destiny and chicken and a half-eaten snickers bar
HAHAH SO i remembered i was actually really into Merlin fandom, like first round pornathon champion ftw and then so on, but i never wrote anything serious except for like two or three times so here i'm just going to post them and hope they look nice.
lemniciate's having a Richard Siken Fic Fest jesus sorry sparkletext but yeah that happened, and from it came both Inception and Merlin fic so yay here's the Merlin:
Title: clap for the king
Rating: PG
Warning(s): DOOM DEATH HORROR no jk
Summary: sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them
A/N: Summary is from Richard Siken obv and everyone should take the time to go through and read Crush, so nicely compiled in one spot if you don't have the book (though some of them aren't properly formatted). i thrive on feedback. and bacon.
--
Everyone wakes up screaming for different reasons, Morgana for the looming insanity of her future, Arthur for the responsibility of his, and Uther for the truth of a dying king surrounded by his hoards of fear-bought loyalty. Merlin drenches his bed in sweat and chokes around words no one says anymore, wonders if anyone can see the whites of his eyes.
He polishes armor with a slow hand and rubs away blood and dirt and knows, somewhere deep, that this will be for life. He never imagined destiny to smell pungent.
I'll build you a castle, he says, and Arthur says I have one but that's not what Merlin means, he'd build Arthur cathedrals and mountains, he'd weave together a floating city if it meant Arthur would look at him, look into Merlin instead of looking through.
--
Arthur finds him curved in the arms of a tree taller than the walls of Camelot, Arthur always pictures Merlin belonging to the Earth, sort of like how Morgana always held a sense of wildness, of startling return, but where Morgana is a soft-edged tapestry Merlin looks cut from a painting, torn out and pasted into a new scenery.
But not here, Arthur says, and when Merlin eases down to stand in front of Arthur he looks so grounded with dirt on his palms and across his cheek, it isn't fair and Arthur wants to cage him. Merlin says Sorry, lost track of time and his self-deprecating grin and Arthur doesn't even see it anymore, knows it's false and he doesn't understand why it hurts him.
--
Uther dies in Arthur's twenty-fifth summer, judgment dealt by a withered heart and the assurance it wouldn't be his weakness that killed him but a valiant struggle with the kingdom under siege, those would be the stories people told, a king that died in honor instead of helplessness.
Uther also dies casting arrows of scorn at Merlin, the grip on his arm hardened by the king's gauntlet and Uther so furious he spits out I will see you burned if it's the last thing I do and Arthur bursts in the door just as Merlin disappears and Uther orders Camelot to flames.
--
Hours or weeks or centuries later Arthur lets himself be tired of searching, and it is that exact moment he finds Merlin draped on his throne, looking like the boy he remembers in the trees. Arthur's knees buckle, a king without command of his own body.
He can't tell if he blinks but Merlin is right there, holding Arthur up and whispering I didn't kill him. It startles Arthur so hard it's impossible not to look, impossible not to finally run his fingers over the lines of Merlin's face and realize what he's really saying is but I could have.
--
Arthur always assumed that because thousands of crests told him so he's the predator, the champion, the dragon.
But Merlin knows in his roots it's him.
~~~~~~~~
Then there's two from '10's pornathon challenges, yay.
Title: bones floating in the sound
Rating: PG
Warning(s): nope.
Summary: lady, you are gorgeous in your weakness
A/N: Point of this was to go into the Merlin kinkmeme and fill an unfilled prompt, and I chose Nimueh/Ygraine, ritual sex magic. Title, summary, and cuttext from Iron and Wine's Gray Stables.
--
it begins with a flicker of desperation and the secret tongue of a plea one night when Ygraine can’t handle the disappointed rage of her thoughtless young husband, brash in his confusion and a sickly tinge of madness in his eyes. she fears for her kingdom, for her people, when so many tries are fruitless, when Gaius’ herbs and hushed spells do nothing but feed the flames of her self-resentment. Ygraine knows the duties she holds to the people of Camelot, and it is with the heavy weight of the future in her stomach instead of a child that she draws her hood and disappears into the woods one moonless night.
the dark is ink but her feet never stumble, determination in her shoulders and guilt on her brow. the thickets sing around her with the hum of insects, but to her ears they are the delicate voices of the supernatural awakening. Ygraine swallows hard around anticipation, heartbeat in her temples, and enters a grove she swore to Uther she’d never.
