He always looked perfect, that was the problem. That was the reason for Gwaine’s obsession; well it wasn’t really an obsession – no matter what Merlin said. He just found it peculiar. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t natural, and it was just plain odd! No one should look that flawless all the time.
But Arthur Pendragon did, and it did Gwaine’s head in.
He was always dressed impeccably, hair always shiny and golden, eyes always bright and clear, manners always flawless and credit card always ready to pay the bill.
Gwaine hated it, he wanted to peel back the layers, find what or who was underneath. What the man beneath the suits craved, what made him tremble, what made his breath hitch and what would it take to make him drop the facade of the perfect son?
He was flawless, like a marble sculpture – perfect by creation, but not a real person.
Gwaine knew what he wanted to do, he wanted to peel the man out of his designer suits, lay him down and mark that flawless skin.
He wanted to suck marks onto his neck, bite kisses across his collar bone, tug at nipples with his teeth, scratch marks across his shoulder blades, dig fingers into hips and leave bruises, and do it all again and again.
He wanted to mark Arthur’s skin. Caress the whole expanse of pale, untouched skin hidden under the suits. Gwaine wanted to get his hands, his teeth, his lips onto the canvas and decorate until every inch of Arthur’s skin had a trace of Gwaine, a taste of him.
And then Arthur would suit up, and everything would go back to the way it was.
He would still look flawless, and only Gwaine would know the masterpiece, hidden as always behind the veneer, that adorned Arthur’s skin.
His perfect skin.