it, followed by at least a half hour's rant about his complete lack of self-preservation and honestly, Gwaine I like you, okay, quite a lot, will you please stop trying to think up inventive ways to kill and or injure yourself? Merlin will have to know, obviously, but Gwaine thinks the best he'll be able to get out of it is Merlin's silence. Arthur might go for it, even if he has to be goaded into it in a show of one-upmanship that's as familiar as breathing by now.
As it goes, it happens quite differently. Gwaine has grown tired of trying to work out how to broach the topic and when they're in the kitchen one night bickering about what to do for dinner, Gwaine finally tires of looking for a suitable conversational opener for the phrase 'hey, fancy branding me maybe?' The brand has been burning a hole in his pocket (alright, no, poor choice of words but it really does feel like it's burning sometimes) for days, and half the contents of his tool box spread out on the table, so Gwaine grabs both brand and pliers and tosses them down in front of Arthur.
Arthur frowns at him for a second before he glances down. His eyes seem to catch on the equipment in front of him and he sucks his lip in between his teeth. Merlin just looks between their faces and the twist of metal Arthur's holding between forefinger and thumb, but Arthur... Gwaine's faintly surprised to realise that Arthur not only understands what Gwaine's just given to him, but that he looks like he actually gets it.
The silence stretches for a long minute before Arthur grins. "Three, yeah? A triangle? You kinky fuck."
He ends up doing all his research again with Arthur peering over his shoulder because he's a control freak, and Merlin kind of hovering around looking at them like he thinks they've gone mad.
"I can't guarantee it'll look totally even," Arthur informs him.
Gwaine leans back in the chair, pressing the back of his head into Arthur's stomach. "I know. I read that. With my eyes."
Arthur pinches his ear. "Shut up."
"You shut up telling me things I already know."
"Neither of you are anything like grown-up enough to be doing this," Merlin informs them from where he's perching on the kitchen table, swinging his legs. "Just so you know. Just so you have my official opinion on record."
"Thank you Merlin, that's very helpful," Arthur says. He runs his fingers through Gwaine's hair and thumbs across his temple. "We doing this, then?"
"I was thinking Wednesday night," Gwaine says. "No work till next Monday after that. I don't want it getting fucked up."
When Gwaine tips his head back to look, Arthur's eyes are a bit glassy and he runs his tongue over his teeth before he says, "Yeah. No, Wednesday. Okay."
Merlin sighs and jumps down from the table, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a round of beers. "I am going to have so much fun explaining this to the paramedics."
Wednesday comes around fast. Arthur refuses a beer with dinner, won't let Gwaine have one either, which goes some way towards soothing the frown on Merlin's face. Gwaine is oddly grateful for Arthur taking charge, much as he normally rails against such a thing. Now the day is here, the moment ticking closer he's having – not doubts, but these swooping feelings in his belly, the ever-sharpening realisation that this is happening.
"I'm going to tool up," Arthur announces when there's finally no point pretending this is a casual evening in.
"Tool up," Gwaine scoffs.
"It's not a gunfight," Merlin says.
"Whatever. Bedroom, yeah?"
"Yeah," Gwaine says. He's only got his tats to go by but once they were done he wanted nothing more than to sprawl out and bask in it, the way it felt like he'd etched a part of himself into place.
Arthur's quick to set up everything they need and Gwaine's glad to see that he looks steady and focused, that look on his face that makes Gwaine want to follow him anywhere, trust him with anything. Bastard, he thinks affectionately.
Merlin shifts on his feet to draw their attention and says, "I don't know about this."
"You don't have to stay," Gwaine offers.
"I'm not going to hurt him," Arthur says.
"Uh. Yes you are, you clueless prick, that's kind of the point," Gwaine points out.
"I was being reassuring."
"Well don't. Be honest. Merlin," Gwaine says earnestly, turning to look at him. "It's – I want this, alright. Really want it. And I'd love it if you were here to help but if you can't do that I won't hold it against you."
Merlin looks between them doubtfully and says, "God, no, alright. Okay."
They scramble on the bed, Merlin hunched against the headboard and Gwaine shoving his way in between Merlin's thighs, back pressed to his chest. He watches Arthur as he fiddles with the propane torch.
"Watch the size of the flame, you idiot," Gwaine says before Arthur turns it on. "You want to burn the fucking wall too?"
