Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC.
Pairings: ArthurxMerlin, ArthurxGwen.
Notes: Unbeta'd. Future!Fic. Arthur is king and Gwen is queen. I needed to write something angsty, so here we are. Angst :)
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1
Crimson sheets contrast with a silver body, illuminated in the moonlit room. Shimmering reds of passions bathe him as a body, darker in tone then his moves over him. There are lips, sensual pillows of palest pink that scold his skin, poisoning his blood with mindless pleasure. They tease and they taunt. They skim and slide and slip over molten silver. They worship and they praise and they compliment. They bruise and they scar. Teeth, pearly white and sharp, nip and graze in gratifying punishment. They bite like hungry beasts of forbidden, hidden skin in the darkness, piercing the moon kissed skin and drawing bloody desire to the surface.
Hands, callused from hard work and strong, grace his body as if he were something precious, fragile like a glass figurine. They caress and soothe. They fan the fire pulsing through his veins and they smooth down his throat, across his beating heart and down his quivering stomach. They explore and they treasure. They cherish and they protect.
Legs, thin and long, are spread by those hands and kept apart by sturdy hips that rock teasingly. Those hands, demanding, beautiful things that withhold and bestow satisfaction as the dictator sees fit, grip hungrily at milky thighs. There is an exaltation of breath, a whisper of life in the silent room. The tan body shifts again in its' cradle of soft flesh, a loaded smirk gracing those rose-petal lips before they descend once again on the offered neck.
Those hands are journeying once again, venturing down the pliant body beneath them. There is coolness and the silver figurine squirms, gasping at the chill. There is a comforting mumble and a light forgiveness is returned. Those fingers, wicked as they are, circle and anticipate.
A heart beat stops. Lungs are halted. Breathe catches. And those fingers slide within velvet – promising, stretching, loving. They move. The body moves. Those dark eyes watch a carved face, full lips parted in laboured breathing, those sapphire orbs hidden from view. A rose flush tinges those gaunt cheeks. This long fingers curl into fists as the moonlit boy struggles to stay silent.
Secret. This must stay secret. The Sun and the Moon, star-crossed lovers condemned to unite only at certain times. Condemned to live a lie. Condemned, are they, to dine forever on the fringes of hell, with a feast of sinful gluttony and ugly lust, locked to their seats by the heavy, clanking chains of guilt.
When the fingers disappear, those closed eyes flutter like nervous butterflies. There is movement. Those creamy thighs adjust, spreading wider to accommodate the warm body shifting between them. Those eyes squeeze close even tighter, dispelling images and thoughts that would cause his desire to wither like a dead rose. Likenesses between whores and himself are not welcome here, not in their traitorous, beautiful little world.
And they move together. They are one. United. Complete. Their souls merge, their hearts beat in sync. The rest of the world melts away and they are just lovers – joint, melded, together. They move in sync, murmured gasps and whispered names caress the air like silk. Nails bite. Teeth scratch.
Names. Always names. Whispered. Moaned. Remember this. Remember me. Only mine. Only yours. They lose focus. Bronze and silver, slipping and sliding together. Rapid, thrusting hips – urgency. So hot, too hot.
Need more. Need less. Need you. Need me. More. Faster. Harder. Less. Slower. Softer.
They reach completion as one. Fingers grip. Insanity riots. Whiteness conquers. And then they settle. Breathless are those lungs – fighting, struggling, asphyxiating on the dying passion.
The guilt creeps in, slithering like a snake in the undergrowth, rearing its ugly head and bearing poisonous fangs. The truth is a bitter pill to swallow and with that gulp of toxic water, their fantasy is shattered.
/\/\
The sun smiles and obliterates the debauchery of the night. Dreams. They are only dreams. Nightmarish dreams that can never be told. They must forever conceal themselves into the darkness of his memory, chained by Shame and yet reachable by Need. The dark haired sorcerer rises from his bed, frowning out the window to at the sun, in all its' mocking brightness. Parallels can be drawn between the sun and the person he is hurting. So naive. So innocent. They smile, and it ignites the world in a joy that he can only hope for. He cleaves to that smile as a child does to his mother, wants to drain it of it's sincerity and kindness in an attempt to purge himself of his sin, of his want.
But he cannot. The sun smiles on and yet here he is, left in the shadows.
So he raises and he turns away from the sun, unable to bear its shining light any longer. He hides his sated body with his clothes, covers his bitten neck with his neckerchief and conceals his fault with a sunny smile. Keep up the mask. Keep up the smile. This isn't the first secret you've had to keep. Nor is it the last.
Gaius is pottering about his workshop, tinkering glasses and vials, peering into their coloured depths with a keen eye before noting down their contents on a slim slash of parchment. He looks up from his work as Merlin wanders down, eyes glassy and hair mussed.
The boy smiles and Gaius is not fooled. He notices the shadows that haunt those eyes, the troubled look, the gaunt skin. He notes the slimming waist, the forgotten meals and the hollow smile. He sees all and yet says nothing.
Some things need to be figured out in one's own mind, without interference.
