024 - fic: set in stone, arthur/morgana
set in stone, a merlin fic, pg, 721 words.
"I've... seen, seen what we become. And it's in vain, all of this, in vain. Us? We'll never be."
He pulls her up in the corridors one day. She's wearing one of her eye-catching dresses, which automatically direct the attention of those looking downwards, to the area where she is gifted, spectacularly so. He likes those dresses, and he catches her by gripping the shoulder, adorned with blue flowing sleeves.
She turns around abruptly, surprised , to say the least. She seems somewhat meek, frightened, and his grip runs down the sleeve, fingertips rubbing with the fabric of her dress, eventually ending the brief contact as his arm rests by his side once again. The touch seems somewhat static, like electricity was somehow generated between them. His hand seems heavy, as if a part of her still lingers on his palm, and her arm seems light from his touch.
"You've been ignoring me." It's a simple statement, yet accusing at the same time. It slips from his mouth with extreme ease; these angry exchanges are the foundation of their relationship. It's all that they are, really.
"And what of that? You've been doing the same." She tilts her head down, looking up at him with big, tainted eyes. He thinks he can see a shade of gray in her eyes, that he hasn't noticed before. It doesn't taint the deep wells that he is so familiar with, but rather, it fits, it blends in. It almost frightens him a bit.
He says nothing, his eyes boring into hers. He moves closer, edging her up against the rough, granite wall. He's almost afraid that a rip in her dress will occur. But really, would that be so bad?
She presses a dainty hand against his chest, using partial force in an attempt to push him away. "Arthur...." She warns, because she knows very well, as well as he does, that there's something there. Something which shouldn't, but it's drawing them closer. And closer, and closer. Her hand moves up his chest, and his left hand moves around her hips, while his right runs across her cheek, drawing upwards, through her hair.
She gasps, drawing breath deeply, as she curves her back to lean into him. But again, force is applied to her hand, and they stop, abruptly. His breathing is drawn, jagged, and he rubs a hand across his face, as if to piece his thoughts together. She runs her fingers through her hair, still gasping, but quieter, as she tries to calm the ruffles Arthur caused.
"Arthur, we can't. I can't." She whispers, looking around nervously. nobody is in sight. She looks down, then catches his gaze once again. She sees shame at what they were about to do, a reverence that only Arthur Pendragon could posess, but most of all, she sees passion. And that, in turn, frightens her a bit.
"Why... why not?" He seems stressed, and runs his own fingers through his hair, twitching his lip peculiarly. His breathing still isn't back to normal, and he seems somewhat... aroused in more ways than one. He needs an answer, because to him, this is right. But she knows more, more than she should.
"I've... seen, seen what we become. And it's in vain, all of this, in vain. Us? We'll never be." Her voice drops, becomes solemn, and her eyes face the floor, her lips become taut. She stumbles over words, she stresses some over others. Seen, all, this. Never.
"I know who I'm going to become, Morgana. It's my fate, and I'm going to be King." He utters, an air of pride and grace filling his smug words that somehow do not fit the conversation. She nods, she knows this much. "And you... you'll be my queen."
At this, she shakes her head whispering no to herself, over and over again. She seems... almost haunted, to him.
"Why not? What makes you so sure? The future isn't set in stone, Morgana." A petulant child, he almost chastises her, as if the ideas she are bringing forward are... utterly absurd.
"You said it yourself, Arthur. You're going to be king. A just and right king. Everything that Camelot needs. That's set in stone, everybody knows it. The people, they whisper. They hold hope in the hearts for the day that you will take the throne. And when you do, the people will whisper of the woman who takes your side. But... it won't be me."
As always, comments are love.
"I've... seen, seen what we become. And it's in vain, all of this, in vain. Us? We'll never be."
He pulls her up in the corridors one day. She's wearing one of her eye-catching dresses, which automatically direct the attention of those looking downwards, to the area where she is gifted, spectacularly so. He likes those dresses, and he catches her by gripping the shoulder, adorned with blue flowing sleeves.
She turns around abruptly, surprised , to say the least. She seems somewhat meek, frightened, and his grip runs down the sleeve, fingertips rubbing with the fabric of her dress, eventually ending the brief contact as his arm rests by his side once again. The touch seems somewhat static, like electricity was somehow generated between them. His hand seems heavy, as if a part of her still lingers on his palm, and her arm seems light from his touch.
"You've been ignoring me." It's a simple statement, yet accusing at the same time. It slips from his mouth with extreme ease; these angry exchanges are the foundation of their relationship. It's all that they are, really.
"And what of that? You've been doing the same." She tilts her head down, looking up at him with big, tainted eyes. He thinks he can see a shade of gray in her eyes, that he hasn't noticed before. It doesn't taint the deep wells that he is so familiar with, but rather, it fits, it blends in. It almost frightens him a bit.
He says nothing, his eyes boring into hers. He moves closer, edging her up against the rough, granite wall. He's almost afraid that a rip in her dress will occur. But really, would that be so bad?
She presses a dainty hand against his chest, using partial force in an attempt to push him away. "Arthur...." She warns, because she knows very well, as well as he does, that there's something there. Something which shouldn't, but it's drawing them closer. And closer, and closer. Her hand moves up his chest, and his left hand moves around her hips, while his right runs across her cheek, drawing upwards, through her hair.
She gasps, drawing breath deeply, as she curves her back to lean into him. But again, force is applied to her hand, and they stop, abruptly. His breathing is drawn, jagged, and he rubs a hand across his face, as if to piece his thoughts together. She runs her fingers through her hair, still gasping, but quieter, as she tries to calm the ruffles Arthur caused.
"Arthur, we can't. I can't." She whispers, looking around nervously. nobody is in sight. She looks down, then catches his gaze once again. She sees shame at what they were about to do, a reverence that only Arthur Pendragon could posess, but most of all, she sees passion. And that, in turn, frightens her a bit.
"Why... why not?" He seems stressed, and runs his own fingers through his hair, twitching his lip peculiarly. His breathing still isn't back to normal, and he seems somewhat... aroused in more ways than one. He needs an answer, because to him, this is right. But she knows more, more than she should.
"I've... seen, seen what we become. And it's in vain, all of this, in vain. Us? We'll never be." Her voice drops, becomes solemn, and her eyes face the floor, her lips become taut. She stumbles over words, she stresses some over others. Seen, all, this. Never.
"I know who I'm going to become, Morgana. It's my fate, and I'm going to be King." He utters, an air of pride and grace filling his smug words that somehow do not fit the conversation. She nods, she knows this much. "And you... you'll be my queen."
At this, she shakes her head whispering no to herself, over and over again. She seems... almost haunted, to him.
"Why not? What makes you so sure? The future isn't set in stone, Morgana." A petulant child, he almost chastises her, as if the ideas she are bringing forward are... utterly absurd.
"You said it yourself, Arthur. You're going to be king. A just and right king. Everything that Camelot needs. That's set in stone, everybody knows it. The people, they whisper. They hold hope in the hearts for the day that you will take the throne. And when you do, the people will whisper of the woman who takes your side. But... it won't be me."
As always, comments are love.