“You can’t turn back,” a voice like wine over stones murmurs to the nape of her neck, but Ygraine opens her eyes and stills.
“I know,” she says, raising her chin, and Nimueh smiles.
fingertips are phantoms over her skin, underneath her cloak and against the stubborn laces of her soft breeches. they fall away like ribbons and Ygraine stands naked, jaw set as the high chord of tension bridges the gap between them. Nimueh‘s eyes are gold in the unnatural light of candles that don’t burn away.
“I will also take,” the witch says, lips curling over her teeth. she is a kind of magic Ygraine has never seen; only read about in ancient novels. magic crackles in the air around them and every lungful smells like sandalwood and tastes like dark promise.
Ygraine never breaks her gaze. “The needs of many forever outweigh those of one,” and Nimueh’s laugh breaks sharp and clear.
“But which one?” she all but hisses, and Ygraine startles. a blink, a mere bat of an eyelash and Nimeuh is before her, close enough to mingle breaths. Ygraine does not tremble, for she is Queen, but she cannot stop herself from feeling hunted.
“It cannot be undone,” Nimueh says. “Your life for his.”
without Ygraine’s permission, Nimueh spreads ice-cold fingers over the taut flesh of her belly. her inhale stings her nostrils and she feels like choking on smoke that isn’t there, but her resolve must remain unshakeable. Ygraine nods, and Nimueh howls in wild, satisfied glee.
binding magic curls invisible tendrils around her ankles, skims up her calves and into the apex of her thighs. the grove that was deathly still is now alive with impossible wind, tossing both of their hair. Ygraine sees red, red lips before she shuts her eyes and feels them, whispering against hers in a tongue she’ll never understand. for her unborn child and the rest that lie in wait, Ygraine opens and lets Nimueh perform the spell.
it feels like hours but mere moments pass between the imprints of her feet on the wooded path and the hand she uses to steady herself against a thick oak when Ygraine leaves the grove. despite all of her clothes back on she still feels naked, her body now an instrument of magic and the phantom thought of life inside of her. no one is there to see her fumble back to the castle on shaking legs, image cracked from the sheer power of what has taken place.
when she lies with Uther the next night-to make Nimueh’s ritual complete (because Uther, Uther could never know, they must make him believe in the expertise of the physician, but Ygraine fears the truth in Gaius’ eyes), it is difficult to erase the memory of softer hands with his broad ones. on his tongue she still tastes greedy, drunken power and her head is fogged with delirious magic, but her hope for this baby, the child she must sacrifice herself for, is enough to uncross the fingers behind her back.
~~~~~~~~
Title: from the gallows
Rating: R
Warning(s): Morgana/Arthur. incest, but not explicit and not entirely the way you think at first glance. no spoilers, really.
Summary: everybody has a secret they won't keep forever.
A/N: This one was for the 'dark' challenge in the pornathon. Title and cuttext from As Tall As Lions' Where Do I Stand. boy it's really easy to tell what i listen to when i write stuff.
--
Morgana doesn’t arch or smile as wicked, but the dark, wild locks and sooty eyelashes around wide blue eyes are close enough-
(and maybe they’re green, but the less Arthur focuses on the details, the easier it is to forget-)
-that he doesn’t feel so guilty, so wrong when the hiss of breath or the accent is different but the pale skin over countable ribs is the same.
He can’t bring himself to say her name but it’s in his blood to demand for more, the only syllable he can get out before the shame coats his mouth and everything feels gritty and surreal.
(He supposes it’s only fair, when her tongue presses to her teeth to finish his name it’s not his name at all; they’re all a bit twisted, to some degree.)
