Concerto for Two Violins (1/2)
Title: Concerto for Two Violins
Wordcount: ~17,500
Summary: In which Gwaine and Morgana are friends with a generous benefits package, Arthur and Merlin might be breaking up, and everyone is in the Camelot Symphony Orchestra.
Content notices: some brief light bondage in one of the sex scenes
Fic Notes: Written for this prompt on the meme, because I was waiting for the influx of Gwaine/Morgana after that one picture (non-spoilery!) and ended up deciding to be proactive.
Music Notes: 1. The orchestra plays Faure's Pelleas and Melisande (that link goes to the first part of it, but the other three parts are right in the sidebar if you want to keep listening along). Morgana and Gwaine play the first movement of Bach's Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor.
2. I have played in an orchestra, but it's been a while! I do not claim that this is how most orchestras are actually run (though it's certainly how the practices go).
3. The Suzuki method is mocked with love.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any of the music performed in this fic.
Morgana wakes up in the wet spot.
Actually, she discovers when she flails a hand out to find safe ground to move to, that is not entirely accurate. The entire bed is the wet spot. “Fuck you,” she mumbles into the pillow, because Gwaine isn’t next to her but the shower isn’t on so he’s lurking somewhere nearby. “I told you that was an unnecessary amount of lube.”
“You were the one who kept licking it off everything.”
“You managed to find flavoured lube that doesn’t taste horrible.” Morgana shoves her face out of the pillow and glances around. Gwaine’s bedroom is a complete mess, all the covers got shoved off the bed in the night, and she’s pretty sure her panties landed on the windowsill. Unless Gwaine is fond of green lace, which wouldn’t be terribly surprising. It’s generally best not to ask what Gwaine gets up to in his spare time. “Fucking ouch. I think I have a sex hangover.”
She finally locates Gwaine, who is lounging in the doorway to his bedroom wearing a dressing gown he hasn’t bothered to tie and leering at her. “I am going to petition the maestro to have at least one piece by a Russian per concert.”
Morgana doesn’t dignify that with an answer, because he enjoys mocking her for how she gets after the orchestra does Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky or Rachmaninov, especially now that he reaps the benefits. Instead, she levers herself to a sitting position and stretches the kinks out of her back. “What time is it?”
Gwaine squints around until he finds the alarm clock. Which is on the floor. Morgana tries to remember which one of them kicked it this time. They don’t even have alcohol as an excuse, this is just pitiful. “Ten,” he decides eventually, after twisting his head around to see the display properly.
“Shit.” Morgana struggles off the bed and tries not to touch anything, as she’s incredibly sticky and in desperate need of a shower she doesn’t have time to take at Gwaine’s, since if she showers at his place he always joins her even if he’s already showered on his own. “Mordred’s coming to my place at eleven thirty for his lesson, and he always gives me these looks when I smell like sex. Am I wrong in thinking eight-year-olds shouldn’t know things like that?”
“Mordred is a deeply creepy child.”
“Oh, hush, he’s a love and you know it.” Morgana snags her panties off the windowsill and decides that considering they didn’t come off for quite some time into last night’s proceedings, she isn’t going to put them on again. She really needs to start keeping a change of clothes at Gwaine’s place, except that would make everyone ask really uncomfortable questions and all of her happily-in-long-term-relationships friends will be so disappointed when they figure out what she and Gwaine are doing. “Where’s my dress?”
Gwaine picks it up off the floor and brandishes it at her. It’s too short and sparkly to be anything but a walk-of-shame dress and all of London will know it, but she’s worn his clothes before and it’s generally even worse, so she’ll put up with it. “Someday Mordred is going to kidnap you and keep you in his closet until you get Stockholm Syndrome and agree to marry him when he turns sixteen.”
“If he keeps playing Boccherini as beautifully as he does perhaps I won’t object.” At that, Gwaine’s face is a picture. Morgana rolls her eyes and tugs her dress on over her head, pulling it down until she’s sure nobody on the Tube is going to get an eyeful. “Really, Gwaine, do you think I would? If nothing else, his mother is a nightmare. Nimueh is the worst backstage parent I’ve ever run across. Just because she couldn’t make the Orchestra when she was younger …”
“Do you want some breakfast?” Gwaine interrupts before she can get properly going.
