Morgana wishes she could paint so that she could do justice to the perfect architecture of Gwaine’s face, could capture every hard line and soft curve of Gwaine’s body so that, long after they’ve died, the world might still remember how enduringly beautiful Gwaine is.
They fuck in the kitchen and the shower and the snow-covered picnic table in the garden, in the fitting room at the shop and the front seat of Gwaine’s car just because they can, because it’s exciting and novel.
Gwaine’s lips are soft, stubble rough, hands skilled. Every time they fuck, it’s like a goddamn revelation, the world opening up to Morgana in ways she’d never imagined. Having his cock clutched hot and deep in her cunt sometimes feels like the only thing that gives her life purpose. She’d drown in him if he’d let her. She wakes up to his hard cock pressed tight against her arse and manoeuvres them, angles him inside her, rocks back until they’re pressed snugly together. These moments of being utterly consumed by him are what keep her breathing.
Gwaine’s belly hangs over his jeans and he’s got razor burn and the way his nose whistles while he breathes makes Morgana want to suffocate him. He didn’t text last night to say he’d be late, and Morgana knows—knows—it’s because he was busy flirting with that fucking bitch at work. Morgana has seen the Facebook likes, the lunch dates on Gwaine’s phone. She knows Gwaine just goes to work to get away from her, to spend his day happy to be free of her temper. He probably told everyone about how she threatened to cut herself two nights ago because Gwaine didn’t want to watch her favourite film again. He’s going to leave her someday, and it will be all her fault.
“Fuck you!” Morgana screams, because it’s scream or cry, and she can’t cry anymore. “If you want to leave, then fucking leave; see if I’m here when you get back.”
Gwaine reaches out for her, and she shivers away, holds herself in tight because if she doesn’t, everything in her might fall out. “You you don’t get to touch me. Not ever again.” Even as she says it, the sense of loss is unbearable and she wants to take it back, but pride won’t let her.
“Morgana,” he says, and his voice is firm, steady, infuriating. “If you make me leave without holding you, you’ll hate yourself.”
He’s right, and she knows it, hates him for it. She lets him pull her down onto the settee, tuck her head against his shoulder. “You don’t even fucking care. I’ll be dead by the time you get back anyway.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, hand soothing over her shoulder.
The anger crawls up Morgana’s throat. “Don’t tell me what I’ll do. You don’t know what it’s like. I’m fucking nothing. I just hurt people.”
“You won’t do it,” Gwaine says, “because you know I love you.”
Gwaine grabs Morgana’s chin, forces her to look at him, and she’s tempted to spit in his face.
“You’re hilarious and fun,” Gwaine says. “I love how honest you are, the way you bare yourself to the world. You’re brilliant and creative, and the things you do with your mouth—”
Morgana laughs, and it makes a stream of snot shoot out of her nose. “Oh, that’s attractive,” she says, wiping her face on Gwaine’s shoulder. He takes the moment to kiss her forehead. It calms her.
“You must hate me so much,” Morgana whispers, something hot clutching at her heart, wrapping her up tighter than Gwaine’s arms ever could. “You’d be better off without me.”
Gwaine kisses her mouth—firm, resolute. “I have to go,” he says.
Morgana tenses, rams her fists into his chest and tries to shove him away. “You’re going to tell them all what a fucking cunt I am.”
“I’m going to tell them all that you’re doing well, that you just got a promotion at work, that you’ve been winning some very important fights on the internet.” Gwaine lays kisses all over her face, light, fluttery pecks that tickle her, forcing a smile. “And they’ll say they wish you could have made it, that you’re always so fun, and I’ll tell them you wish you could be there too.”
Morgana sighs, slumps over to curl up on her side. “Sorry I’m the worst,” she says.
Gwaine doesn’t dignify that with a reply.