Birds of a feather flock together, and like woodpeckers they are tearing holes in the fabric of their patchwork family. It is the first time Arthur has ever been a replacement, but the bite of fingernails in his scalp remind him the pot is just as black.
When it is morning, everyone avoids eyes and it’s tight-lipped smiles. Arthur loses himself in training the knights, his body becoming a single circuit of muscle memory and solid power. Merlin doesn’t ask, doesn’t fucking do anything but what Arthur tells him to do and maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe it’s easier.
Morgana pretends like the nightmares aren’t worse, like flower arranging and needlepoint will hide her shaking fingers. She eats supper with Uther and they try, they ask meaningless questions and she aches around the smile at his memory of her father.
At night, the knock on either door is hushed in guilt but they can’t stop. Morgana doesn’t tell him that she wakes up to vases shattering and Arthur doesn’t tell her that she’s safe, that he chose her because inanimate objects don’t float around her and shapes in the fire don’t appear because she tells them to and if his father knew, she wouldn’t be burned for treason, for endangering Camelot by simply washing a dish.
She is safe, he thinks, mouthing hot over the parentheses of hipbone, because she cannot make time stop. She has not saved him from countless deaths and she does not keep secrets like a dragon beneath a crumbling castle.
More, he says, for neither one’s benefit, because Morgana knows what he can’t say, won’t say. Each time they tangle in sheets their resolves crack; she slips closer and closer to the first syllable as he slips closer to the last, thinking he’s safe from the flash of gold in sharp eyes, but Morgana closes them just as her mouth opens.
Her hands burn down the length of his spine, hair midnight shame against his pillows and Arthur thrusts because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to fix this and make the ache go away. Morgana bites her lip vicious and pretends that this is good enough, like they aren’t all fucked up and like she doesn’t know her almost-brother wishes she weren’t a she but a skinny, big-eared boy with the world on his shoulders. They are both taught to hate what Merlin is by a man they both seek attention from, but the love she wants is the kind that makes her stomach sick. She knows Arthur knows of Merlin’s magic, but not of hers.
It might be an accident or it might be because she can’t hold herself together anymore, but when they peak, haunted blue meet terrified gold and the candles go out all at once.
~~~~~~~~
:D
lemniciate's having a Richard Siken Fic Fest jesus sorry sparkletext but yeah that happened, and from it came both Inception and Merlin fic so yay here's the Merlin:
Title: clap for the king
Rating: PG
Warning(s): DOOM DEATH HORROR no jk
Summary: sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them
A/N: Summary is from Richard Siken obv and everyone should take the time to go through and read Crush, so nicely compiled in one spot if you don't have the book (though some of them aren't properly formatted). i thrive on feedback. and bacon.
--
Everyone wakes up screaming for different reasons, Morgana for the looming insanity of her future, Arthur for the responsibility of his, and Uther for the truth of a dying king surrounded by his hoards of fear-bought loyalty. Merlin drenches his bed in sweat and chokes around words no one says anymore, wonders if anyone can see the whites of his eyes.
He polishes armor with a slow hand and rubs away blood and dirt and knows, somewhere deep, that this will be for life. He never imagined destiny to smell pungent.
I'll build you a castle, he says, and Arthur says I have one but that's not what Merlin means, he'd build Arthur cathedrals and mountains, he'd weave together a floating city if it meant Arthur would look at him, look into Merlin instead of looking through.
--
Arthur finds him curved in the arms of a tree taller than the walls of Camelot, Arthur always pictures Merlin belonging to the Earth, sort of like how Morgana always held a sense of wildness, of startling return, but where Morgana is a soft-edged tapestry Merlin looks cut from a painting, torn out and pasted into a new scenery.
But not here, Arthur says, and when Merlin eases down to stand in front of Arthur he looks so grounded with dirt on his palms and across his cheek, it isn't fair and Arthur wants to cage him. Merlin says Sorry, lost track of time and his self-deprecating grin and Arthur doesn't even see it anymore, knows it's false and he doesn't understand why it hurts him.
