Title:Time Travellers should stay out of Funeral Bathrooms

Summary:In which Ben meets a peculiar fellow after his tryst with Natasha, who's out to bend him off the straight and narrow. His name is as equally strange: Jethro Cane. Reincarnation-Crack Fic.


Pairing/Characters:Jethro/Ben, Merlin/Arthur; minor Ben/Natasha, Ben/Paula; Emily

Warning: minor character death; promiscuity; PWP essentially

Total Word Count: 3767


This is unbeta-ed, and I haven't watched dis/connected fully; only clips off youtube. Any inaccuracies are totally my fault. This is total crack, I don't even know where this came from. It hit me while I was washing dishes.

Disclaimers:In no way do I own BBC & Shine's 'Merlin' and its characters, BBC's 'dis/connected' and its characters, nor do I have any credibility in knowledge of Arthurian legends.

Ben was dazed, his mind reeling not from his orgasm—although any pleasure he felt did not surge past explosive standards like it had when he popped his proverbial cherry a way's back—but from the mix of shame and guilt for fucking some slag in the washroom at his ex's funeral, and yet, some strangely self-satisfied feeling—almost like the kind you feel when you had successfully spite someone; except, Ben held no animosity to any person as of lately—pitted itself against the other in his mindscape.

He could not focus on Natasha's words, pointedly tracing the paths of her hands as she fixed her dress. He supposed if he were in the right place of mind, his cock should have gave an interested effort in re-erecting the 'tent' with each deft stroke against soft skin when her nimble fingers easily slipped the straps of both bra and gown back over her shoulders. But he really couldn't muster up an iota of arousal at the moment, after being spent in the most unsatisfying-satisfying way. It was good sex, great sex if he had to admit it. What man wouldn't like a gorgeous bird enthusiastically working herself in his lap? But there was still something that he felt in the heart of his heart that this was the most pathetic sex he ever had, along with that whole chain of women he shagged prior. Did that make any sense?

"I'm his little angel," Natasha said, though her impish tone contradicted her words. Her lips curled into a naughty curve to flash at him, expecting him to laugh at the irony or something along that line. Then she turned away, reaching for the door. Ben blinked, realising faintly that he appeared to have missed his cue of being a total arsehat-manwhore. He made a quick grapple at a witty comment to reclaim his title, but found that he couldn't. He lowered his lashes, glancing down with his blue eyes to his lap as he always did when in thought. And saw the pants wrapped around his flaccid member. What? He glanced back up Natasha's retreating back, then back down to pick the garment off his person.

"You might need these," he said as he offered her back her under things.

Well, that was smooth.

"Keep them. Call me," Natasha practically purred when she spun her attention back to him for that brief moment, and then left the stall with a hard pinch to his nipple. Ouch, and what the fuck?

By the time the stall door swung to an almost close, Ben had already pulled off the used condom and tucked himself back in, and trousers buttoned up. He slipped his arm through his sleeves, stretching the skin of his aching nipple as he did. He rubbed at it absently as if it were to appease the dull throb wreaking mini-havoc on his sensitive nerves. Honestly, nipple pinching should not be a kink, Ben thought while running a quick hand through his tousled blonde hair, or hair pulling.

When Ben walked out of the stall, he had the most unfortunate luck to run into Jenny's mother, or to put things into the most horrid of perspectives, his dead ex-girlfriend-who-he-cheated-on's mother. He must have been the picture of utmost indecency if the intensity of her bulging eyes were any indication; mussed up hair, unbuttoned shirt, and wrinkled panty in hand. Was there a hicky somewhere on his person?

"I'm—so sorry for your loss," he tried his best to look contrite, even hiding the offending article in his hand behind his jacket.

The woman did not look convinced, although it was sort of hard to discern a different expression off her face other than total bafflement.

Quickly, he made his way out of the women's bathroom and into the men's washroom across the hall, where he hoped at least there, he could make himself look decent without everyone knowing he was a total slag. Although, everyone already knew he was one, but he didn't need to put a glaring label on his forehead by walking out looking absolutely shagged.

x x x

In the men's, there was only him, and the ugly green walls of everything. Oh, and that strange young man leaning against one of the said ugly green walls, his head resting back while he watched Ben through thick ashen lashes. A mourner, Ben surmised, or a tourist because he never saw him around the college nor had Jenny mentioned anyone like him either directly or in passing. He should have hurried on his way to grooming himself and out to the lobby where all the other mourners were, but the blonde couldn't help but appraise his observer through the mirror. So, he took his time washing his hands instead of buttoning his shirt.