“No, my mouth tastes of sex and body frosting, I need my toothbrush before I go anywhere near food.” Morgana dangles her panties from her hand. “Where’s my purse? I really can’t walk around carrying these without looking like a complete slag.” There’s a pause while Gwaine eyes her post-concert clubbing wear. “My purse, Gwaine,” she repeats, because there’s not much reply she can make to that.
“On the table, same place you always put it.” He yawns. “I need to get a second bed just for us to have sex on, so I can take post-hook-up naps without changing my sheets.”
Morgana wanders out of the bedroom in search of her boots, which probably got left in the hallway. “You’re just lazy. You even have a laundry room in your building, not all of us are that lucky.” Miraculously, her stockings are right next to her boots, so she picks everything up and sits in one of Gwaine’s mismatched kitchen chairs to pull them on. “Are the Wanderers playing the pub tonight? Merlin asked last night, but you weren’t around to ask.”
“Yeah, we’re playing a set. You coming?”
“To watch you waste your potential and doom yourself to staying with the second violinists forever? Wouldn’t dream of missing.” She tugs on the zipper of her right boot, which keeps on sticking. “Besides, everyone else will be there having a post-concert drink and I haven’t talked to anyone properly in weeks. For all I know Lancelot could finally have got off his arse and proposed. Though I think Gwen would have squealed loud enough for the whole continent to hear in that case.”
Gwaine punches a few buttons on his coffeemaker. “From what I’ve heard, you haven’t missed much. Merlin tells me everything, and he gossips worse than an old woman, so I would have heard anything interesting.”
“Unless Merlin and Arthur are having another honeymoon phase, they’re about due one.” She stuffs her panties in her purse and tries not to have flashbacks to university. “Especially with Merlin writing his great symphony, we all know there are going to be some virtuosic cello parts.”
“We’ll see if Uther lets the orchestra perform it. Arthur will obviously lobby quite hard for it.” And there’s all her things. “I’ll see you at the pub to watch you wasting your talent and your gorgeous instrument on fiddling, yes? Have a lovely day.”
“Call me if Mordred tries to abduct you,” Gwaine returns, never looking up from his coffeemaker, and Morgana breezes out of his flat.
*
The pubs Gwaine and his little band play in invariably smell of pipe smoke and grease, and Morgana always wants to snatch away the instruments from all of them before they get damaged by the atmosphere. Tonight, Gwaine’s slouched in the corner of The Dragon’s Head with the sort of posture that would make his first violin teacher roll in her grave, with Elyan nodding over his guitar and Freya perched on a stool with an assortment of whistles scattered around her.
The usual patrons of the seedy little bar seem rather confused to have it invaded by a bunch of musicians, some of whom order things that aren’t beer and all of whom sprawl over several tables and cheerfully heckle the band. They’re all a little giddy even after last night’s clubbing, relieved to be done with a concert that involved no less than three soloists from outside that could have been done much better by members of the Camelot Symphony Orchestra. Morgana included. But she’s trying very hard not to be bitter about that.
“What are you looking so serious about?” Merlin asks, jolting Morgana out of staring into space. “We’re meant to be relaxing.”
And everyone certainly is, or at least most of them. Gwen is blushing at something Lancelot’s said because he turns her into a fifteen-year-old girl even though they’ve been dating forever, Vivian is trying to talk Elena into being her wing-woman even though it’s pretty clear all Elena wants to do is stare soulfully at Leon, Percival is talking to Lancelot when Lance isn’t talking to Gwen, and Arthur and Merlin are pretending to have a great deal of fun and not talking to each other very much, even to tease. Morgana’s doing her best not to get involved in that, because it’s rare a month goes by when they don’t fight and all of them have learned to stay clear of the explosions by now. “I am relaxing,” she says over the noise of Gwaine and the band crashing into a close on one of their tunes. “I was just thinking about Mordred, Nimueh wants to start him on Vivaldi but I don’t really think he’s old enough for it yet. Just because those Suzuki children start him young doesn’t mean-”
“Yes, yes, we all know your feelings on Suzuki,” says Arthur with a roll of his eyes, just a little too brightly. “Honestly, Morgana, you are such a snob. Can you stop worrying about your little prodigy for a few hours and relax? God, you need to get laid, and you know it’s bad if I’m saying that.”
“Yes, Arthur, obviously sex will solve all of my problems. Why didn’t I think of that before?” She very carefully doesn’t look at Gwaine. “I’ll just run right off to the bar and pull one of the ancient men with bad teeth, shall I? I imagine they’re animals in bed.”