"Bitch, bitch, moan," Arthur sighs, slapping Gwaine's hands away from the torch.
"Seriously?" Merlin says in the tone he reserves for when they're bickering over something unbelievably childish. "Is this really a good idea?"
Gwaine turns his head, craning back to kiss Merlin. "Don't mind us, Merlin. Competitive when it comes to equipment, you know us."
"Idiot," Merlin says affectionately. "Idiots."
"Hold his wrist for me," Arthur tells Merlin, and okay, it's not like those words have never come up in bed before, but they make something extra leap inside Gwaine now. Merlin's long fingers wind around his wrist, holding his arm out straight. Gwaine half-closes his eyes and breathes out slow against the pressure of Merlin's other arm where it's snaked around his waist.
The metal's glowing now. The torch is roaring and he can feel Merlin breathing against his neck, shallow and rapid. Gwaine can feel the heat even from this far away and he's pleased to note that Arthur's hands are rock-steady. At the first press – hot, hot, fuck, he can feel it smell it taste it – Gwaine hisses out a breath and Merlin's arm tightens around his stomach. It hurts like a motherfucker, tearing through him and making him feel dizzy and sharp and kind of like he might be about to laugh hugely.
"Alright?" Arthur's insistent voice reaches him through the pounding in his head, sounding like it wasn't the first time.
"Yeah," Gwaine says, and his voice sounds slurred to his own ears, reflexive tears prickling his eyes, making him gasp. "Stop stringing it out, princess."
He can feel the rush crashing over him now, making him feel like there's an inch of warm air between his body and everything else, like he's just fucking floating. There's the click and snarling roar of the torch again and another diagonal flare of heat, just overlapping with the first at the tip. Through everything, Gwaine can hear Arthur's voice counting off – one, two, three – before the sharpness of the heat eases, settling into a throbbing, aching burn.
There's only one to go, the horizontal base. This one seems to go fastest of all. Maybe the whole area's a little numb now, maybe he's used to it. Or maybe he's just high as a kite, he reflects when Merlin's fingers stroking through his hair feels like just the best thing ever. Gwaine can hear Arthur clearing away the kit and then he's there, pinching the skin between two of Gwaine's fingers to get his attention. He's persistent and well meaning and really fucking annoying but Gwaine puts up with it for a while, answering ridiculous questions and allowing Arthur to prod hesitantly at the unharmed skin around the burn.
"Stop it," Merlin says eventually, and Gwaine leans into him gratefully until he goes on, "I need to dress that now."
It was Merlin's one hard and fast line about all this, that they would let him deal with the healing aspects of it, and not try to slow the process for a more noticeable effect. Because, in his words, Arthur would forget and Gwaine was an idiot. Earlier, Gwaine had found something quite unfair about that statement but now he can't care about anything. Intellectually he knows it's a mixture of endorphins and spent adrenaline making him feel this way, but fuck it, he's buzzing.
He feels Arthur sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, and pulling Gwaine's feet into his lap. Gwaine stretches his toes and digs them into Arthur's stomach playfully. Merlin wriggles out from behind him and pulls a pharmacy bag up from the floor onto the edge of the mattress. The last thing Gwaine's aware of is a rumbling wave of soft pain as Merlin presses a dressing to his bicep.
Gwaine can hear Merlin's gentle snoring when he wakes up, which means it's Arthur's hands all over his stomach and shoulders.
"Wha – " Gwaine grumbles, trying to swat him away.
Arthur snatches up his wrist and shifts slightly. Gwaine very belatedly realises Arthur is kneeling astride his waist, all shadows and gleaming eyes in the darkness.
"You're – that was fucking – "
Arthur gives up on verbal communication, pressing a hard kiss to Gwaine's lips instead. He moves fast, down to Gwaine's jaw and neck, teeth pressing in as his hand gropes clumsily between Gwaine's legs, dragging him into hardness.
"Can't wait for it to heal," Arthur says breathlessly. "Wanna touch it, wanna feel it, fuck – "
"Excited?" Gwaine asks rhetorically.
"Shut up. Idiot," Arthur says against his collarbone. He's a man on a mission, drawing his way down Gwaine's body, a trail of bites and licks in his wake. And well, Gwaine's hardly going to complain. He reaches down under the covers and snatches up a handful of blond hair, encouraging Arthur downwards and rocking his hips up hopefully.
