Household Chores Meme - # 20 Mordred/Morgana (Merlin) for brokengem
Okay, okay, okay... BabyD is definitely late with everything she promised to write and she REALLY is ashamed! TOTOTOTOT
But you still love her, don't you O^O?
Well...
At least, this week-end I succeeded to write a little something.
It was for my Household Chores Meme (by the way some spots are still open HERE)
I hope you'll like it.
I know there aren't a lot of you who actually read my stories about Mordred but I'm stubborn and I don't give up that easily XDXDXD
HOUSEHOLD CHORES MEME
Fandom : Merlin
Title : The Dark Raven & The Purple Dove
Characters/Pairing : Mordred/Morgana (Older!Mordred)
Rating : PG-17
Words : 1 467
Notes : Morgana and Mordred from the BBC show aren’t mother and son.
Thank you mossylawn for beta-ed my text, once again!♥
Prompt : Doing the laundry for brokengem
Summary : Morgana had dreams about the winter eyes, about Mordred, the treason, the felony and she knows she is the only one who can turn the destiny wheel.
It was a sunny day, a warm day. Colorful birds sang keenly while the wind was whispering comforting words through the leafed branches of old trees. Golden rays of sunshine cherished the place, a place that was fragrant with wild flowers and bracken. A peaceful painting. Magical forests.
********************
Mordred came back in these forests to regain his soul; he walked for days and nights barely able to sleep; still hearing the screams and the cries, still seeing the bodies falling into the mud of the battlefields, the lives being torn apart, still smelling blood and death on his skin.
He bathed for the umpteenth time finding refuge into the deep and calm waters of a lake. He swam for a long time, sinking deeper and deeper, not wanting to surface, and not wanting to come back to the human world but forced to when his lungs are burning. The dark tunic, he washed before diving into the cold water, is long-dried now, flying like a black flag, a ghost of his past, a chimera of his future, cracking like an inevitable sentence. He didn’t want to wear it again, he wished he could let his armor rot at the roots of that old yew.
He was still standing into the lake hours later watching the sunset, not feeling the warmth of the gentle sun on his skin; he hadn’t feel warmth for a long time now, his body colder than the fresh water, his soul darker than his tunic, his hands covered in blood as indelible as his tattoos. He could cry for days, his tears would never wash away the pain, the crimes, and the blood. He would never forget.
Standing here into the sunset, sun-kissed like a chosen one, he was godlike. Perfection on this earth though cursed to the core.
********************
She knew she shouldn’t be here all on her own. It was dangerous. He was dangerous.
She dreamt about that moment, that man. She dreamt so many times about this place, about this moment, about now that she barely dared to sleep for weeks. The pain, the cry, she dreamt them so many times that her shaking body remembered every bit of it with a cruel intensity. But she had to be here, she had to come in these forests to regain her sanity, to win over her fears, to take control over her destiny. She had to come for the one she cared about more than anyone else, more than her own life, not for the great king of Albion but for her too precious brother-in-soul. For Arthur she thought, she murmured like a mantra, to take courage, to not bend, before doing the unforgivable.
She whimpered when she saw him. She knew it was him, it had to be. The dark raven.
In her worst nightmares, the raven of darkness, black feathers and red eyes, is always cawing, looming over her, that dark figure tearing her heart out of her breast with his frightening claws, devouring her soul, consuming her. This is the same shadow, the one who is always taking the beloved one away from her, tearing everything to pieces. The felon knight.
Though, now, he was standing here, in all his glory, beautiful like a god, alabaster skin, she could have killed for, contrasting with the dark patterns drawn over the glistening skin. Ink black hair is flowing on the strong nape of his neck. Strong muscles of a knight under the soft skin of a too young murderer.
He barely moved. She caught her breath. He knew she was here and still he didn’t move, he didn’t come to her, he didn’t threatened her, the predator didn’t pounce on the prey. The murderer didn’t threaten his killer.
