Fic | in character
RPS | K/A | PG-13
Early, early hour, air that's not yet grown quite autumn-cool, and the slow atmosphere of the morning giving way to the usual mix of professionalism sprinkled with excitement (or, perhaps, the other way round).
He steps next to you at the counter just as you're reaching for the mug that's been silently dubbed yours, and grabs the pot of coffee and pours it for you, all in silence. He's wearing the morning look, the half-smile and the intent eyes, gradually moving into the mindset of a King.
Thank you, you say, and for a second the mask is broken, and it's Anthony grinning at you, the man, the actor, the friend.
You stir in the milk, stare at the juxtaposition of your own pale fingers next to his strong, big hands, curled around his cup of tea. A ghost of a shiver runs down between your shoulder blades and you close your eyes, tense up to keep it from showing.
+
I am your King, Uther says; growls; voice low and menacing, a sovereign whose patience has been stretched to the limit. You've trespassed too many times, embraced too many lost causes, been too young and stupid to care about the consequences.
You will submit to my will, a demand that is a statement, no doubt about the outcome; his gloved hand rising, almost-curling around the back of your neck, exacting your deference. The power rings in his tone and it burns in through the leather, and the difference between your station and his makes your knees turn to water.
Yes, you think, Morgana's heart beating in your chest half with fear, half with something else entirely. Yes.
+
It's practical, it's the obvious thing to do. The two of you are the only ones whose shooting schedule permits it, and you've all become such fast friends, why not; it'll give us even more positive publicity, quite unique, all in all, Johnny says.
You smile for the pictures and answer the reporters' questions, and you might sigh, relieved, because maybe it won't be so hard after all. You're flushed from the lamps and the flashes and the heat of too many bodies pressing in on you; then, the cold shiver returns, as he places his hand in the small of your back, lighter than a thought, to guide you through the throng. You shiver and you submit and smile like a statue, and you swear you're not asking for anything more, anything out of line.
The glint of the jewel pierced in his left ear blinds you when the myriad of lights hit it, and when you sleep in the hotel room next to his that night (practical, easy, friendly - meet you for breakfast?) you dream of mouthing at the silver and along his jaw.
+
It's another calm before the storm in the court, Morgana acting meek in an effort to veil transgressions that become more and more unforgivable. The king and the ward are eating together, talking, laughing - everything about it is reserved, feelers out in the dark depths of unknown waters; but they are making the effort. As they are parting, Morgana is supposed to say something witty and almost too disrespectful, and Uther is supposed to wave it off with an indulgent chuckle-
The King's eyes stray from the feminine hand held in his, and for a frozen instant you feel Anthony's gaze resting on your neck, on the spiking pulse point, feel it as a scrape of a blade or the warmth of a mouth.
Your lines fly out of your mind, you sway and someone yells cut. Anthony relaxes, gives you an encouraging smile, an Anthony-smile. Despite his eyes being warmly locked on yours, he doesn't see you; thoughts turned inwards.
You apologise with a forced, rueful little laugh, playing the part, and no one thinks anything of it, nerves, they might conclude, can get to the best of us, because everyone on set is so supportive, so warm and genuine and invested in what you all are creating together; and because they couldn't ever guess that what destroyed your concentration that moment was his dark, heavy gaze and the sudden twisting of need low in your stomach, the wetness between your thighs.
+
You dream Morgana's dreams, dream of tracing the scar across his forehead with your lips, with your tongue; dream of restraints and of submission in a way that befits neither you nor her. You dream of Morgana's rebellion being broken down and discarded by knowing, experienced hands; his black gloves stripped, taboos littered on your naked skin.
The next time you place your hand on his arm and laugh with him, he will be only your lord, not your colleague; and if he turns to look at you with a question, you could be his favourite, his worst mistake; you could let yourself be loved by a king.
Early, early hour, air that's not yet grown quite autumn-cool, and the slow atmosphere of the morning giving way to the usual mix of professionalism sprinkled with excitement (or, perhaps, the other way round).
He steps next to you at the counter just as you're reaching for the mug that's been silently dubbed yours, and grabs the pot of coffee and pours it for you, all in silence. He's wearing the morning look, the half-smile and the intent eyes, gradually moving into the mindset of a King.
Thank you, you say, and for a second the mask is broken, and it's Anthony grinning at you, the man, the actor, the friend.
You stir in the milk, stare at the juxtaposition of your own pale fingers next to his strong, big hands, curled around his cup of tea. A ghost of a shiver runs down between your shoulder blades and you close your eyes, tense up to keep it from showing.
+
I am your King, Uther says; growls; voice low and menacing, a sovereign whose patience has been stretched to the limit. You've trespassed too many times, embraced too many lost causes, been too young and stupid to care about the consequences.
You will submit to my will, a demand that is a statement, no doubt about the outcome; his gloved hand rising, almost-curling around the back of your neck, exacting your deference. The power rings in his tone and it burns in through the leather, and the difference between your station and his makes your knees turn to water.
Yes, you think, Morgana's heart beating in your chest half with fear, half with something else entirely. Yes.
+
It's practical, it's the obvious thing to do. The two of you are the only ones whose shooting schedule permits it, and you've all become such fast friends, why not; it'll give us even more positive publicity, quite unique, all in all, Johnny says.
You smile for the pictures and answer the reporters' questions, and you might sigh, relieved, because maybe it won't be so hard after all. You're flushed from the lamps and the flashes and the heat of too many bodies pressing in on you; then, the cold shiver returns, as he places his hand in the small of your back, lighter than a thought, to guide you through the throng. You shiver and you submit and smile like a statue, and you swear you're not asking for anything more, anything out of line.
The glint of the jewel pierced in his left ear blinds you when the myriad of lights hit it, and when you sleep in the hotel room next to his that night (practical, easy, friendly - meet you for breakfast?) you dream of mouthing at the silver and along his jaw.
+
It's another calm before the storm in the court, Morgana acting meek in an effort to veil transgressions that become more and more unforgivable. The king and the ward are eating together, talking, laughing - everything about it is reserved, feelers out in the dark depths of unknown waters; but they are making the effort. As they are parting, Morgana is supposed to say something witty and almost too disrespectful, and Uther is supposed to wave it off with an indulgent chuckle-
The King's eyes stray from the feminine hand held in his, and for a frozen instant you feel Anthony's gaze resting on your neck, on the spiking pulse point, feel it as a scrape of a blade or the warmth of a mouth.
Your lines fly out of your mind, you sway and someone yells cut. Anthony relaxes, gives you an encouraging smile, an Anthony-smile. Despite his eyes being warmly locked on yours, he doesn't see you; thoughts turned inwards.
You apologise with a forced, rueful little laugh, playing the part, and no one thinks anything of it, nerves, they might conclude, can get to the best of us, because everyone on set is so supportive, so warm and genuine and invested in what you all are creating together; and because they couldn't ever guess that what destroyed your concentration that moment was his dark, heavy gaze and the sudden twisting of need low in your stomach, the wetness between your thighs.
+
You dream Morgana's dreams, dream of tracing the scar across his forehead with your lips, with your tongue; dream of restraints and of submission in a way that befits neither you nor her. You dream of Morgana's rebellion being broken down and discarded by knowing, experienced hands; his black gloves stripped, taboos littered on your naked skin.
The next time you place your hand on his arm and laugh with him, he will be only your lord, not your colleague; and if he turns to look at you with a question, you could be his favourite, his worst mistake; you could let yourself be loved by a king.