That distracts Arthur neatly, but Merlin is still looking at her, not laughing or making faces. Morgana looks back, raising her eyebrows. She and Merlin are too much alike to be too close, but it also means he understands her better than most of her friends. If Arthur and Gwaine didn’t adore him so much, she would probably hate him. “You just need to listen to less angry music,” says Merlin at last, breaking eye contact. “All those Russians and Italians can’t be good for you. Try some Brahms, or something.”
Morgana makes a face, since everyone knows her opinion on the Romantics. “Arthur thinks I need sex, you think I need Brahms-”
“And I think you need to come and sing ‘Danny Boy’ with us,” says Gwaine, who’s snuck up behind her like a complete arsehole. She smacks him without even bothering to look at him.
“In your dreams.”
He leans over her shoulder to give her his best soulful look, which stopped working on her approximately half an hour after she met him. “Definitely. In my very best, dirty dreams, there you are like an Irish queen, singing ‘Danny Boy’ while riding me into-”
“Disgusting!” Vivian interjects, flapping her hands about like she isn’t sure whether she’d rather put them over her mouth to keep from retching or her ears to keep her from hearing more. Percival lets out a pained grunt of agreement. “Why do we let you anywhere near us?”
“Because his eternal quest to get into Morgana’s pants is both hilarious and slightly sad,” says Arthur, and gives Gwaine a very serious look. “For your own good, mate, give up. I’m pretty sure she’s like a praying mantis in bed. Do you want to get your head ripped off?”
Gwaine’s hand tightens momentarily on her shoulder, but he’s grinning when he answers. “Depends on how euphemistic that is.”
Every man at the table makes a horrified face. “Masochist,” Vivian sniffs at last, and goes back to wheedling Elena into helping her with the man she’s got her eye on.
“Shrew,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin elbows him, but he’s looking at Morgana again. She keeps her face as impassive as possible, because while neither she nor Gwaine has told anyone what they’ve been doing for the last few months, if anyone figures it out, it’s going to be Merlin.
“Be gone, Gwaine,” says Morgana before anything more can be said. “The adults want to have a conversation.”
“Your cruelty breaks my heart, really.” Gwaine pats her on the head (and she is going to have to kill him if he messed up her hair) and wanders back towards Elyan and Freya, humming ‘Danny Boy’ as he goes. The band sits and chats for a few minutes, probably working out what medleys to play next while Gwaine does something with his phone.
Predictably enough, Morgana’s phone vibrates in her pocket just before Gwaine strikes up yet another cheery Irish tune. She doesn’t bother checking it, since judging by his smug grin it’s going to be something she doesn’t want the rest of her friends reading and Merlin keeps darting her glances. Instead, she ignores it in favor of getting in a spirited argument with Leon over whether or not the maestro’s choice of doing Pelleas and Melisande at their next concert is a good one.
Morgana saves the text until she’s home in bed, later than she should be after a few very long days. next time we get together remind me to eat you out kept meaning to last night.
Next time you sext me, use punctuation, she sends back, and goes to sleep smiling.
*
The first orchestra rehearsal after a concert is always something of a joke. They get their first pieces of music, play a few measures of them, and then generally just sit around and gossip until the maestro gives up and sees fit to release them. Tonight, Uther just has his assistants hand out all four movements of Pelleas and Melisande and has them play the first part of the first one.
Morgana tries to keep her face straight while they rehearse-Fauré is better than Brahms and Chopin but not by much, in her opinion, though Gwen must be grateful for the oboe solos. Gwaine pulls faces at her from the second violins and she texts him while the maestro is yelling at the violas to tell him to quit it. He texts her back to inform her that he isn’t wearing pants and she has to slap her phone back into her pocket because Alice is a wonderful stand partner but she’s also rather a prude.
In between measures, she catches up on the gossip from the other violinists and looks around to see what’s going on in the other sections. Vivian’s still with the second violins and looking rebellious about it, with Elena a few rows back in the same section and perfectly content because for best friends they are remarkably different. Gwen is frowning, lip caught between her teeth, as she marks something up on her score because normally the maestro doesn’t feature the woodwinds much and she gets nervous when he does. Percival is with the rest of the percussionists, who look about as pleased about Pelleas and Melisande as Morgana feels (hopefully the rest of the music for the concert will give them something to do, or Percival at least. She may not be interested in dating him, but she doesn’t know a straight woman who dislikes the sight of a muscular man at the timpani). Lancelot and Leon are discussing something seriously from the front of the viola section, and Lancelot darts a glance over at the cellos.
