The Sacred Simplicity Of You At My Side - part 2/?
It continues:
Gwen/Morgana - PG13 - 1k - In which Morgana has a small psycho-sexual crisis
---
These dreams, these visions rimmed in the golden echo of power, always, always meant something. They showed things that would or could be, though it was never certain.
But the future. They always showed the future.
Morgana brushed her own hair that morning. She sent Gwen away in a slight state of confusion.
“My lady?”
“Yes Gwen, I’m alright. Why don’t you have the morning off? It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Go down to the markets, have… have some fun.”
“The… markets?” Gwen frowned a little, mystified. Morgana’s eyes fixed on the tiny line that appeared in the middle of her forehead when she did that. Her face was so expressive, Morgana realised. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before? “Do you want me to fetch you something?”
“No, no, Gwen. Honestly. I’m fine. Just go have a good time.”
After a little more coaxing, a few more puzzled looks and indecisive pauses on Gwen’s part, she had gone, leaving Morgana alone to finally try and work this - this thing - out.
She stared at her own face in the mirror as she dragged the comb through her hair. There was no mistaking what the dream had been showing. You didn’t have to be a genius to work that out. Morgana didn’t have much experience in the area, very little with boys (she’d honestly never thought any man worth it, worth the risk. Well, except maybe Arthur, possibly. Possibly.), and none at all with girls. With girls. The idea drifted in the air in front of her, so alien, so wrong, and yet… and yet… and yet why not, a quiet voice seemed to float up from the back of her mind. Why not girls? Why not Gwen?
She huffed, frustrated, slamming the comb onto the dresser a little harder than strictly necessary. She pushed her seat back roughly from the trembling table. The whole idea was ridiculous. Before she left the room, she paused to check her reflection. The loose, smooth dark hair, trailing seductively over her shoulders. The deep blue of the dress, against the fairness of her skin. Her eyes, blue and beautiful in her fine-featured face. Really, she could have anyone she wanted. The belle of Camelot. Probably the wank fantasy of the entire kingdom, she thought, traitorously, and who could blame them? The velvet of the dress hugged her smooth curves appealingly. Definitely not a boy.
She froze, a little, after that thought arose, unbidden. Then straightened her neck to lift her fine nose into the air, defiantly. Ridiculous.
She swept from the room. Grandly, of course.
---
Morgana had always been extremely fond of Gwen. Loved her, even, in her own, preoccupied way. But since the dream, she’d been noticing her more, noticing her in ways she’d never even imagined before. Gwen’s fingers, deftly unlacing her gown at the end of the day, made her think of those fingers being deft in infinitely more useful places. The stretch of Gwen’s shoulder, revealed briefly while she reached for a high corner with a duster, forcefully plunged Morgana’s mind into the thought of what that skin would feel like, the memory of the feel of it, soft and hard and so hot to touch with the pads of her fingertips or the heel of her hand… how she knew, she knew that if she pressed a kiss just there, just to that hollow, Gwen wouldn’t be able to stop herself gasping and clutching and maybe even mewing just a little bit…
And it never stops. The caught moments, the flashes of unexpected want that leave her gasping. The long sweep of Gwen’s neck, the soft curls that escape from the loose knot at the nape of her neck…
Morgana, in her whole life, had only ever regarded women’s beauty in comparison to her own. Not that she was vain. After all, someone could be perfectly nice, even if their nose was a little large or their hair really didn’t suit. And anyway, her own looks had always felt somehow superfluous, something unearned and unbidden, making her an object of desire when she craved to be an object of respect. But ever since her sword had been wrested away from her screaming thirteen year old hands, her beauty had become the weapon to replace it, a dangerously effective tool to manipulate, to achieve her own ends. And she’d come to relish it. She’d defended her own superiority carefully, her position as Camelot’s first lady - being aware that she should take extra care with her hair that night, because Lady Susanne was visiting and her sweet, golden locks provided serious competition. Or wearing the dress with just that little bit of an added dip in the neckline, to combat Lady Melina’s shapely legs.
Gwen didn’t fit into this category. She was no rival for Morgana’s own particular brand of stunning. Gwen was soft at the edges where Morgana was sharp as a razor, but had the strength of steel within her when Morgana was often secretly lost and afraid. Her skin was deep and tan where Morgana’s was as fair and fine as porcelain, her hands rough from hard work where Morgana’s were defined and long. She would never draw the attention away from Morgana in a crowed room, following in her regal, ethereally intimidating wake; a simply clothed, modest shadow.
And yet…
And yet when she smiled, it was more than breathtaking.
---
A week later, things hadn’t improved. Not at all. She had started dreaming about Gwen. Not sharp, power-soaked prophetic dreams like the first - these ones were just the normal kind. Which was almost worse. She dreamt about having Gwen in her bed, Arthur’s bed, a field of wildflowers, the throne room. She dreamt about kissing her until her lips were bitten red. She dreamt of Gwen sighing, Gwen whispering darling into her neck, Gwen pressing hard into that spot that spot right there and smiling into Morgana’s face.
Then again, sometimes she dreamt of Gwen laughing at her, of her standing on the side of her dream with pity and shock and disgust in her eyes. “You’re sick,” Dream Gwen sneered, “You’re a sick-minded, dirty witch.”