So Gaius, wise Gaius with his potions and poisons and worldly words, holds his tongue and allow Merlin to believe he has the old man fooled. Better to offer silent comfort than wordy advices.
"Good morning," the old physician says with a slight incline of his head. "Breakfast in on the table." He turns back to his work, brow furrowed with concentration as he hunches over his book. His watery eyes follow the words but do not take them in. Instead he observes the boy in his periphery, watches as Merlin toys with his porridges, mixing it dully with a spoon, eyes turned towards the sun with an expression that almost touches resentment. Then those cobalt eyes drop to the food before him, mouth twitching. Gaius knows what is to occur, even before those startling eyes melt into gold and the food disappears.
"Thanks Gaius," The boy says sunnily before he exits the room quicker than in perhaps strictly normal. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before those eyes are opened once more and he straightens his back to face the day.
/\/\
The King is troubled. His heart is in turmoil only he can settle. Confusion illuminates those eyes, his mouth set in the thin line of intense indecision. He loves them both. She, his queen, is so delicate and soft. Her smiles illuminate the world like the sun. Without them, he feels he will only wither away like a neglected plant. Her hands are reassuring, smooth and kind as they soothe and ease. Her eyes are dark and beautiful, large with their innocence and quiet bliss. She has humility. She is humble. She asks for nothing he cannot give. The people love her. She loves the people. In the cover of dark, she is desirous. Her nails thrill, her softness excites.
She is perfect.
But then, there is him, his servant. He is so different. He neither delicate nor soft, but is instead strong-willed and marbleised. His smiles cheer the heart, lift the mood. They do not illuminate so much as infect, like your favourite disease. Without it, he feels he would never be laugh again. His hands are inspiring, slightly roughened and intense as they glide and slip. His eyes are light and iridescent, twinkling with a dark mischief and cheeky humour. He has understanding. He has secrets. He asks for everything Arthur feels he cannot do. The people love him. He loves the people. In the cover of moonlight, he is humbled. His nails trace, his hardness entices.
He is perfect.
Who can choose between perfection? How can one semblance of perfection be better than another? How can one man chose between a dark skinned goddess and a pale skinned nymph when both satisfy him?
Why should he have to?
The Throne Room is quiet this time of morning, the councilmen not yet ready to attend the scheduled meeting. Arthur can hear the scurrying of the maids and servants as they bustle around with their morning chores. Merlin, he thinks should be up by now, wandering towards the Kings room and awaiting the answer to enter. The boy has since learnt to knock since the King married his beloved.
And Guinevere, sleepy, pretty little Guinevere will invite him in with a muffled acceptance and illuminate the dark haired warlock to his whereabouts. Soon, Arthur thinks, soon Merlin will show. And soon that ravenous hunger will arise and he will find gratification in one of his beauties. One of his loves. His heart is split in two and he doesn't know which he should follow and which he should abandon.
When did things become so hard?
/\/\
There is tenseness in his shoulders as Merlin reaches the door. The heavy oak has never been so domineering. He knows what lingers beyond that door – the King entwined with his Queen. Arthur entwined with Gwen. Which is how it should, how it always should be. And yet that bitter taste of envy coats his tongue like a weighty poison, and flashes to their shared evening flash through his mind like lightening.
Betrayal scorches through his veins like a blaze and he knocks on the door with a heavy heart. He hears stirring from the other side and a mumbled utterance. He gently pushes open the door, sparing his old friend a weak smiel she is too sleepy to fully notice.
"Good morning Merlin," she says sweetly. Innocently. Blind is she to the betrayal shifting nervously in front of her, avoiding her gaze. "I'm afraid Arthur isn't here. I think he went down to the Throne Room, sorting out some things for the meeting later today."
Merlin nods. "Ah, right. Well, I'll go search him out. Sorry for waking you." He is out of the suffocating room before Gwen can answer him, before she can ask him to send up her maid. She had refused such a service before, but Arthur had insisted, Merlin remembered. He had insisted. She was Queen now, and she was to be treated as such.
He would not take no for an answer.
The venture to the Throne Room was a lonely one. Few servants passed him by and spared a cheery smile for the Kings manservant, and he returned them with enthusiasm only half forced. The stone, he muses as a hand reaches out to touch, is starting to warm up in the morning sun. He smiles at the simple notion before rounding the corner. He turns yet again and peers into the Throne Room.
Sure enough, there his monarch and lover stands, staring out of the windows. The sun bathes him as it would a god. His crown glints almost obscenely, his skin appearing almost white in the bright light despite the colour that kisses it. He certainly looks kingly and majestic, older than his years and yet so young and trapped. A walking contradiction.
The young sorcerers' heart skips a beat at the sight. His king is stunning. It is a fact, a truth that can never be denied. Merlin is content to watch him all day, to trap that moment in a bubble and just stare at it as time melts away into worthless measurements. But then he shifts and his boot scrapes.
The moment in broken.
The king glances away from whatever had caught him, and takes in the sight of his manservant. He smiles and Merlin cannot help but answer it warmly.
What are you doing to me? The thinker of such a question doesn't need to be known. Perhaps it is only one. Perhaps it is both.
"Merlin."
