Because it will probably take me an extremely long time to actually write the entire fashion!AU (if this snippet, which was only supposed to be 200 words long but then kind of exploded, is any indication, anyway), HERE, HAVE A SNIPPET OF THINGS YET TO COME. YOUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF FASHION!AU ARTHUR (AND MORGANA). Hopefully this is not terribly disappointing.

snippet of unnamed merlin fashion!au yet to come (710 words, pg-13)
Arthur and Morgana bicker over french fries.

“-and then he accused me of ‘not taking my job seriously enough’! Like going out and partying isn’t part of a model’s job description, anyway. Besides, I’ve only gained, I don’t know, half a pound since last week…OK, fine, maybe it was two. Or five. But that’s probably just muscle! Right, Morgana?” Arthur glanced down at his arms skeptically for a moment, before directing his companion a hopeful look which quickly morphed into a somewhat ridiculous pout upon discovering she wasn’t even looking at him, her attention seemingly captured by this month’s ELLE.

“Morgana, are you even listening to me?” Arthur whined, taking the opportunity to reach across the table and swipe a fry off her plate. Oh, now that got her attention. With surprising agility, Morgana grabbed his wrist and wrestled the thin slice of potato back into her (evil) clutches, knocking over the salt shaker in the process (great, now there was salt in his soy latte. Not that he was actually enjoying it before, but still! It was the principle of the thing). With an all too self-satisfied expression, she popped it into her mouth and set the salt shaker upright again.

“Bitch,” Arthur muttered, sinking low in his chair and kicking her foot in revenge.

Rolling her eyes, Morgana took a sip of her iced…something or other (which looked delicious, but was probably loaded with calories, all of which would go straight to her hips, Arthur thought pettily (though if he was being honest with himself, Arthur had to admit that Morgana’s creepily fast metabolism usually took care of those stupid calories for her)). “I think you’re missing the whole point of being on a diet,” she said (the expression on her face could be adequately read, ‘Why are all the men in my life such blockheads?’), “You need to keep that delightfully girlish figure, remember?” This was why Arthur hated talking to Morgana about his (very important, he might add) problems – she always sounded like she was mocking him. Probably because she was.

“Besides,” she added, smirking all the while, “You really need to learn to exercise your self control. It builds character,” Morgana stuffed a few more fries into her mouth, as if gloating over her status as a non-dieting, sugar-and-carb-eating pig. Not that it mattered, since all those extra fats Morgana was always consuming just seemed to give her more impressive breasts. The world was gloriously unfair.

“Also, sit up straight and stop making that face. And quit whining, you sound like a child.”

“Stop it, you’re not my father,” Arthur began, before realizing exactly how childish that sounded. Morgana raised her eyebrows, and gave him one of her many, ‘See what I mean?’ faces. Which were often all too similar to her ‘I’m so much better than you’ faces.

Sighing, he stood up, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off his shirt and shrugging on his jacket. “Right, I’ve got to go. There’s a shoot with one of those uppity Parisian designers in an hour, and some idiot PA – Martin, or whatever – spilled coffee on one of the models this morning, so father needs me to step in.”

Morgana made a sympathy noise and offered up a solitary french fry before chucking the rest in the bin. “I should be going too, Gwen’s got a couple sketches she wanted me to go over with her, and I need to pick up my dress for the gala tomorrow.” Arthur nodded and popped the fry in his mouth, making an obscenely contented noise at the delicious, salty goodness.

“Dork,” Morgana said fondly, before giving him a kiss on the cheek and smacking the back of his head with the rolled up magazine.

“Hey!” Arthur sputtered in indignation, “That hurt.” (And he spent precious time on his hair! It’s not like he just rolled out of bed and shoved a couple of chopsticks through it like someone he could mention. Not that he was going to tell Morgana that, or anything. She’d probably collapse in a laughing fit and then hit him on the head again, just because she could.) Morgana merely gave him a smug smile and whisked out the door, leaving nothing but a group of practically drooling businessmen in her wake.

“…bitch.”