Morgana follows the look automatically, expecting to see Arthur leaning back in his seat saying something sarcastic to Merlin and Merlin laughing at him from a few rows behind while Gaius looked on indulgently from the second chair Arthur ousted him to nearly a year ago now, but it’s not what she finds. Instead, Arthur is staring straight at his music, jaw set in a way she recognizes all too well, and Merlin is watching miserably, hand curled around the neck of his cello while he fingers something on it, probably one of his own compositions. She’s seen them fight-hell, everyone who’s known them for more than a week has seen them fight-but she doesn’t think she’s seen anything quite like this.
Neither of them are looking anywhere near the violins and Arthur hasn’t called her, so Morgana catches Gwen’s eye first, and then Gwaine’s, and once they’ve looked at the cellos and back at her, they exchange mutual looks of what the fucking fuck is going on that neither of them seems able to answer any better than she can.
Before long, all their friends are exchanging a network of looks, telegraphing while the maestro harangues them for not paying attention well enough and then for their train wreck of an attempt at trying the first movement again, since half the orchestra isn’t paying any attention to their scores. Arthur and Merlin aren’t stupid, of course (well, it’s debatable for Arthur, but even he isn’t entirely blind), so within a few minutes both of them have figured out that people are looking at them. Arthur’s response is to glare even more fiercely at his score and play a good deal more angrily than Fauré calls for, while Merlin’s is to duck his head and try to look stoic.
Morgana would almost be sorry for starting it off, since it’s clear neither of them wants to even think about whatever fight they’ve had, but it would have happened anyway. The orchestra gossips like a lot of old biddies, especially on the subject of who is hooking up with whom (yet another reason she and Gwaine aren’t telling anyone they’re sleeping together), and Arthur and Merlin are practically an institution, the couple everyone knows, and even the maestro has stopped glaring at his son for daring to date another (male) cellist instead of a woman who will give him suitably musical grandchildren. A fight that isn’t bickering or one of their periodic explosions with both of them shouting dramatically at every opportunity will be enough to fuel chatter for weeks unless they fix it.
“If you are not going to rehearse, I am not going to waste my time!” the maestro shouts just as Morgana is attempting an elaborate conversation with Elena through eyebrows and mouthed words alone because Elena has forgotten her mobile again and can’t text on the sly like the rest of them. “All of you go home, and if you aren’t paying better attention by next week, there will be consequences!”
Morgana mouths the last few words along with him and sticks her score in her folder to practice later, waiting out the rush to get to instrument cases and go home. Arthur and Merlin, she can’t help but notice, practically dash for the exits as fast as they can carry their instruments, and they don’t go in the same direction.
Gwaine taps her on the shoulder with his bow, startling her and getting a smear of rosin on one of her favorite tops, and she turns around to glare. “I scrounged up a new mafia movie, want to come over and watch?” Morgana mentally extends that evening into a viewing of whatever horrible film he’s found this time and then whatever sort of shag they’re in the mood for, and weighs it against lurking by her phone until Arthur inevitably calls her to complain about whatever it is he and Merlin are fighting about. Gwaine knows her too well, because he rolls his eyes. “Let them sort whatever it is out on their own, they’re grown men for all Arthur doesn’t act like it.”
“Like Merlin isn’t an excellent example of the Peter Pan Syndrome in action,” Morgana says, mostly because she feels like she ought to be on her brother’s side.
“No, that’s me,” replies Gwaine, hauling her to her feet and making her yelp when he almost hits her violin with his bow. “See you lot later,” he calls to Vivian and Elena, who are chatting to Percival. Well, Vivian is chatting to Percival, Elena is edging slowly away. Morgana shrugs off Gwaine’s arm and waves as well, then gives a nod to Gwen, who’s already made a beeline for Lancelot so they can gaze at each other in a truly depressing manner. Leon, standing nearby, looks about as pained as Elena does. Gwaine interrupts before Morgana can debate the merits of rescuing either one of them. “Come on, you can worry about them later, let’s get out of here before everyone invites themselves along to movie night, shall we?”
