Merlin/Morgana ficlet [or: My mind is a scary place these days]
Yeah, you read that properly. Still haven't watched 2x02 of Merlin or done much work on my reel (posting in a week, ffffuuuuuuu), but I had time to write Merlin het. Wtf, self? Really?
In all seriousness, though, this is a pairing I could see working, if only for a short while and never very happily, and I've been itching to write something for it for a little while now. So because I think I failed my astronomy test and figured out how I want to do my Solstice fic today, you get self-indulgent experimentation with Merlin/Morgana, featuring attempts at pretentious foreshadowing; probably-shoddy characterization; and a title from a song by the Fratellis, simply because that's what I was listening to as I wrote it. Written in about ten minutes for the kinkmeme prompt of "Merlin/Morgana -- Teach me."
you're unstable, curious and free
Morgana fucks like her days are numbered.
It's how she does everything now, ever since Merlin told her about her dreams, voice cracking with empathy and fear. She's wild, eyes darker and words sharper, motions a tiny bit more frantic. She moves and acts and speaks like she's waiting to be hunted, like she knows it's coming, and Merlin suspects she probably does.
(He'd been angry with her when she'd first started this, the look of sickened determination on her face and in her step. You're giving up, he'd said, harsh, on the balcony of the North Tower, the one where he's faced Arthur and lied and lived daily, too many times to count.
No, she'd said, eyes open and clear, accusing and sad and unsettling. No, I'm being prepared.
She'd left then, and Merlin had thought of his books and of Arthur and of nights spent learning them, spells and orders mixed together until he's not sure which, his prince or his magic, really masters him any more.
He thinks he understands, and he doesn't mention it again.)
Merlin's started teaching her, just the basics, just enough to get her by if (when) she should need it. Starting a fire, calling water from the earth -- all the natural, immense connections he's felt his entire life and she needs to feel now, things impossible and necessary to translate, vital.
She teaches him, too, a bit. It's not as vital as the magic, or maybe it is, things like composure and balanced wit, a level head in argument with more people than just Arthur. She shows him how to conceal himself even as she seems to be losing her own knack for it, her cover blown wide by the simple knowledge that she needs one in the first place.
She also teaches him pleasure, if that's what this can be called, their rhythm and press rough and hot and almost painful against each other. She's sharp in all the ways she shouldn't be, hipbones jutting under his hands and nails digging into his arms and eyes still fleeting, something broken and jagged torn open and exposed within her. Merlin wonders sometimes what he's unleashed, what it is in her that makes her muscles coil so taut when he traces the line of her shoulders, the curve of her back. He thinks it's anger, or maybe premature sorrow for something she can feel slipping away, and he knows it's something he can't take back. At this point, he doesn't think she'd want him to.
Cruel as it is, he doesn't think he'd want to either, so grateful he's become for this companionship, a real connection to something other than wind and flame and water. He's not sure what that says about him, probably something as dark as the shadows in Morgana's eyes, residual from dreams that make her whimper and toss against him in an entirely different way. He knows he likes this, though, the feel of her against and on him, her skin smooth and lips wet and cunt slick with the thrill of him, of this, of what she's losing and growing into.
Privately, when she's asleep and he's holding her, quiet, Merlin revels in what this is allowing him to have. He knows, same and certain as she does, that it won't last, can feel her pulling further and further away with each time she shudders and collapses against him. But for now, he loses himself in her. He watches her writhe down on his fingers, head thrown back and gaze far away, lost in a future he knows they're both too helpless to avoid, and he tries not to think about it.
Now back to studying for tomorrow's government test. Joy and rapture.
In all seriousness, though, this is a pairing I could see working, if only for a short while and never very happily, and I've been itching to write something for it for a little while now. So because I think I failed my astronomy test and figured out how I want to do my Solstice fic today, you get self-indulgent experimentation with Merlin/Morgana, featuring attempts at pretentious foreshadowing; probably-shoddy characterization; and a title from a song by the Fratellis, simply because that's what I was listening to as I wrote it. Written in about ten minutes for the kinkmeme prompt of "Merlin/Morgana -- Teach me."
you're unstable, curious and free
Morgana fucks like her days are numbered.
It's how she does everything now, ever since Merlin told her about her dreams, voice cracking with empathy and fear. She's wild, eyes darker and words sharper, motions a tiny bit more frantic. She moves and acts and speaks like she's waiting to be hunted, like she knows it's coming, and Merlin suspects she probably does.
(He'd been angry with her when she'd first started this, the look of sickened determination on her face and in her step. You're giving up, he'd said, harsh, on the balcony of the North Tower, the one where he's faced Arthur and lied and lived daily, too many times to count.
No, she'd said, eyes open and clear, accusing and sad and unsettling. No, I'm being prepared.
She'd left then, and Merlin had thought of his books and of Arthur and of nights spent learning them, spells and orders mixed together until he's not sure which, his prince or his magic, really masters him any more.
He thinks he understands, and he doesn't mention it again.)
Merlin's started teaching her, just the basics, just enough to get her by if (when) she should need it. Starting a fire, calling water from the earth -- all the natural, immense connections he's felt his entire life and she needs to feel now, things impossible and necessary to translate, vital.
She teaches him, too, a bit. It's not as vital as the magic, or maybe it is, things like composure and balanced wit, a level head in argument with more people than just Arthur. She shows him how to conceal himself even as she seems to be losing her own knack for it, her cover blown wide by the simple knowledge that she needs one in the first place.
She also teaches him pleasure, if that's what this can be called, their rhythm and press rough and hot and almost painful against each other. She's sharp in all the ways she shouldn't be, hipbones jutting under his hands and nails digging into his arms and eyes still fleeting, something broken and jagged torn open and exposed within her. Merlin wonders sometimes what he's unleashed, what it is in her that makes her muscles coil so taut when he traces the line of her shoulders, the curve of her back. He thinks it's anger, or maybe premature sorrow for something she can feel slipping away, and he knows it's something he can't take back. At this point, he doesn't think she'd want him to.
Cruel as it is, he doesn't think he'd want to either, so grateful he's become for this companionship, a real connection to something other than wind and flame and water. He's not sure what that says about him, probably something as dark as the shadows in Morgana's eyes, residual from dreams that make her whimper and toss against him in an entirely different way. He knows he likes this, though, the feel of her against and on him, her skin smooth and lips wet and cunt slick with the thrill of him, of this, of what she's losing and growing into.
Privately, when she's asleep and he's holding her, quiet, Merlin revels in what this is allowing him to have. He knows, same and certain as she does, that it won't last, can feel her pulling further and further away with each time she shudders and collapses against him. But for now, he loses himself in her. He watches her writhe down on his fingers, head thrown back and gaze far away, lost in a future he knows they're both too helpless to avoid, and he tries not to think about it.
Now back to studying for tomorrow's government test. Joy and rapture.