For once Arthur doesn't have a single complaint to make, not even the reflex kind of protest he usually comes up with because bitching at Gwaine is his number one hobby. Tonight though, Arthur takes him in fast and deep, bringing out every trick he knows, apparently determined to make Gwaine come embarrassingly quickly. Gwaine's really not objecting, sliding up into the sweet heat of Arthur's mouth.
And he can – fuck, he can feel the bed shifting under them as Arthur rocks his hips into the mattress. Wow, Gwaine thinks. Wow. This had really got to Arthur, hadn't it? He can feel himself filling and refilling Arthur's throat, wet sucking noises just barely stifled by the covers. Arthur doesn't resist Gwaine's grip on his hair, or the lazy roll of his hips. In fact he takes Gwaine in deep enough to choke himself, over and over until Gwaine's shoving at his shoulder and warning him off. Arthur fights him then, finally, fights to get his mouth back on Gwaine's dick and that is – well. Quite the ego-boost. Not that Gwaine considers himself a man who needs his ego stroked every five minutes. It's definitely, uh, nice though, that Arthur finally pulls his mouth away and gasps raggedly against Gwaine's stomach, his hips jerking, obviously finding his own release.
"Guys," Merlin complains as Arthur drops kisses along Gwaine's stomach on his way back up. "I'm sleeping."
"Sorry, darlin'," Gwaine says, a little breathless. "You know how needy he gets."
He's ready for Arthur's protest and muffles it by shoving him back down under the covers, only to get a dead leg for his troubles. Gwaine tries to kick at Arthur but the other man makes himself, if not comfortable, then as fucking inconvenient as possible, spreading out over Gwaine's shins and lifting a corner of the duvet so he can breathe.
"Night, chaps," he says cheerily, apparently settled for the night.
Merlin doesn't make any reply and Gwaine just sighs, settling into the sound of the others breathing, into the throbbing on his arm, and into the feel of Arthur's hand when it sneaks up and curls around his ankle, thumb rubbing over the bone.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin/Gwaine
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A triangle is the strongest shape, and Gwaine wants proof. Modern AU.
Notes/Warnings: Written for the kink bingo square of scarification. I went for branding. Please heed the warnings.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Word Count: ~3000
Gwaine first thinks of it one night when they're curled up together. He's stroking his fingers through the hair at the nape of Merlin's neck, feeling Merlin's warm breath fanning out over his collarbone. Arthur is behind them, forehead pressed to the top of Gwaine's spine, his thumbnail tracing a triangle on Gwaine's ribs. It was Arthur's gesture from the get-go, but Gwaine and Merlin have both picked it up along the way. It seems appropriate somehow. Arthur has his own little pattern, drawing the triangle twice in one direction, then twice in the other, the edge of his nail scratching again and again, until the patch of skin feels warm, verging on raw.
It's not a conscious thought at that point. He just notices the way that feels, the skin alive with tingling. Later, when Arthur's dropped off to sleep his hand slides down to Gwaine's hip instead, tangling with Merlin's fingers. As stealthily as he can, Gwaine frees his arm from under Merlin's body and wraps it around himself, fingers pressed to the hot skin Arthur's been scratching away at. He's too tired to organise his thoughts tonight so he just settles into the warmth of their bodies and closes his eyes.
The next day Arthur's up first, just like always. He clatters and bitches his way around the room while Merlin groans and buries his face in the pillows. Gwaine swears revenge and nuzzles his way under Merlin's arm.
"Fucking tosser," Merlin mutters grumpily.
Gwaine hums in agreement and pats at Merlin's thigh before regretfully levering himself out of bed. He and Percy have taken on a job rewiring a whole row of houses this week and he can't be late on the first day. He dives into the shower while Arthur's brushing his teeth, ignoring his squawk of outrage. By the time he gets out again Arthur's made coffee and Gwaine considers the whole morning routine a success. He kisses Merlin goodbye, smacks Arthur on the arse, grabs the van keys and leaves.
Percy lives above a cafe and he's waiting outside with two covered polystyrene trays of breakfast when Gwaine pulls up. The day goes on just like any other, really. Percy's a good guy to work with, sensible and skilled but not a totally humourless bastard. At lunch time, Percy takes the van out in search of chips and Gwaine sits on an upturned crate in the garden of the house they're tackling today. He's not really thinking of anything more than taking advantage of the unseasonably sunny day.