The whole length of the strange man's lanky body was lax, shoulders drawn into a relaxed shrug to coordinate fantastically with his 'emo' appearance despite the fact that he wore formal attire like everyone else attending the funeral. His dark hair was long in the sense that it curled into his eyes, and the nape of neck, and around his large ears. His pallid skin accentuated the shadiness of his person, easily showing off his enviable cheekbones.

Ben withdrew his hands from under the tap, and shut off the water. As he fingered his buttons with wet fingers, the emo snorted. The man pushed himself off the wall, and approached Ben in two quick steps with each long stride from equally long legs—damn those single-crease trousers; it only made those legs look impossibly longer than it should. His spidery hands came up to grip at Ben's wrist in a surprisingly strong hold despite looking to be made of bird bones, and pulled his wet fingers away from his damp shirt. Holy fuck, his nails were black, but not just black, but astral black with twinkling stars and swirling masses of suns and universes—that there was not your average sparkling nail polish.

"Here, let me help you with that. You're getting your clothes wet," the man said. His voice sounded gravely, perhaps from disuse. "Prat."

"You can't call m—" was the beginning of Ben's protest, which died prematurely when the man began to acquaint himself with his skin, starting from his collarbone. Warmth swelled from underneath his fingertips, and spread outwards. It was almost a reverent touch, but Ben could be projecting; who wouldn't want to worship this?

"Please, if I really wanted to go through that whole shebang again, I'd have asked the Doctor to drop me off back in Camelot," the man muttered tightly underneath his breath. Ben didn't think that he was supposed to hear that, but it was difficult not to when all your senses heightened on this unknown man who didn't follow social normalcy. Or at least, Ben's standard of normal social etiquette, because only girls could be so upfront with him.

"I'm straight!" he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I'm—I'm hetero, do you understand? So remove your hands off my person, this instance."

The other gave a sinful laugh. The sound of it made Ben's stomach curl in the most wonderful and wrong way. It was an alien feeling.

"Oh no, I don't think you are, Ben." He circled a nipple with his forefinger—not pinching, only ghosting over the skin—causing Ben to take in an involuntary breath, and Goosebumps to blossom across his skin. His other hand slid down his abdomen, playing with light gold hairs, until he hit the waistband of his trousers. He toyed with the seam of flesh and cloth. "You've slept with so many women, and yet, none of them felt right. Isn't that so, Ben?"

Ben wrenched away from him, taking a step towards the door. He tried to be angry, knew that he should be angry, but could only feel loss and longing. Ben was reaching for the door, propriety be damned, when he was pushed and twirled into the wall beside it. He could feel every muscle of the other man's body pressing against his front. The other's breath was a calm cadence against his ear shell, nothing at all similar to his own ragged breathing caused by the panic clawing up his throat.

"No you don't, I've only just found you."

And then, he's palming the front of Ben's trousers, and jolting his cock to attention from spent to aroused at first contact. It was a slow rub with the heel of his palm, kneading at the head through layers of clothes that got Ben biting his lips to prevent from writhing in a pleasure unknown to him before.

"Oh good," the other sighed. "Your body still remembers me—your heart still remembers me—but, depressingly enough, your mind doesn't."

Ben's hips rutted against the questing hand reflexively when it lightened its touch to feather light. Please, more. He groaned quietly, ashamed.

"I don't understand. I've never met you before, who are you?" he gritted out through clenched teeth; focus, Ben.

"Jethro Cane," the man, now Jethro, answered easily. "I'm so disappointed, Ben. You've been trying to forget me, and in the most pitiful way. Hadn't you have enough of women after the first time around?"

Ben let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes because Jethro was a crazy wanker, but his fingers were also so deliciously good at what they were doing when they started to slip into his trousers to pull out his cock in one nimble movement.

"Open your eyes and watch, you clot pole," Jethro hissed.

And Ben did so, easily bending to the other's will when spoken to so hotly, and with so much desire. Jethro was licking a slick path across his palm and then more, his eyes holding his gaze with a passionate intensity. It was so obscene to look at: those spindly fingers shining with saliva grasping his cock, and just moved.

Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, Ben moaned almost imperceptibly, which was promptly swallowed by Jethro's plush lips; kissing him eagerly, and licking at the seams of his lips eagerly, and slipping his tongue against his in filthy twists and thrusts eagerly. Fuck, Jethro's tongue.

Ben felt flamed with pleasure, his lust shooting far past anything he had ever experienced with any other, so much that his hand is searching for Jethro's zipper, the other threading itself into his hair to hold him closer, and closer still. He pressed his fingers inside the opening, meeting warm flesh immediately—huh, no underwear—and drew the length of Jethro out. He was hard and heavy in his palm, a long line against him, pulsing and throbbing with a need that Ben knew was running rampant in Jethro's veins just as his own. And it scared him: this intensity, and animalistic lust controlling him like a man who would do anything in his desperation for his lover after years of separation.