Just a gentle whisper in her mind.
“Morgana”
********************
She was the one who came to him. Because she had to. Because she wanted to.
She left the tree-shaded spot where she had observed him, disgusted with him for being the murderer from her dreams, disgusted with herself for loving the sight of that perfect body. Hating him for being the hand who would commit the worst crime, hating herself for wanting badly that hand on her skin.
He was looking at her. Blue piercing eyes. Cold and sharp as ice. Homicidal eyes. Eyes she would have to close forever to save the periwinkle blue and warm ones. Become the raven.
He was standing in front of her naked, no armor, no weapon. But powerful and magical hands, she knew that. Dangerous hands.
Murderer’s hands.
Hands so cold against her neck.
Mouth so warm against her throat.
She shouldn’t allow it.
She remembered the pain, the pain those hands, that body, have caused her in her dreams. Never asking, never pleading. She could hear him now, in her head, the agony of a desperate man, the supplication of a dead young man, the cry of the lost child. So cold.
He gently laid her down, like a too fragile and precious care, powerful hands on the small of her back, wetting her beautiful and royal purple dress.
“Blood doesn’t suit your skin, my Lady, this is unfair” he whispered in her head, gentle voice ahead of smoothing and caring hands.
Her silky and vaporous gown slipped over her skin like a gentle caress exposing her body to cold and uncannily lovingly hands. She moaned softly encouraging those long and skilful fingers.
Her shaking hands were gently thrown over her head by a powerful hand, getting tangle with her velvety hair. She wished she could discovered every inch of that smooth and muscular body, draw over those dark and enchanting patterns with her hungry fingers but she forgot all about it when a warm mouth and a skilful tongue began to paint magical paths over her sensitive and burning skin.
She never thought a man could be so careful, so gentle, and so generous. Every yeasty pattern he drew with his tongue, every clever bit, were rewarded by an enchanting moan between the lips of the enchanted sear.
Fully exposed, she let him drink to the source of her being, a source wet of his close attention, blossoming between his thirsty lips. She watched him under her long eyelashes reveling in her, bewitched, her body shaking uncontrollably.
When he kissed her gently, warm and wet from her, she growled and sucked impatient on his tongue to have more, now, dammit, and he laughs, sincerely, reading into her like in an open book. That laugh shook her to the core, because it is too much, it is too intimate, it is…too human. It is him.
“Mordred” she moaned.
When he possessed her, gently sliding into her, careful when she wanted him to be careless, she caught him in a hurtful grip not knowing if she was trying to push him away or keep him closer. He seemed to know better than her because he began to trust slowly and gently into her, smoothing the hurt flesh, honoring the wild flower, making amends for the bloodstain on her pearly skin.
They danced together, Morgana bringing him to her, her long and delicate legs around his waist, her hungry arms around his neck, on his shoulders, drawing blood for blood; Mordred lost into her, into her warmth, into her scent, his ravenous hands into her hair, around her slender waist. They sang the same song. Their souls so deeply linked sharing the same nightmares, the same dreams, the same hope.
Winter eyes drowning into summer ones.
When she came, a cry on her lips, she didn’t know if it was from completion, from the intense pleasure or from fear because those eyes, those mesmerizing eyes were looking straight at her with the same passion, the same love they would look at the periwinkle ones while stabbing them.
********************
They lay together, bodies tangled into the warm grass for a long time, breathing like a sealed soul, Morgana combing the darkness of the young man mane, his head resting on the voluptuous bosom listening for each beat of her heart.
He knew that for the very first time since the war began at the border of the kingdom he’d sleep peacefully.
He knew that he’d rest in peace because for the first time in his whole life he’d dream knowing what happiness and love feel like.
He just hoped his eyes would stay closed for eternity and that his love, his queen, would do what she has to and what she came for.
“Hush, child…” he heard her soothing voice singing into his soul before the dreams claimed him.