“Men,” mutters Morgana, but her heart isn’t in it. Gwaine tows her by the elbow towards their cases and she shakes him off because being manhandled is a bit much for her to take. “You are insatiable,” she adds.
He just grins at her, utterly unrepentant. “That’s my middle name. Now come on, or I’ll have to carry you, which is difficult with two violins in the mix.”
*
“Hello there,” Gwaine croons into her chest later that night on his couch as the DVD plays its menu music for the sixth or seventh time.
“You have an unhealthy relationship with my breasts.” Morgana flails an arm out and catches the remote, turning the whole damn thing off and cutting everything off abruptly into silence and darkness.
“Hush, we’re having a moment.”
Morgana stares at the ceiling and heaves a long-suffering sigh (Gwaine makes an appreciative noise when her chest moves). “I could have stayed home, you know, and harassed Arthur to figure out what’s going on.”
“You have an unhealthy obsession with your brother’s love life.” He starts mouthing at her breasts through her shirt. “Would you really rather listen to him bitch than have me eat you out? Because nobody’s forcing you to stay.”
For a second, she considers arguing, but he has a point. “It’s not like there’s any other interesting gossip going on that doesn’t involve us,” she says, mostly for form’s sake.
Gwaine lifts his head and grins up at her. “True, I suppose the pool on when Leon figures out Elena is in love with him is getting a bit dull by now.”
“Exactly. That’s why all the interest in Arthur and Merlin.” And the fact that she would quite like to break Merlin’s fingers if he’s broken Arthur’s heart. However, judging by today it’s Arthur who’s done the breaking, and she isn’t sure quite what to do with that.
“It’ll all have blown over by tomorrow and they’ll come to pub night looking horrifyingly fucked out. As we could, if you would stop neglecting me.”
“The things I put up with,” says Morgana, and kisses him. She’s done the friends-with-benefits thing in the past and been told kissing shouldn’t be part of it, but she’s never understood it even if she folds, and she’s glad Gwaine’s never mentioned it, as he’s a really good kisser.
Tonight, it takes all of thirty seconds to figure out that he’s in one of his caveman moods, and while Morgana feels like she should dislike them on feminist principle, they always end up working out well for her, so she just rolls her eyes a bit and lets him lay her out like he wants her. When he goes back to working her over through her top, though, she shoves him away. He gives her a long-suffering look, which is rich. “What?”
“Through the bra, fine, but I like this shirt, and I don’t want it ruined.” She wriggles her way out of it while he takes the piss out of her for caring about clothes in the heat of passion, and takes his off as well because if he’s going to be a caveman she’s going to enjoy the view. “There, go to town.”
Gwaine kisses her on the nose, which she ponders being affronted by, and goes back to manhandling her, since his couch really isn’t large enough for two adults to do anything besides sit quietly on and he seems to have no intention of moving to the bedroom. Morgana mostly lets him, and makes the mistake of laughing when he nips at a ticklish spot on her stomach, since it means they devolve into a tussle of limbs and tickling and the only reason they manage to stay on the couch is because they catch themselves on the coffee table and manage to pull themselves back on, panting and pressed together.
Morgana’s half-expecting them to rub together like a pair of teenagers, considering his mood, or maybe for him to whip a condom out of one of the many mysterious places he seems to keep them in around his flat, but instead he gives her a devilish look, grabs her by the hips, and shoves her up until her ass hits the armrest. She clings to the top of the couch and gives him a glare while he just keeps grinning, working her panties off under her skirt as he goes.
He doesn’t bother much with foreplay, since apparently he’s a man on a mission and she’s been depriving him terribly. He pins her hips to the armrest with one hand, loops his other arm around her so she doesn’t go backwards, and nuzzles his way under her skirt. It’s a shock, from nothing to the wet, insistent press of his mouth in just a second, but she likes it that way, grabs tight to the back of the couch because otherwise she can’t see it ending well.
For all she thought Gwaine was feeling impatient tonight, he seems willing to lavish all his attention on using his mouth on her. He’s endlessly inventive whenever they’re together, about new positions or things to try, but Morgana’s never seen him focus everything in on just one thing like this and God but he gives good head. She’s going to send fucking flowers to whoever trained him. He knows just how to use his tongue, his lips, the gentle scrap of teeth, even, to keep her tense and trembling and right at the edge. It doesn’t take much time until she’s impatient with it, wanting to come, wanting him to fuck her, but no urging, even when she gives in and asks for it, will make him speed up or move his hands so she can at least grind against him.