He was shifting his hips now, thrusting into the tight circle of Jethro's fist while he too took up tempo with Jethro's cock in hand. And they're both moaning into each other's mouths, breaking apart and meeting again in a frenzied cycle of wanton tonguing, and teeth clacking.

"Fuck—I," Ben breathed in between each slick parting. "Gods, but—you're a man—but I need—fuck, Jethro."

It was an obvious statement: Jethro was all sharp angles and flat planes, lovely and nothing at all close to the familiar soft curves and fullness of that of a woman. But now that Ben has thought of it, this, Jethro, was infinitely more familiar than the figure of so many bodies that had fallen into his bed.

"Yes. You need so badly, Ben," Jethro said, the timbre of his voice promising so many obscene things. "I'll make it so good for you, love—I'll make you beg for it, and then I'll lead you on a merry chase." Like you've had me doing for millennia, was what Ben could hear in his tone, although he did not know why he would ever think such an absurd thing.

Jethro batted Ben's hands away from in between them, then pulled Ben closer by the hips to meet in one smooth gyrating movement, aching cock against aching cock. The luscious friction between them was divine in its sensational mindlessness. Ben was stifling the embarrassing noises threatening his masculinity with needy keens into the long column of Jethro's neck. The brunette let go of Ben's waist, confident that he would not run away if given the chance, and made his way down to fondle at his perky arse. He pulled and kneaded, fingers purposefully dipping into the crease to feel for his entrance through the trousers. Tease. It left Ben breathless, and leaving open-mouthed pants against the other's skin.

And the taste of him, the scent of him, drove Ben into closing his lips over Jethro's flesh—and just suck.

And bite. And lick. And mark.

Jethro swallowed convulsively, then a laugh burst forth.

"That's right, Ben. Brand me, because I won't leave you any panties for memories, for ownership; if you want me, you'll have to come and get me, over and over to remind yourself that we happened. So brand me, and suck harder!"

And fuck it all—that was the sexiest thing that Ben ever heard. The ecstasy was cresting; he could feel it. But he didn't want it to, he wanted to prolong this, and stretch it into a forever that he had never known. And he wanted Jethro in him—or him in Jethro, it really didn't matter. This was a whole new level of dirty, and arousing, and just—was he ever this attracted and sensitive to anyone before?

"Please, Jethro."

Ben gave a ragged cry, when a sinfully long finger probed him and then—

Shit. There was nothing. All stimulus suddenly disappeared, his body turned abruptly colder and his whole world shifted where everything was taller than he was. He was sliding to the floor, knees buckling from the overcoming sensation of loss and of the unfulfilled, and stared up at the immaculately pristine figure of Jethro's. Not a hair looked out of place. The man didn't even look wrecked or as thoroughly debauched as Ben felt.

Jethro crouched, and leaned over to deftly slip each button of his dress shirt into its hole, correct his tie, tuck Ben back in with a taunting caress, and pulled each arm into the sleeve his jacket. They were all practiced movements, Ben noted dully under the hum of disbelief and simmering anger—what the fuck is wrong with this cockblocking wanker?

He reached into Ben's inner pocket, and for one hopeful moment if Ben were to be true to himself, grabbed at his cellphone to input his number. His hope was dashed when that hand—shit that hand—fished out Natasha's black and pink panties. He was holding it in a two-fingered position, as if it were a disgusting article, which it was for any other man than the recipient. Jethro stood, flashing the blonde a smirk, and walked off with a,

"As straight as you are, Sire, I don't think you would like to get caught with this at a funeral."

called over his shoulder.

x x x

Paula, she would be a good way to focus himself back on the path of heterosexuality. She was perfect: beautifully blond with luscious legs, bountiful breasts, and seemed very normal. The antithesis to that man.

"Do you fancy going out somewhere, just uh, me and you?" Ben asked while they were out waiting for Emily to bring the drinks to their table.

Paula stared at him in disbelief, her glossed mouth parted as her eyes gave him an incredulous look. Ben felt his hackles rise a little.


It was a perfectly acceptable question if one forgot his history of asking anything with a vagina.

"How many girls are you already sleeping with?" she asked.

It was also another perfectly acceptable question if one remembered his history of asking anything with a vagina. On the flipside, it was a perfectly unacceptable question if one did not remember his history of asking anything with a vagina. So, he said:

"What sort of question is that?"

And then his phone rang a chirpy tune in his pocket, interrupting his attempts at pulling a date. As he reached into his pocket, he heard Paula give him a sarcastic comment of, 'Oh, that's probably one of them now.'

