It's nearly time, she thinks. Slivers of orange sunlight filter their ember-glow from the horizon.
Morgana's chest heaves in her bodice, the lull of her breathes coming out short with the anticipation. "Leave the dresses out; you can launder them in the morning," she orders, a little too curtly to her handmaiden—to her best friend—and her eyes gaze still out the bedchamber window.
Soon. But hardly soon enough.
"Of course, milady," Gwen replies, all softness and dulcet tones, but Morgana knows better than to assume that's all she is. An obedient and mild-manner servant. Innocent, tenderhearted whims and demure in her large, dark eyes. Fragility kindred in likeness to a fresh, spring flower. How very wrong to say such a thing.
Starlight peeks out from the cloud-cover of evening sky overhead, orange replaced by blue, and Morgana gulps, turning at the heel to see those eyes on her. The stance of Gwen's shoulders confident and high. Morgana's dresses no longer being smoothed under thin, brown hands. Instead, Gwen's hands touch over her sides, planting there firmly.
As the sun rises, their roles and court protocol are set out for them to follow.
But as it goes down, the lines blur, and Morgana wishes to follow her. Eagerly relishing the feeling of pliant submission, in opposition to her unbending nature.
Being worshipped for it.
And she's glad that Gwen is so very proficient at the role-reversal.
"Come here now," a throaty and unmistakable command. No honorific to be seen. Gwen's smile widens, encouraging. "And remove your clothing. I should like to see you."
Morgana's skin prickles where her forearms reveal themselves at the split of her long sleeves. It's a sudden vulnerability, as each luxurious and colorful layer falls at a sleek heap at her feet until there's nothing to barrier her. She catches herself about to cross her arms, and stops, when a minute-flash of disapproval passes over Gwen's features.
She pads barefoot to the other woman, opening her mouth to perhaps apologize, or to utter a protest. A small, surprised noise when one of Gwen's hands taps Morgana's red lips. "You mustn't speak unless addressed so, be-loved, remember?" The term of endearment sends nerves in a pleasant shudder. Morgana nods once, teeth clamping to her bottom lip.
She does. Morgana's weight sinks to the cushion of her bureau chair, with satin, embroidered cloth rubbing faintly against naked skin.
Gwen picks up one of the heavy, silver hairbrushes, begins stroking with obvious care at the waves of Morgana's black hair.
But it's nowhere near the same as morning; both of them chatting on about the knights of a visiting kingdom, and which they doubted were adequate in love-making. Gwen's embarrassed, high laughter as a grinning Morgana went into explicit, though falsified, detail. It was a good-humored lark, if anything. But she doesn't miss it.
Morgana knows she would not allow the generosity of her attention or her hand away to any of the fit, handsome men roaming the planet—not when she could have Gwen like this. Certain in her actions and bridled with a sort of… dominance over her mistress. Never at any time, in all they knew each other, had Morgana abused her position by ordering Gwen to warm her bed, to treat her any less human than she rightfully deserved. Servants were not footstools, or simple orifices.
And she never would.
The gentle scrape of her hairbrush bristles, one of the many pointless birthday gifts, to Morgana's scalp is calming, but something troubling must have flickered in green eyes.
"What is it?" Gwen murmurs to her, eyeing her profile with blinking concern. She places the hairbrush on top of her bureau's surface, shoving Morgana's chair around. "What do you need? Tell me." Flowery, lavender-colored sleeves brush over the length of Morgana's leg, as Gwen's arms fold there and she kneels beside the chair, gazing up at her.
Morgana tilts her head, meeting those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes, and smiling meekly. "A kiss," she says, quietly. "Please."
Gwen returns a smile, dimpling her cheeks. She leans up, melding their lips together to show her approval in chaste warmth that lasts far too briefly for Morgana's liking. But the thought stays hidden in her mind, and she broods very little on it further with the distraction of Gwen's fingers sliding along the pale, ample curve of Morgana's thigh.
"Touch yourself for me, Morgana."
Thighs shift open, without hesitancy; despite herself, despite how many times they've done this before, Morgana can sense the burn of a flush settling over her face, her breasts. "Wider," Gwen tells her, coolly, keeping her palms flat on her inner thighs. "Keep your head up. I don't want to see you looking down." A low, close-mouthed noise as Morgana's willowy fingers reach down, tentatively caressing over the dark crest of her pubic hair, before running along damp, outer vaginal lips.
The tip of Morgana's first finger pushes within the moisture, nudging inner lips, feeling the pure heat radiating from herself. She bites down a whimper, tickling at the back of her throat, as Gwen's smile brightens. "That's my good girl," she praises, whispering, and circling brown, callous-rough thumbs against the tensing muscles in her reach.
The whimper doubles its struggle, as Morgana chooses to gasp, clawing at the side of the ornate, oak-wood chair when Gwen's mouth joins the fingers, her tongue laving the nub of flesh between Morgana's legs that ignites white-hot sparks flying behind eyelids. It takes every bit of her control to keep from lifting her hips from the plush cushion, from grabbing onto Gwen's shoulders for purchase of stability, or threading her fluid-dripping fingers into the ringlets of Gwen's aromal hair. An odor like wildflowers and smoke.
It doesn't take long for the wash of strong arousal to seize at Morgana's body, limping her bone-white grip, drawing harsher gasps from her. Gwen's tongue glides over her opening, mouth sucking lightly before she leans out, chin glistening. Morgana tastes her own sex, on Gwen's soft lips, the insides of her mouth, on her own fingertips.
They kiss rougher with noses bumping and shuddering breathes twining in and out. And she loves it.
Loves abandoning the position of nobility over Gwen, the stoic title of 'Lady', in favor of an insatiable sensualism, and the weight of her mistress grinding down and moaning in her lap.
One day, perhaps. Perhaps the differing roles would meld, as sweetly as their kisses.
But hardly soon enough.
I swear… I was going to be driven out of my MIND if I didn't get something done for Femmeslash February. Not that my mind hasn't already wandered out of the house with a one-way ticket to Glasgow. Far, faaaaar away from me. Enough about that, this is my debut into the Merlin fandom, and I hope it was somewhat satisfactory. I plan on doing much more for Merlin (late in the game, I'm unsurprised). Gwen/Morgana, Arthur/Merlin, Mordred/Morgana, Everyone/Merlin, Everyone/Morgana, Gwaine/Percival, Lancelot/not being dead, y'know. All the good stuff.
During the daytime, Morgana is in charge. But as soon as the sun sets, Gwen takes control and Morgana obeys her every command."