He loved her from the first day for her generous and loving heart; he loved her even more today for being the one who would save his soul.
But you still love her, don't you O^O?
Well...
At least, this week-end I succeeded to write a little something.
It was for my Household Chores Meme (by the way some spots are still open HERE)
I hope you'll like it.
I know there aren't a lot of you who actually read my stories about Mordred but I'm stubborn and I don't give up that easily XDXDXD
HOUSEHOLD CHORES MEME
Fandom : Merlin
Title : The Dark Raven & The Purple Dove
Characters/Pairing : Mordred/Morgana (Older!Mordred)
Rating : PG-17
Words : 1 467
Notes : Morgana and Mordred from the BBC show aren’t mother and son.
Thank you mossylawn for beta-ed my text, once again!♥
Prompt : Doing the laundry for brokengem
Summary : Morgana had dreams about the winter eyes, about Mordred, the treason, the felony and she knows she is the only one who can turn the destiny wheel.
It was a sunny day, a warm day. Colorful birds sang keenly while the wind was whispering comforting words through the leafed branches of old trees. Golden rays of sunshine cherished the place, a place that was fragrant with wild flowers and bracken. A peaceful painting. Magical forests.
********************
Mordred came back in these forests to regain his soul; he walked for days and nights barely able to sleep; still hearing the screams and the cries, still seeing the bodies falling into the mud of the battlefields, the lives being torn apart, still smelling blood and death on his skin.
He bathed for the umpteenth time finding refuge into the deep and calm waters of a lake. He swam for a long time, sinking deeper and deeper, not wanting to surface, and not wanting to come back to the human world but forced to when his lungs are burning. The dark tunic, he washed before diving into the cold water, is long-dried now, flying like a black flag, a ghost of his past, a chimera of his future, cracking like an inevitable sentence. He didn’t want to wear it again, he wished he could let his armor rot at the roots of that old yew.
He was still standing into the lake hours later watching the sunset, not feeling the warmth of the gentle sun on his skin; he hadn’t feel warmth for a long time now, his body colder than the fresh water, his soul darker than his tunic, his hands covered in blood as indelible as his tattoos. He could cry for days, his tears would never wash away the pain, the crimes, and the blood. He would never forget.
Standing here into the sunset, sun-kissed like a chosen one, he was godlike. Perfection on this earth though cursed to the core.
********************
She knew she shouldn’t be here all on her own. It was dangerous. He was dangerous.
She dreamt about that moment, that man. She dreamt so many times about this place, about this moment, about now that she barely dared to sleep for weeks. The pain, the cry, she dreamt them so many times that her shaking body remembered every bit of it with a cruel intensity. But she had to be here, she had to come in these forests to regain her sanity, to win over her fears, to take control over her destiny. She had to come for the one she cared about more than anyone else, more than her own life, not for the great king of Albion but for her too precious brother-in-soul. For Arthur she thought, she murmured like a mantra, to take courage, to not bend, before doing the unforgivable.
She whimpered when she saw him. She knew it was him, it had to be. The dark raven.
In her worst nightmares, the raven of darkness, black feathers and red eyes, is always cawing, looming over her, that dark figure tearing her heart out of her breast with his frightening claws, devouring her soul, consuming her. This is the same shadow, the one who is always taking the beloved one away from her, tearing everything to pieces. The felon knight.
Though, now, he was standing here, in all his glory, beautiful like a god, alabaster skin, she could have killed for, contrasting with the dark patterns drawn over the glistening skin. Ink black hair is flowing on the strong nape of his neck. Strong muscles of a knight under the soft skin of a too young murderer.
He barely moved. She caught her breath. He knew she was here and still he didn’t move, he didn’t come to her, he didn’t threatened her, the predator didn’t pounce on the prey. The murderer didn’t threaten his killer.
Just a gentle whisper in her mind.
