"It's called an emotional cleansing spell," Mordred says, lugging a bucket of rain-water from their balcony. He left it out for a reason.
Morgana eyes him, her famously red lips tilting up. He doesn't think he's ever seen her without her matte, ruby-colored lipstick. "And why would I need such a thing like that?" she asks, her deep, lulling voice reverberating into Mordred's ears.
He flushes, darting off to the kitchen. They share an apothecary, and the expensive, silver-trimmed conjuring books from London's bookstore, and a flat — and Mordred feels like he hardly knows her.
"If this is about visiting Uther and Arthur… …!" Morgana calls out, her irritation noticeable.
Mordred returns with a bowl full of rosemary leaves sprinkled with grapefruit oil, salt, lavender and chamomile. One of their older, fuzzy hand-towels drapes over his shoulder.
"Your aura feels off, that's all," he insists calmly, mixing everything together in his lap, adding rain-water and dipping the towel into the bowl.
She tuts, not scooting away from him on their settee as Mordred passes her the towel. He blinks, confused as Morgana's hand pushes it away. "You do it," she murmurs, chin lifting primly.
Mordred's ears burn visibly red. He nods sternly and dabs the water-soaked towel against Morgana's cheekbones and lips, her forehead, her collarbones exposed by her plunging and emerald glittering V-neck.
His fingers pause over her right collarbone, before Mordred squirms and dabs over the tops of Morgana's breasts, her skin like alabaster.
The odor from the bowl is relaxing and pleasant, and so is Morgana's perfume when she chuckles and gently rakes her black-glossy fingernails over Mordred's cheek, nose-to-nose with him.
Morgana doesn't taste like she does in his dreams; she's the smoke and ash and fire that lingers on her tongue, incinerating every atom.
BBC Merlin isn't mine. This ship is an old and rarer ship. It never got too much love but hey why not! Thoughts/comments appreciated!