Just Smile
Title: Just Smile
Pairings: one-sided Gwen/Morgana, Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/Morgana
Summary: With women it's different. With her it's different.
Warnings: femslash, slash
Disclaimer: the bbc own then all. greedy really.
A/N: Apologising for the weirdness upfront; this was just a plot bunny that refused to let go!
Just Smile
Flicking through your brain, fasterfasterfaster, then images and- ohgodohgodohgod not her. Out of everyone. Out of every fucking person onthiswholefuckingplanetwhy HER. Not him, or him, or him, but her. Your fingernails clench, little purpling half-moon bruises form. Even, and pretty as a picture.
It’swrongit’swrongit’swrong, so so wrong, yet NO. You know that they don’t think it wrong. But they’re men. They can do what they like and he’sthefuckingprinceforgod’ssake. With women it’s different. With her it’s different. Because she’s all smilesandsatinandsoft soft, soft, soft... soft what exactly? You can’t even remember now.
Your head swims, you press a hand to your forehead. Her voice then, concerned, tender with worry, “Gwen? Gwen, are you ok?”
A hand falls - heavy as lead - onto your shoulder and you flinch away, eyes flying open. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” You bob a curtsey and bolt out of there, pretending not to hear her calls.
Later, when it’s dark, you think you see her out of your window: crushedvelvet cape in wine-red, fallofdark hair either side of the palemoon face. You whimper, your chest suddenly hurt as the crushed velvet becomes a shadow. (nononocomebackpleasepleasepleaseineedyou).
You see Merlin the next day, first thing, emerging flushed and rumpled from his master’s chambers. Unashamed, the Crown Prince reaches out from the doorway and kisses Merlin, right there in the hall. MEN. People don’t care, not even the King, because the Prince will still marry and have an heir, and of course that’s all that matters, as if anything else would?
There’s talk.
About a marriage between the Prince and your mistress. You feel like dying, it hurts so much. Just the thought of her in his bed, together, pressed closer than skin itself, sharing breath the way lovers do, has you skittish, distracted. Merlin seems to like the idea, because he knows that your mistress could never mean anything to the Prince, anyway. You think he’s wrong. You think of your mistress’ palemoon face, and blackwater hair, and her and the Prince’s closeness, since they were children, and you think he’s wrong.
And then it’s happened, and you dressed her in white silk - her skin was paler still - and threaded tiny seed pearls through her hair, and she walked down the aisle on the King’s - looking on, so proud, even smiled at Merlin - arm, to her Prince and then they kissed, and Merlin’s smile faltered - just for a second, mind you - and then it was over. She was in the Prince’s rooms that night. You let Merlin stay with you and you both drank yourselves into oblivion.
The Prince accused you of sleeping with Merlin when he was drunk (whatthefuckgoesthroughthatmindofhis.thatmindthatismarriedtoyourmistress). You walked away and didn’t talk to him for a week.
Years passed, no heir, then the King died.
Her Prince became her King and your mistress became the Queen, NO LONGER YOURS, but his, and then, eight months later, his. No time for you, not any more, so you smile happily - becauseitswhatyoualwaysdo,right? - and praise his blue eyes and palemoon face. His mother and father and godfather stand so proud, beaming. You know that they’re seeing the child’s future.
You see yours, while they’re dreaming of won tournaments and coronations and adoring crowds, and it’s just this.
The Queen turns to you, smiles, asks if you want to hold him. You take the baby, see his future in his eyes, and force yourself not to throw the child back at them, not to scream your fucked-up twisted feelings for the world to hear, not to run, but to smile, and brush one of the child’s golden curls back off his face.
Pairings: one-sided Gwen/Morgana, Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/Morgana
Summary: With women it's different. With her it's different.
Warnings: femslash, slash
Disclaimer: the bbc own then all. greedy really.
A/N: Apologising for the weirdness upfront; this was just a plot bunny that refused to let go!
Just Smile
Flicking through your brain, fasterfasterfaster, then images and- ohgodohgodohgod not her. Out of everyone. Out of every fucking person onthiswholefuckingplanetwhy HER. Not him, or him, or him, but her. Your fingernails clench, little purpling half-moon bruises form. Even, and pretty as a picture.
It’swrongit’swrongit’swrong, so so wrong, yet NO. You know that they don’t think it wrong. But they’re men. They can do what they like and he’sthefuckingprinceforgod’ssake. With women it’s different. With her it’s different. Because she’s all smilesandsatinandsoft soft, soft, soft... soft what exactly? You can’t even remember now.
Your head swims, you press a hand to your forehead. Her voice then, concerned, tender with worry, “Gwen? Gwen, are you ok?”
A hand falls - heavy as lead - onto your shoulder and you flinch away, eyes flying open. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” You bob a curtsey and bolt out of there, pretending not to hear her calls.
Later, when it’s dark, you think you see her out of your window: crushedvelvet cape in wine-red, fallofdark hair either side of the palemoon face. You whimper, your chest suddenly hurt as the crushed velvet becomes a shadow. (nononocomebackpleasepleasepleaseineedyou).
You see Merlin the next day, first thing, emerging flushed and rumpled from his master’s chambers. Unashamed, the Crown Prince reaches out from the doorway and kisses Merlin, right there in the hall. MEN. People don’t care, not even the King, because the Prince will still marry and have an heir, and of course that’s all that matters, as if anything else would?
There’s talk.
About a marriage between the Prince and your mistress. You feel like dying, it hurts so much. Just the thought of her in his bed, together, pressed closer than skin itself, sharing breath the way lovers do, has you skittish, distracted. Merlin seems to like the idea, because he knows that your mistress could never mean anything to the Prince, anyway. You think he’s wrong. You think of your mistress’ palemoon face, and blackwater hair, and her and the Prince’s closeness, since they were children, and you think he’s wrong.
And then it’s happened, and you dressed her in white silk - her skin was paler still - and threaded tiny seed pearls through her hair, and she walked down the aisle on the King’s - looking on, so proud, even smiled at Merlin - arm, to her Prince and then they kissed, and Merlin’s smile faltered - just for a second, mind you - and then it was over. She was in the Prince’s rooms that night. You let Merlin stay with you and you both drank yourselves into oblivion.
The Prince accused you of sleeping with Merlin when he was drunk (whatthefuckgoesthroughthatmindofhis.thatmindthatismarriedtoyourmistress). You walked away and didn’t talk to him for a week.
Years passed, no heir, then the King died.
Her Prince became her King and your mistress became the Queen, NO LONGER YOURS, but his, and then, eight months later, his. No time for you, not any more, so you smile happily - becauseitswhatyoualwaysdo,right? - and praise his blue eyes and palemoon face. His mother and father and godfather stand so proud, beaming. You know that they’re seeing the child’s future.
You see yours, while they’re dreaming of won tournaments and coronations and adoring crowds, and it’s just this.
The Queen turns to you, smiles, asks if you want to hold him. You take the baby, see his future in his eyes, and force yourself not to throw the child back at them, not to scream your fucked-up twisted feelings for the world to hear, not to run, but to smile, and brush one of the child’s golden curls back off his face.