“Morgana”
********************
She was the one who came to him. Because she had to. Because she wanted to.
She left the tree-shaded spot where she had observed him, disgusted with him for being the murderer from her dreams, disgusted with herself for loving the sight of that perfect body. Hating him for being the hand who would commit the worst crime, hating herself for wanting badly that hand on her skin.
He was looking at her. Blue piercing eyes. Cold and sharp as ice. Homicidal eyes. Eyes she would have to close forever to save the periwinkle blue and warm ones. Become the raven.
He was standing in front of her naked, no armor, no weapon. But powerful and magical hands, she knew that. Dangerous hands.
Murderer’s hands.
Hands so cold against her neck.
Mouth so warm against her throat.
She shouldn’t allow it.
She remembered the pain, the pain those hands, that body, have caused her in her dreams. Never asking, never pleading. She could hear him now, in her head, the agony of a desperate man, the supplication of a dead young man, the cry of the lost child. So cold.
He gently laid her down, like a too fragile and precious care, powerful hands on the small of her back, wetting her beautiful and royal purple dress.
“Blood doesn’t suit your skin, my Lady, this is unfair” he whispered in her head, gentle voice ahead of smoothing and caring hands.
Her silky and vaporous gown slipped over her skin like a gentle caress exposing her body to cold and uncannily lovingly hands. She moaned softly encouraging those long and skilful fingers.
Her shaking hands were gently thrown over her head by a powerful hand, getting tangle with her velvety hair. She wished she could discovered every inch of that smooth and muscular body, draw over those dark and enchanting patterns with her hungry fingers but she forgot all about it when a warm mouth and a skilful tongue began to paint magical paths over her sensitive and burning skin.
She never thought a man could be so careful, so gentle, and so generous. Every yeasty pattern he drew with his tongue, every clever bit, were rewarded by an enchanting moan between the lips of the enchanted sear.
Fully exposed, she let him drink to the source of her being, a source wet of his close attention, blossoming between his thirsty lips. She watched him under her long eyelashes reveling in her, bewitched, her body shaking uncontrollably.
When he kissed her gently, warm and wet from her, she growled and sucked impatient on his tongue to have more, now, dammit, and he laughs, sincerely, reading into her like in an open book. That laugh shook her to the core, because it is too much, it is too intimate, it is…too human. It is him.
“Mordred” she moaned.
When he possessed her, gently sliding into her, careful when she wanted him to be careless, she caught him in a hurtful grip not knowing if she was trying to push him away or keep him closer. He seemed to know better than her because he began to trust slowly and gently into her, smoothing the hurt flesh, honoring the wild flower, making amends for the bloodstain on her pearly skin.
They danced together, Morgana bringing him to her, her long and delicate legs around his waist, her hungry arms around his neck, on his shoulders, drawing blood for blood; Mordred lost into her, into her warmth, into her scent, his ravenous hands into her hair, around her slender waist. They sang the same song. Their souls so deeply linked sharing the same nightmares, the same dreams, the same hope.
Winter eyes drowning into summer ones.
When she came, a cry on her lips, she didn’t know if it was from completion, from the intense pleasure or from fear because those eyes, those mesmerizing eyes were looking straight at her with the same passion, the same love they would look at the periwinkle ones while stabbing them.
********************
They lay together, bodies tangled into the warm grass for a long time, breathing like a sealed soul, Morgana combing the darkness of the young man mane, his head resting on the voluptuous bosom listening for each beat of her heart.
He knew that for the very first time since the war began at the border of the kingdom he’d sleep peacefully.
He knew that he’d rest in peace because for the first time in his whole life he’d dream knowing what happiness and love feel like.
He just hoped his eyes would stay closed for eternity and that his love, his queen, would do what she has to and what she came for.
“Hush, child…” he heard her soothing voice singing into his soul before the dreams claimed him.
He loved her from the first day for her generous and loving heart; he loved her even more today for being the one who would save his soul.