--
Uther dies in Arthur's twenty-fifth summer, judgment dealt by a withered heart and the assurance it wouldn't be his weakness that killed him but a valiant struggle with the kingdom under siege, those would be the stories people told, a king that died in honor instead of helplessness.
Uther also dies casting arrows of scorn at Merlin, the grip on his arm hardened by the king's gauntlet and Uther so furious he spits out I will see you burned if it's the last thing I do and Arthur bursts in the door just as Merlin disappears and Uther orders Camelot to flames.
--
Hours or weeks or centuries later Arthur lets himself be tired of searching, and it is that exact moment he finds Merlin draped on his throne, looking like the boy he remembers in the trees. Arthur's knees buckle, a king without command of his own body.
He can't tell if he blinks but Merlin is right there, holding Arthur up and whispering I didn't kill him. It startles Arthur so hard it's impossible not to look, impossible not to finally run his fingers over the lines of Merlin's face and realize what he's really saying is but I could have.
--
Arthur always assumed that because thousands of crests told him so he's the predator, the champion, the dragon.
But Merlin knows in his roots it's him.
~~~~~~~~
Then there's two from '10's pornathon challenges, yay.
Title: bones floating in the sound
Rating: PG
Warning(s): nope.
Summary: lady, you are gorgeous in your weakness
A/N: Point of this was to go into the Merlin kinkmeme and fill an unfilled prompt, and I chose Nimueh/Ygraine, ritual sex magic. Title, summary, and cuttext from Iron and Wine's Gray Stables.
--
it begins with a flicker of desperation and the secret tongue of a plea one night when Ygraine can’t handle the disappointed rage of her thoughtless young husband, brash in his confusion and a sickly tinge of madness in his eyes. she fears for her kingdom, for her people, when so many tries are fruitless, when Gaius’ herbs and hushed spells do nothing but feed the flames of her self-resentment. Ygraine knows the duties she holds to the people of Camelot, and it is with the heavy weight of the future in her stomach instead of a child that she draws her hood and disappears into the woods one moonless night.
the dark is ink but her feet never stumble, determination in her shoulders and guilt on her brow. the thickets sing around her with the hum of insects, but to her ears they are the delicate voices of the supernatural awakening. Ygraine swallows hard around anticipation, heartbeat in her temples, and enters a grove she swore to Uther she’d never.
“You can’t turn back,” a voice like wine over stones murmurs to the nape of her neck, but Ygraine opens her eyes and stills.
“I know,” she says, raising her chin, and Nimueh smiles.
fingertips are phantoms over her skin, underneath her cloak and against the stubborn laces of her soft breeches. they fall away like ribbons and Ygraine stands naked, jaw set as the high chord of tension bridges the gap between them. Nimueh‘s eyes are gold in the unnatural light of candles that don’t burn away.
“I will also take,” the witch says, lips curling over her teeth. she is a kind of magic Ygraine has never seen; only read about in ancient novels. magic crackles in the air around them and every lungful smells like sandalwood and tastes like dark promise.
Ygraine never breaks her gaze. “The needs of many forever outweigh those of one,” and Nimueh’s laugh breaks sharp and clear.
“But which one?” she all but hisses, and Ygraine startles. a blink, a mere bat of an eyelash and Nimeuh is before her, close enough to mingle breaths. Ygraine does not tremble, for she is Queen, but she cannot stop herself from feeling hunted.
“It cannot be undone,” Nimueh says. “Your life for his.”
without Ygraine’s permission, Nimueh spreads ice-cold fingers over the taut flesh of her belly. her inhale stings her nostrils and she feels like choking on smoke that isn’t there, but her resolve must remain unshakeable. Ygraine nods, and Nimueh howls in wild, satisfied glee.
binding magic curls invisible tendrils around her ankles, skims up her calves and into the apex of her thighs. the grove that was deathly still is now alive with impossible wind, tossing both of their hair. Ygraine sees red, red lips before she shuts her eyes and feels them, whispering against hers in a tongue she’ll never understand. for her unborn child and the rest that lie in wait, Ygraine opens and lets Nimueh perform the spell.