When he finally lets her come, what seems like ages later, she already feels near-boneless and assumes that he’s going to fuck her, but instead he just keeps on with what he’s doing. “I already came,” she manages when he slides two fingers up inside her and keeps licking around them.
Gwaine pulls out with a sloppy noise. “Yes, and you’re going to again,” he says, and dives back in.
Morgana doesn’t bother analyzing what he’s doing, this time, because she’s tired and trembly and she feels amazing but it hurts, getting pushed this close to the edge again so soon, and he’s still taking his time about it. She moves one hand carefully to balance on his head, pushes down a little so he’ll get on with whatever his plan is for the night, unless it’s to bring her off with his mouth on the couch until they both pass out, which she wouldn’t put past him.
He takes mercy on her and lets her come more quickly this time, and they both stay there panting, his face turned into her thigh, mouthing absently at it while she attempts to piece her brain back together well enough to plan some revenge. She feels taken apart, and it’s hard to do anything but pet vaguely at Gwaine’s head in pitiful thanks and hold on to the couch with everything she has because she suspects the night isn’t over.
Like that’s some sort of cue, there’s the fumble of a key in the lock and before Morgana can do more than freeze and Gwaine can do more than pull his head out from under her skirt, Merlin comes bursting in, looking ready to spit. “Can’t stay with Arthur right now, so I’m sleeping on your couch to-oh my fucking God.”
And that’s the point when Morgana falls off the couch.
*
Ten minutes later, Morgana has a bottle of cold beer held to her head, and everyone is fully dressed and sitting around Gwaine’s kitchen table. Merlin is looking back and forth between them with the distinct air of a tacky dashboard animal, as if he’s not quite sure where to start.
“So, you and Arthur,” says Morgana, because someone’s got to take the initiative and she’s in favor of any initiative that involves not talking about her and Gwaine.
“So, you and Gwaine,” Merlin snaps back like he’s been just waiting for her to start. Gwaine rolls his eyes and holds his hands up like he’s preparing to hold them back if they lunge. Morgana leans back and adjusts her grip on the beer because she refuses to get into some sort of hair-pulling match with Merlin. Merlin spends another three seconds glowering before he slumps and mostly just looks tired. “Me and Arthur, but don’t think you two have got out of talking about whatever the hell that was on the couch, which, by the way, you’re sleeping on tonight, Gwaine.”
“You’re fucked either way, mate, Morgana and I have had sex on the bed as well.” Gwaine smirks as Merlin attempts to look pained. “Now, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
Merlin looks at Morgana for a few seconds, mouth pursed, and she tries to look anything but exhausted and annoyed, because she really does know what a complete fool Arthur can be and she’s willing to at least hear what Merlin has to say. “We’re … I don’t think he’s broken up with me, precisely, but he’s also made it clear he doesn’t want me at the flat tonight. Or tomorrow night.”
Morgana makes sure to keep her gaze away from Merlin’s cello in the corner, which he lugged all the way here. That’s more telling than anything he just said. Gwaine, who knows he’s less likely to get Merlin’s hackles up by doing it, gives it a pointed look instead. “So what does he think you’ve done?” Merlin just looks at Morgana again, and Gwaine shifts until he’s blocking her from Merlin’s line of sight. “She isn’t even here, I just can’t let her go until we’re sure she doesn’t have a head injury.” Morgana whacks him with the beer, careful not to crack it, and he just grins before turning back to Merlin. “Now, what is it?”
“I did it. I … it’s sort of a stupid thing that got way out of hand. But I was lying to him because Edwin’s in town and Arthur never liked him so when he found out we’d been for coffee he turned it into this whole thing about cheating and then said he can’t trust me anymore and things have been sort of … frosty.”
Morgana and Gwaine wince in tandem. Gwaine met them in the orchestra, not in university, but everyone knows how Arthur gets about cheating. He was very understanding (for Arthur, which still meant recriminations and awkward dinners in the cafeteria and throwing a pair of Morgana’s designer shoes, damn him) when Gwen broke it off with him for Lancelot, but he gets testy about the thought of it since. For no good reason, as far as Morgana can tell, because he and Merlin are stupid over each other. “Wait, he actually thinks you’re cheating?”
“I don’t know, I asked if he trusts me and he said he thought he did until he found out I was lying and then I might have called him an overprotective, jealous twat, and things sort of devolved from there.”