It better not be Natasha again, that horny bitch. Or maybe, it better be her, if all tries at wooing Paula failed. And then, he pulled out his phone along with a familiar pair of under things. What the fuck, didn't Jethro take that on his way out of the mess of mindfuck he made of Ben in the Men's washroom? Paula looked unimpressed, scrunching her face in disdain.

"I don't know how they got there," he placated in what he thought would be an innocent tone. It was the truth; he really didn't know how the hell it got there. It was empty the last time he checked.

"I think I can probably guess," Paula quipped. By all means, you can try, I don't have a clue, Ben thought to himself.

"You've got me all wrong—" That was half a truth.

"Yeah, I doubt it," she cut in.

Ben was losing her; or rather he never had her. But he was a stubborn arsehole who got what he wanted if he kept persevering, and was notorious for being oblivious when it suited him.

"I'll prove it to you. Come out with me."

Again, she looked disgusted. God, why wasn't this working? Ben blamed Jethro, he really did. He took away his heterosexual charms in one felled swoop of sexy, and dark, and crazy, and gorgeous lips all ready to stretch ove—hestopped there because he was straight dammit, and will prove it bygetting this right.

"—knickers in your hands."

"They're probably just my sister's," which was the absolute wrong thing to say when put in this context. He didn't even have a sister! He threw the panty onto the ground when Paula had her eyes turned away.

It was a little awkward, but Ben could still try to save this lost cause. When he opened his mouth to say something, a chair was scraped across the ground beside him, followed by the sound of someone sitting themselves down. He turned his head to tell this prat to go away, and saw Jethro's midnight blue eyes shining at him slyly. Jethro, quick as he ever was, planted a soft kiss against his lips sweetly. Oh shit, that felt so good, reminding him of their heated kisses not so long ago.

"Did you forget to answer my call, Ben?" Jethro stroked the side of his face, looking so deceptively tender when, really, the spiteful gleam in his eyes made Ben flinch. "I thought I told you to shave your beard, love."

Oh. Ben understood that loud and clear.

Jethro turned to Paula, smiling at her charmingly while he stuck a hand across the table in greeting. "Hello, I'm Jethro Cane. Nice to meet you!"

And Paula had a mystified expression, but took his hands nonetheless. Her eyes darted back and forth between. Then her gaze finally settled on Ben.

"Now hold on," she held up a hand. "I thought you were straight."

Jethro answered for him, placing a quieting hand on his thighs and squeezed hard. Oh god, there goes the blood southward.

"Oh no, he's got homosexual branded right into him," Jethro tilted his head, consequentially stretching the skin of his neck to display the seductive curve of his neck and the glaring love bite on it in Ben's direction. He brought a hand to touch it. Ben's arousal flared dangerously at the gesture. Mine. "Is it getting cold out?"

He was taking out a handkerchief from the chest pocket of his blazer now, and swiftly tying the red cloth around his neck, effectively covering any of Ben's marks. It was a familiar action, one that he felt that he saw many times before. Ben could see the taunt now, the challenge to play their game and give chase. Except, Ben refused to even though he dearly wanted to. So, he turned to Paula, adopting a flirty attitude. "Don't listen to him, Paula. He's just a friend. About that date?"

The chair scraped again, but this time, Jethro was getting up to leave. Or not, because Jethro was bending himself over to get something off the ground, and making a fine display of presenting his perfect rear for Ben's appraisal. Fuck this crazy wanker, they barely knew eachother, and yet—he knew all of Ben's buttons, and which to press. Repeatedly.

Said crazy wanker straightened himself, and lifted Natasha's panty up. His face took on a livid mask, mouth pressed into a thin line, but something in Ben told him that the bastard liked to play these games.

"Fine, whatever Arsehat, find me whenever you get your priorities right," he shoved the cloth into Ben's hand, closing his fingers over it. Did his eyes just flash gold? "You best return this to your sister, Morgana would cut off your bollocks if she found out you had it."

And then he was off into the streets, blending in with all the other bodies regardless of how he should have stuck out with all of his eccentricities. By this time, Emily came with their drinks, asking: "Who was that?"

To which, Paula said: "I think—I think that was Ben's boyfriend, ex-boyfriend? Oh my god! Ben, were you a total manwhore because you were in the closet? And you just—he was so endearing, why the hell did you fuck that up for?"

Ben was staring at his fist, slowly opening it when he saw a sliver of crimson fabric through the cracks of his fingers. His clenched hand unfurled to reveal a strip of cloth, a golden dragon embroidered into it with great care right at the centre.

And Holy Flying Mother of Fuck. He scrambled out of his chair, running out into the direction Jethro left without a second thought of Paula, or Emily, or whatever the fuck that Ben really cared about now, because Arthur Pendragon remembered. Everything suddenly made sense.

"Shit, Merlin! You fucking cockblock!"

I'll lead you on a merry chase.