it feels like hours but mere moments pass between the imprints of her feet on the wooded path and the hand she uses to steady herself against a thick oak when Ygraine leaves the grove. despite all of her clothes back on she still feels naked, her body now an instrument of magic and the phantom thought of life inside of her. no one is there to see her fumble back to the castle on shaking legs, image cracked from the sheer power of what has taken place.
when she lies with Uther the next night-to make Nimueh’s ritual complete (because Uther, Uther could never know, they must make him believe in the expertise of the physician, but Ygraine fears the truth in Gaius’ eyes), it is difficult to erase the memory of softer hands with his broad ones. on his tongue she still tastes greedy, drunken power and her head is fogged with delirious magic, but her hope for this baby, the child she must sacrifice herself for, is enough to uncross the fingers behind her back.
~~~~~~~~
Title: from the gallows
Rating: R
Warning(s): Morgana/Arthur. incest, but not explicit and not entirely the way you think at first glance. no spoilers, really.
Summary: everybody has a secret they won't keep forever.
A/N: This one was for the 'dark' challenge in the pornathon. Title and cuttext from As Tall As Lions' Where Do I Stand. boy it's really easy to tell what i listen to when i write stuff.
--
Morgana doesn’t arch or smile as wicked, but the dark, wild locks and sooty eyelashes around wide blue eyes are close enough-
(and maybe they’re green, but the less Arthur focuses on the details, the easier it is to forget-)
-that he doesn’t feel so guilty, so wrong when the hiss of breath or the accent is different but the pale skin over countable ribs is the same.
He can’t bring himself to say her name but it’s in his blood to demand for more, the only syllable he can get out before the shame coats his mouth and everything feels gritty and surreal.
(He supposes it’s only fair, when her tongue presses to her teeth to finish his name it’s not his name at all; they’re all a bit twisted, to some degree.)
Birds of a feather flock together, and like woodpeckers they are tearing holes in the fabric of their patchwork family. It is the first time Arthur has ever been a replacement, but the bite of fingernails in his scalp remind him the pot is just as black.
When it is morning, everyone avoids eyes and it’s tight-lipped smiles. Arthur loses himself in training the knights, his body becoming a single circuit of muscle memory and solid power. Merlin doesn’t ask, doesn’t fucking do anything but what Arthur tells him to do and maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe it’s easier.
Morgana pretends like the nightmares aren’t worse, like flower arranging and needlepoint will hide her shaking fingers. She eats supper with Uther and they try, they ask meaningless questions and she aches around the smile at his memory of her father.
At night, the knock on either door is hushed in guilt but they can’t stop. Morgana doesn’t tell him that she wakes up to vases shattering and Arthur doesn’t tell her that she’s safe, that he chose her because inanimate objects don’t float around her and shapes in the fire don’t appear because she tells them to and if his father knew, she wouldn’t be burned for treason, for endangering Camelot by simply washing a dish.
She is safe, he thinks, mouthing hot over the parentheses of hipbone, because she cannot make time stop. She has not saved him from countless deaths and she does not keep secrets like a dragon beneath a crumbling castle.
More, he says, for neither one’s benefit, because Morgana knows what he can’t say, won’t say. Each time they tangle in sheets their resolves crack; she slips closer and closer to the first syllable as he slips closer to the last, thinking he’s safe from the flash of gold in sharp eyes, but Morgana closes them just as her mouth opens.
Her hands burn down the length of his spine, hair midnight shame against his pillows and Arthur thrusts because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to fix this and make the ache go away. Morgana bites her lip vicious and pretends that this is good enough, like they aren’t all fucked up and like she doesn’t know her almost-brother wishes she weren’t a she but a skinny, big-eared boy with the world on his shoulders. They are both taught to hate what Merlin is by a man they both seek attention from, but the love she wants is the kind that makes her stomach sick. She knows Arthur knows of Merlin’s magic, but not of hers.
It might be an accident or it might be because she can’t hold herself together anymore, but when they peak, haunted blue meet terrified gold and the candles go out all at once.
~~~~~~~~
:D