Gwaine seems a bit stunned by how comprehensively both of them have managed to ruin the best relationship either of them will ever have, or perhaps that’s Morgana projecting. Morgana opens her mouth to tell Merlin so, only to be interrupted by Gwaine, who kicks her before he speaks. “Well, that’s a bit of a train wreck, isn’t it?” Merlin nods miserably, face crumpling. Morgana hands him her beer even though her head still hurts like a bitch. She has no desire to see a grown man cry, especially not over her brother. “You didn’t break up, though.”
“No.” Merlin pops the top off the beer. Morgana’s head hurts more already. “He said he had to think about whether he could trust me again.”
“God, it’s sort of like listening to my parents fight,” says Gwaine, who’s never been very good at comforting people. “Isn’t it, Morgana?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she snaps, and kicks him in the ankle because Merlin is only looking more miserable, then stands up to pull a bag of frozen corn out of his freezer for her head. “Merlin, you know how Arthur gets, he’ll forgive you in a week, you’ll both apologize, and that will be the end of it.”
“I don’t think he will.” Merlin’s eyes get dangerously large and teary, and Morgana exchanges a panicked look with Gwaine when he looks mournfully down at his beer bottle. “You didn’t see his face.”
“Oh, Christ, don’t cry, I have a head injury and a lesson with Mordred where I’ll have to talk Nimueh down from Vivaldi in the morning, I cannot do this.” Morgana pulls her chair over next to Merlin’s and puts her arm around him, patting his shoulder awkwardly while he tries to get himself under control. “Tell anyone I’m doing this and I’ll cut you, just so you know.”
“A group hug sounds like an excellent idea,” says Gwaine, interrupting before Merlin can do more than snort softly, and leaps out of his chair to put his arms around both of them (and grope them both, because he’s Gwaine). Merlin leans into it almost immediately because he and Gwaine are just very large puppies, and Morgana joins with what she hopes comes across as a put-upon sigh a few seconds later. If either of them accuses her of cuddling she’ll just have to kill them.
“So,” Merlin says eventually from where his face has inexplicably become buried in Morgana’s shoulder. “The two of you. I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that maybe tonight wasn’t you giving into temptation at last or something.”
Morgana removes herself from the group hug. “Don’t make this into a romance novel, Merlin. We’re having sex. We have been for a few months now.” And it’s not serious because Gwaine doesn’t do commitment and Morgana has fucked up every relationship she’s ever had.
Merlin makes a series of faces that Morgana wishes she could take pictures of while he fits the last several months of dinners and pub nights and rehearsals into this new frame of reference. “You mean when Arthur was talking about praying mantises you were having sex?”
“Yes,” both of them say at once, Morgana with a great deal more annoyance.
His horrified look is enough to crack Gwaine up. “Okay. I’m not going to say this isn’t deeply disturbing, but it’s really not my problem tonight as long as Gwaine’s got a clean surface somewhere in this flat to sleep on, even if it’s the kitchen table.” Morgana bites her lip and carefully doesn’t look at Gwaine. “I did not want to know that,” Merlin says faintly.
“You asked for it,” says Gwaine.
Merlin rubs his hands over his face. “I guess. Look, you two just keep doing whatever you’re doing, all right? I’m not going to say I’m thrilled, but whatever, you’re adults and I’m not going to tattle.”
Morgana decides a tactical retreat is in order. Merlin probably needs to talk more, but he likely won’t say much with her there, and if he isn’t going to out them to their friends and the gossip of the whole of the orchestra, she owes him one. “Thank you, Merlin. Now, I’ll leave you lads to your gossip and take the Underground home. See you at rehearsal on Tuesday?”
“Yeah,” says Merlin, and pointedly looks away when Gwaine shows her to the door.