Almost unconsciously Gwaine's fingers skate over the decking and pluck up one of the twists of thick metal wire they use to keep the cables bundled. He flattens it out into a line and plays with it one handed while he smokes a cigarette. By the time he hears the van pull up out the front he looks down and isn't entirely surprised to find he's shaped the wire into a neat triangle. He frowns down at it for a moment and then shoves it in his pocket as Percy comes around into the garden and hands him a bag of chips.
"Brilliant. Pickled egg?" he asks.
"Piss off," Percy says good-naturedly. "I have to share air-space with you."
Gwaine just grunts. "Whatever."
He can feel the little metal triangle digging into his thigh.
He ends up fiddling with the little triangle on and off all day, warming it in his palm. And okay, maybe he does a little research when he gets home that night, before the others get in. He's been thinking of something like this – he has a few tattoos and a couple of piercings already – pretty much since the three of them fucking somehow morphed into the three of them in a relationship. Something permanent. Because Arthur might be a dick, and Merlin might be at least half over-sized puppy but God help Gwaine, this works better than anything he's ever known.
Here, he thinks, palming his upper arm, wondering what it'll feel like. Over the next few days he reads about the possibility of infection, the unreliability of the shape, the unpredictable healing process. He still wants it. God. Really wants it.
It doesn't take him a lot of reading to realise the little triangle he'd bent out of a piece of wire won't do the job at all. Still, he doesn't have to look far for a piece of stainless steel and the tools to shape it into a smooth straight line, narrow but a couple of inches long, with one end bent up sharply at a right angle. He tests it out, clamping the brand (and that's the first time he really thinks the word and it makes his hand shake for a second) between a pair of pliers. He heats it on a propane torch and presses it into a soft square of pine wood. The dark burn left behind is a starkly perfect line. He knows it won't be that sharp-edged, that well-defined on his skin, but still. Something makes his throat catch and he closes his eyes for a moment.
Job done, Gwaine just has the remaining problem of how the hell to broach this with Arthur. Because he's pretty sure Merlin will scream that he's insane for even thinking of it, followed by at least a half hour's rant about his complete lack of self-preservation and honestly, Gwaine I like you, okay, quite a lot, will you please stop trying to think up inventive ways to kill and or injure yourself? Merlin will have to know, obviously, but Gwaine thinks the best he'll be able to get out of it is Merlin's silence. Arthur might go for it, even if he has to be goaded into it in a show of one-upmanship that's as familiar as breathing by now.
As it goes, it happens quite differently. Gwaine has grown tired of trying to work out how to broach the topic and when they're in the kitchen one night bickering about what to do for dinner, Gwaine finally tires of looking for a suitable conversational opener for the phrase 'hey, fancy branding me maybe?' The brand has been burning a hole in his pocket (alright, no, poor choice of words but it really does feel like it's burning sometimes) for days, and half the contents of his tool box spread out on the table, so Gwaine grabs both brand and pliers and tosses them down in front of Arthur.
Arthur frowns at him for a second before he glances down. His eyes seem to catch on the equipment in front of him and he sucks his lip in between his teeth. Merlin just looks between their faces and the twist of metal Arthur's holding between forefinger and thumb, but Arthur... Gwaine's faintly surprised to realise that Arthur not only understands what Gwaine's just given to him, but that he looks like he actually gets it.
The silence stretches for a long minute before Arthur grins. "Three, yeah? A triangle? You kinky fuck."
He ends up doing all his research again with Arthur peering over his shoulder because he's a control freak, and Merlin kind of hovering around looking at them like he thinks they've gone mad.
"I can't guarantee it'll look totally even," Arthur informs him.
Gwaine leans back in the chair, pressing the back of his head into Arthur's stomach. "I know. I read that. With my eyes."
Arthur pinches his ear. "Shut up."
"You shut up telling me things I already know."
"Neither of you are anything like grown-up enough to be doing this," Merlin informs them from where he's perching on the kitchen table, swinging his legs. "Just so you know. Just so you have my official opinion on record."
"Thank you Merlin, that's very helpful," Arthur says. He runs his fingers through Gwaine's hair and thumbs across his temple. "We doing this, then?"