"You weren't upstairs. Gwe– Her Majesty," he corrects with almost a sense of bitterness. How sour is his tongue? How black? "Told me you might be here. You should wait for me to attend you."
Calculating eyes. Eyes darkened with things that can't even be whispered during daylight. "I think you attended to me enough last night, Merlin." There is that smirk, mocking and yet so gentle in ways that cannot be explained. The dark haired boy swallows and glances around the room nervously. Those words, so dark and seductive. Those images they bought forth so wonderful and dirty.
His cheeks flush – it is a reaction that never ceases to be amusing.
"Come here, Merlin." Blue eyes collide, questioning and curious, frightened and guilty. They move closer together as though a magnetic pulse attracts to one another. Merlin gazes up at his king, his Heart and swallows at the proximity.
"Prat," he intones with a noticeable tremor to his voice. The king smiles as his hand hovers over the sorcerers' cheek, barely even skimming the soft skin.
Temptation. Forbidden fruit. Oh, if only his teeth could puncture such rosy flesh. But it cannot be, not now. Not tonight.
For tonight belongs to his Queen.
/\/\
Chocolate skin against pearly white sheets. Soft curves writhe gently in the flickering candlelight that graces the room. Warm orange flows over sensual softness, reflected in dark down orbs that watch with a faint smile. Long dark hair splays about an arching neck as a back bends into those tantalizing touches along flush skin.
Lips part in tumbling noises – soft groans, hushed gasps and whispered moans. There is hunger there, insatiable and lusting. Those lips devour the femininity as those sword callused hands claim the willing body beneath. Heat shuddered through veins as those hands and lips explore, passionate and hot. Slides of wet muscle tease nerves, followed by those vicious, pleasing nips that shock and surprise. Nails, long and biting, score into the flesh above, ripping down a heaving chest and gouging into abdominals.
The fire burns as fingers probe and tease. Hips – who cares whose? – jolt and move against another's, wanting, needing, begging.
Moremoremoremoremore! Never enough. Hungry. So hungry. For you. For me. For us.
Those lips collide in lunacy, desperate in their urgency. Teeth and tongue tear and pleasure as those hips move, always moving, but still not yet entering. Those promising fingers remove themselves, gliding across the soft skin of an empty womb. Desire, finger-clenching muscle-jamming desire, slams through those sensual bodies that move erratically, rutting together in zealous violence.
So hot. So rash. So hard.
Fleshy legs create a cradle and secure that hardened body to it, bucking still, needy. Insane. There is a chuckle, knowing and breathless. Before hard flesh fulfils the void left by this wandering fingers. That spine arcs so beautiful, a mouth opened in a silent groan of gratification. A union between two lovers, so complete and unspoiled. Together, joint in fervours insanity – losing themselves in each other and drowning in their blazes.
Those hips move, so tauntingly slow. Sliding in and out of that heat – not velvet, but moist and heated. One hand grips and guides hips, the other soothes up and down a dipped side, lovingly assuring even as those hips take a punishing pace. Sweat, hot and dirty, rolls down spines as the sinuous bodies move in sync, their noises loud and musical in their want.
Together as they should be. Together as they will be. Together as God had intended when he graced the earth with creatures such as them.
More, more, more! Need. Want. Want. Need. Starving. Blazing for you. For me. For us. Together. Forever.
They could not stop, could not think. They only saw each other, staring hard into each other eyes with fervent love and adoration.
They reach completion as one. Fingers grip. Insanity riots. Whiteness conquers. And then they settle. Breathless are those lungs – fighting, struggling, asphyxiating on the slumbering passion.
The joy comforts them, covering them like a blanket and lulling them to a pleasant sleep. Their fantasy is a reality.
/\/\
She looks radiant. So wonderfully beautiful that it pains him to look upon her. How can he, knowing what he does? She smiles at him as he enters through the mirror. She sits at her dresser, brushing her mane of chocolate curls, her own maid telling her the village gossip as she had once done to Morgana.
Merlin stares at her, his mouth dry as the summer heat. She had called him here, this woman. She had requested his presence and here he is. His heart aches with each beat. His blood pulses through his veins in agony.
Does she know?
Has she word of his and her husband's betrayal?
Does she hate him?
Why is he here?
Why?
"Marissa," the queen smiles. "Please leave for a moment. I need to speak with Merlin." Her smile seems real, not false like those Merlin finds gracing his lips so often. Merlin fixes the maid with a look, watching ehr as she leaves. He needs to distract himself. He needs to escape. He doesn't want ot hear. Oh god, he doesn't want to hear.
He never meant to hurt her. Never her. Not sweet Gwen. And yet what was he doing?
Does she know?
"Merlin." Her eyes are sad. Gwen's eyes should never be so sorrowful, should never lose their light. Not her. Never her. "I think Arthur may... I think he is being unfaithful."
Merlin never wanted to hurt Gwen, and yet here he was, listening to her worries of the third person, a secret lover and knowing that he was that secret lover.
And something within him broke at that exact moment.
/\/\
So whatcha think? Where the sex scenes okay? I'm a bit iffy on the second one with Gwen and Arthur but never mind. Hope you liked it.