“No, no,” Dream Morgana argued back, “I’m just in love with you.”
Gwen/Morgana - PG13 - 1k - In which Morgana has a small psycho-sexual crisis
---
These dreams, these visions rimmed in the golden echo of power, always, always meant something. They showed things that would or could be, though it was never certain.
But the future. They always showed the future.
Morgana brushed her own hair that morning. She sent Gwen away in a slight state of confusion.
“My lady?”
“Yes Gwen, I’m alright. Why don’t you have the morning off? It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Go down to the markets, have… have some fun.”
“The… markets?” Gwen frowned a little, mystified. Morgana’s eyes fixed on the tiny line that appeared in the middle of her forehead when she did that. Her face was so expressive, Morgana realised. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before? “Do you want me to fetch you something?”
“No, no, Gwen. Honestly. I’m fine. Just go have a good time.”
After a little more coaxing, a few more puzzled looks and indecisive pauses on Gwen’s part, she had gone, leaving Morgana alone to finally try and work this - this thing - out.
She stared at her own face in the mirror as she dragged the comb through her hair. There was no mistaking what the dream had been showing. You didn’t have to be a genius to work that out. Morgana didn’t have much experience in the area, very little with boys (she’d honestly never thought any man worth it, worth the risk. Well, except maybe Arthur, possibly. Possibly.), and none at all with girls. With girls. The idea drifted in the air in front of her, so alien, so wrong, and yet… and yet… and yet why not, a quiet voice seemed to float up from the back of her mind. Why not girls? Why not Gwen?
She huffed, frustrated, slamming the comb onto the dresser a little harder than strictly necessary. She pushed her seat back roughly from the trembling table. The whole idea was ridiculous. Before she left the room, she paused to check her reflection. The loose, smooth dark hair, trailing seductively over her shoulders. The deep blue of the dress, against the fairness of her skin. Her eyes, blue and beautiful in her fine-featured face. Really, she could have anyone she wanted. The belle of Camelot. Probably the wank fantasy of the entire kingdom, she thought, traitorously, and who could blame them? The velvet of the dress hugged her smooth curves appealingly. Definitely not a boy.
She froze, a little, after that thought arose, unbidden. Then straightened her neck to lift her fine nose into the air, defiantly. Ridiculous.
She swept from the room. Grandly, of course.
---
Morgana had always been extremely fond of Gwen. Loved her, even, in her own, preoccupied way. But since the dream, she’d been noticing her more, noticing her in ways she’d never even imagined before. Gwen’s fingers, deftly unlacing her gown at the end of the day, made her think of those fingers being deft in infinitely more useful places. The stretch of Gwen’s shoulder, revealed briefly while she reached for a high corner with a duster, forcefully plunged Morgana’s mind into the thought of what that skin would feel like, the memory of the feel of it, soft and hard and so hot to touch with the pads of her fingertips or the heel of her hand… how she knew, she knew that if she pressed a kiss just there, just to that hollow, Gwen wouldn’t be able to stop herself gasping and clutching and maybe even mewing just a little bit…
And it never stops. The caught moments, the flashes of unexpected want that leave her gasping. The long sweep of Gwen’s neck, the soft curls that escape from the loose knot at the nape of her neck…
Morgana, in her whole life, had only ever regarded women’s beauty in comparison to her own. Not that she was vain. After all, someone could be perfectly nice, even if their nose was a little large or their hair really didn’t suit. And anyway, her own looks had always felt somehow superfluous, something unearned and unbidden, making her an object of desire when she craved to be an object of respect. But ever since her sword had been wrested away from her screaming thirteen year old hands, her beauty had become the weapon to replace it, a dangerously effective tool to manipulate, to achieve her own ends. And she’d come to relish it. She’d defended her own superiority carefully, her position as Camelot’s first lady - being aware that she should take extra care with her hair that night, because Lady Susanne was visiting and her sweet, golden locks provided serious competition. Or wearing the dress with just that little bit of an added dip in the neckline, to combat Lady Melina’s shapely legs.
Gwen didn’t fit into this category. She was no rival for Morgana’s own particular brand of stunning. Gwen was soft at the edges where Morgana was sharp as a razor, but had the strength of steel within her when Morgana was often secretly lost and afraid. Her skin was deep and tan where Morgana’s was as fair and fine as porcelain, her hands rough from hard work where Morgana’s were defined and long. She would never draw the attention away from Morgana in a crowed room, following in her regal, ethereally intimidating wake; a simply clothed, modest shadow.
And yet…
And yet when she smiled, it was more than breathtaking.
---
A week later, things hadn’t improved. Not at all. She had started dreaming about Gwen. Not sharp, power-soaked prophetic dreams like the first - these ones were just the normal kind. Which was almost worse. She dreamt about having Gwen in her bed, Arthur’s bed, a field of wildflowers, the throne room. She dreamt about kissing her until her lips were bitten red. She dreamt of Gwen sighing, Gwen whispering darling into her neck, Gwen pressing hard into that spot that spot right there and smiling into Morgana’s face.
Then again, sometimes she dreamt of Gwen laughing at her, of her standing on the side of her dream with pity and shock and disgust in her eyes. “You’re sick,” Dream Gwen sneered, “You’re a sick-minded, dirty witch.”
“No, no,” Dream Morgana argued back, “I’m just in love with you.”