"I was thinking Wednesday night," Gwaine says. "No work till next Monday after that. I don't want it getting fucked up."
When Gwaine tips his head back to look, Arthur's eyes are a bit glassy and he runs his tongue over his teeth before he says, "Yeah. No, Wednesday. Okay."
Merlin sighs and jumps down from the table, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a round of beers. "I am going to have so much fun explaining this to the paramedics."
Wednesday comes around fast. Arthur refuses a beer with dinner, won't let Gwaine have one either, which goes some way towards soothing the frown on Merlin's face. Gwaine is oddly grateful for Arthur taking charge, much as he normally rails against such a thing. Now the day is here, the moment ticking closer he's having – not doubts, but these swooping feelings in his belly, the ever-sharpening realisation that this is happening.
"I'm going to tool up," Arthur announces when there's finally no point pretending this is a casual evening in.
"Tool up," Gwaine scoffs.
"It's not a gunfight," Merlin says.
"Whatever. Bedroom, yeah?"
"Yeah," Gwaine says. He's only got his tats to go by but once they were done he wanted nothing more than to sprawl out and bask in it, the way it felt like he'd etched a part of himself into place.
Arthur's quick to set up everything they need and Gwaine's glad to see that he looks steady and focused, that look on his face that makes Gwaine want to follow him anywhere, trust him with anything. Bastard, he thinks affectionately.
Merlin shifts on his feet to draw their attention and says, "I don't know about this."
"You don't have to stay," Gwaine offers.
"I'm not going to hurt him," Arthur says.
"Uh. Yes you are, you clueless prick, that's kind of the point," Gwaine points out.
"I was being reassuring."
"Well don't. Be honest. Merlin," Gwaine says earnestly, turning to look at him. "It's – I want this, alright. Really want it. And I'd love it if you were here to help but if you can't do that I won't hold it against you."
Merlin looks between them doubtfully and says, "God, no, alright. Okay."
They scramble on the bed, Merlin hunched against the headboard and Gwaine shoving his way in between Merlin's thighs, back pressed to his chest. He watches Arthur as he fiddles with the propane torch.
"Watch the size of the flame, you idiot," Gwaine says before Arthur turns it on. "You want to burn the fucking wall too?"
"Bitch, bitch, moan," Arthur sighs, slapping Gwaine's hands away from the torch.
"Seriously?" Merlin says in the tone he reserves for when they're bickering over something unbelievably childish. "Is this really a good idea?"
Gwaine turns his head, craning back to kiss Merlin. "Don't mind us, Merlin. Competitive when it comes to equipment, you know us."
"Idiot," Merlin says affectionately. "Idiots."
"Hold his wrist for me," Arthur tells Merlin, and okay, it's not like those words have never come up in bed before, but they make something extra leap inside Gwaine now. Merlin's long fingers wind around his wrist, holding his arm out straight. Gwaine half-closes his eyes and breathes out slow against the pressure of Merlin's other arm where it's snaked around his waist.
The metal's glowing now. The torch is roaring and he can feel Merlin breathing against his neck, shallow and rapid. Gwaine can feel the heat even from this far away and he's pleased to note that Arthur's hands are rock-steady. At the first press – hot, hot, fuck, he can feel it smell it taste it – Gwaine hisses out a breath and Merlin's arm tightens around his stomach. It hurts like a motherfucker, tearing through him and making him feel dizzy and sharp and kind of like he might be about to laugh hugely.
"Alright?" Arthur's insistent voice reaches him through the pounding in his head, sounding like it wasn't the first time.
"Yeah," Gwaine says, and his voice sounds slurred to his own ears, reflexive tears prickling his eyes, making him gasp. "Stop stringing it out, princess."
He can feel the rush crashing over him now, making him feel like there's an inch of warm air between his body and everything else, like he's just fucking floating. There's the click and snarling roar of the torch again and another diagonal flare of heat, just overlapping with the first at the tip. Through everything, Gwaine can hear Arthur's voice counting off – one, two, three – before the sharpness of the heat eases, settling into a throbbing, aching burn.
There's only one to go, the horizontal base. This one seems to go fastest of all. Maybe the whole area's a little numb now, maybe he's used to it. Or maybe he's just high as a kite, he reflects when Merlin's fingers stroking through his hair feels like just the best thing ever. Gwaine can hear Arthur clearing away the kit and then he's there, pinching the skin between two of Gwaine's fingers to get his attention. He's persistent and well meaning and really fucking annoying but Gwaine puts up with it for a while, answering ridiculous questions and allowing Arthur to prod hesitantly at the unharmed skin around the burn.
"Stop it," Merlin says eventually, and Gwaine leans into him gratefully until he goes on, "I need to dress that now."
It was Merlin's one hard and fast line about all this, that they would let him deal with the healing aspects of it, and not try to slow the process for a more noticeable effect. Because, in his words, Arthur would forget and Gwaine was an idiot. Earlier, Gwaine had found something quite unfair about that statement but now he can't care about anything. Intellectually he knows it's a mixture of endorphins and spent adrenaline making him feel this way, but fuck it, he's buzzing.
He feels Arthur sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, and pulling Gwaine's feet into his lap. Gwaine stretches his toes and digs them into Arthur's stomach playfully. Merlin wriggles out from behind him and pulls a pharmacy bag up from the floor onto the edge of the mattress. The last thing Gwaine's aware of is a rumbling wave of soft pain as Merlin presses a dressing to his bicep.
Gwaine can hear Merlin's gentle snoring when he wakes up, which means it's Arthur's hands all over his stomach and shoulders.
"Wha – " Gwaine grumbles, trying to swat him away.
Arthur snatches up his wrist and shifts slightly. Gwaine very belatedly realises Arthur is kneeling astride his waist, all shadows and gleaming eyes in the darkness.
"You're – that was fucking – "
Arthur gives up on verbal communication, pressing a hard kiss to Gwaine's lips instead. He moves fast, down to Gwaine's jaw and neck, teeth pressing in as his hand gropes clumsily between Gwaine's legs, dragging him into hardness.
"Can't wait for it to heal," Arthur says breathlessly. "Wanna touch it, wanna feel it, fuck – "
"Excited?" Gwaine asks rhetorically.
"Shut up. Idiot," Arthur says against his collarbone. He's a man on a mission, drawing his way down Gwaine's body, a trail of bites and licks in his wake. And well, Gwaine's hardly going to complain. He reaches down under the covers and snatches up a handful of blond hair, encouraging Arthur downwards and rocking his hips up hopefully.
For once Arthur doesn't have a single complaint to make, not even the reflex kind of protest he usually comes up with because bitching at Gwaine is his number one hobby. Tonight though, Arthur takes him in fast and deep, bringing out every trick he knows, apparently determined to make Gwaine come embarrassingly quickly. Gwaine's really not objecting, sliding up into the sweet heat of Arthur's mouth.
And he can – fuck, he can feel the bed shifting under them as Arthur rocks his hips into the mattress. Wow, Gwaine thinks. Wow. This had really got to Arthur, hadn't it? He can feel himself filling and refilling Arthur's throat, wet sucking noises just barely stifled by the covers. Arthur doesn't resist Gwaine's grip on his hair, or the lazy roll of his hips. In fact he takes Gwaine in deep enough to choke himself, over and over until Gwaine's shoving at his shoulder and warning him off. Arthur fights him then, finally, fights to get his mouth back on Gwaine's dick and that is – well. Quite the ego-boost. Not that Gwaine considers himself a man who needs his ego stroked every five minutes. It's definitely, uh, nice though, that Arthur finally pulls his mouth away and gasps raggedly against Gwaine's stomach, his hips jerking, obviously finding his own release.
"Guys," Merlin complains as Arthur drops kisses along Gwaine's stomach on his way back up. "I'm sleeping."
"Sorry, darlin'," Gwaine says, a little breathless. "You know how needy he gets."
He's ready for Arthur's protest and muffles it by shoving him back down under the covers, only to get a dead leg for his troubles. Gwaine tries to kick at Arthur but the other man makes himself, if not comfortable, then as fucking inconvenient as possible, spreading out over Gwaine's shins and lifting a corner of the duvet so he can breathe.
"Night, chaps," he says cheerily, apparently settled for the night.
Merlin doesn't make any reply and Gwaine just sighs, settling into the sound of the others breathing, into the throbbing on his arm, and into the feel of Arthur's hand when it sneaks up and curls around his ankle, thumb rubbing over the bone.