*
The next orchestra rehearsal is excruciating. They’re working on “La Fileuse,” the second movement of Pelleas and Melisande, which is all quick runs of triplets for the violins and the sound of it resembles nothing so much as mud when it ought to be crisp. Morgana grits her teeth and concentrates on the music, trying to drag her section along behind her by sheer force of will, and ignores how Gwaine plays little slips of the phrasing like jigs in short breaks while Uther yells at one section or another. Half the woodwinds seem to have colds, so Gwen is carrying her section while trying to play a piece that features woodwinds for once when the maestro generally prefers the strings or even the brass. And the cellos …
Well. The cello section is like an episode of some American soap opera, only with less long-lost twins. Arthur is ignoring absolutely everyone (which is partly Morgana’s fault for yelling at him for being a jealous git and ruining her night as a result, though she didn’t mention that last part to him), sawing away at his instrument in a way that would fit Beethoven far better than Fauré. Gaius is looking more disapproving than usual, were that possible, and Morgana is starting to wonder if his face will actually stick with one eyebrow raised that high. Gilli in the back row is giving Merlin soulful looks that are even worse than usual, apparently having heard the gossip and wanting to win over his long-time crush. Merlin looks pale and exhausted, not even bothering to give Arthur soulful looks of his own, and whenever the maestro releases the cellos for even thirty seconds, he’s got his pencil in his hand, scribbling something-probably the score for his great symphony, which Gwaine told her the morning after Merlin moved onto his couch is nearly finished.
Something must be done, and obviously no one else is competent enough to do it.
When break comes, Morgana snags Gwaine by the collar before he can rush off to watch Vivian yell at Percival since apparently something’s going on there, because she has bigger fish to fry. “Right, you’re going to distract Arthur and talk about anything but Merlin while I figure out how to fix this, understood?”
Gwaine just arches a brow at her, and Morgana sighs. If she thought anyone else could actually help, she would pick someone who listens to orders. “What do I get if I follow orders, milady?”
Morgana smiles sweetly and pulls him down so she can whisper in his ear. “Then next time you get to choose which one of us gets tied up.”
He laughs, a little bit unsteady, when she releases him. “Consider me convinced. And you happen to be in luck, his team lost at footie last night, that’ll distract him if anything will.” Morgana makes a go-on gesture, and he salutes before he walks off.
Merlin is still scribbling at his score, and Morgana looks around before she goes over, only to catch Elena’s eye. Elena looks between Morgana and Gwaine, brows drawn closer in confusion or suspicion or something close to it, then over at Vivian, then over at the cello section. When she looks at Morgana again, Morgana shakes her head, and hopes that takes care of at least part of it, and since Elena turns to go after Vivian before she goes for Percival’s balls, it works, at least for the time being. Morgana shakes it off and crosses the orchestra set-up, passing Arthur’s outraged look to stand in front of Merlin and plant her hands on her hips.
It takes Merlin a full five seconds to look up at her. “What do you want, Morgana?”
“This is unacceptable. And I thought I could handle the two of you being pathetic sadsacks, but it seems I can’t. So we’re going to fix this.”
Merlin puts his pencil down and crosses his arms defensively over the neck of his cello like he’s afraid Morgana might take it from him. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve called him, I’ve gone to the flat, I’ve sent him fucking Facebook messages, but all he says is that he needs more time.”
“That’s because he’s being stubborn.” She grins. “It’s a family trait, I’m afraid.”
Merlin looks vaguely terrified. Good. “Oh God. What are you going to do?”
Morgana snatches the score off his music stand while he’s still clutching his cello like he’s afraid she’s going to cut the strings or do something equally heinous, as if she would. Not even she’s that evil. Merlin makes a protesting noise, but doesn’t make a scene while she runs through the score at triple-time. Three movements, the last only half-finished, but remarkably good. She hadn’t expected that, but then, she hasn’t heard any of his compositions since university. As she’d expected, there are some lovely parts that feature the cello, ones written not because Merlin’s a cellist himself but because he’s in love with one. She’s not much of a composer, but she does recognize that much. “It’s about Arthur, right?”
“What?”
“You wrote it for Arthur. To play, to listen to, whatever.” She squints at the title in Merlin’s penciled scrawl. “The Dragon Symphony, my God, do you actually think you’re being subtle?” She drops it back on his music stand. “Excellent. You have a week to finish it.”
“What?”
“A week. To finish it and get it put in something electronic and legible and get all the parts printed off properly. We’ll need to get started rehearsing if we want to do it in the same concert as Pelleas, you expect a lot of your instruments.”
“Morgana, I can’t finish this in a week, are you mad? I won’t have time to sleep.”
“With the greatest of sympathy and affection, it’s not like you’re doing anything else right now. You’re sleeping on Gwaine’s couch and applying for teaching positions, which can wait a week. This needs to be finished.”
“What for? The maestro isn’t going to allow this to be performed, in case you’ve suddenly got an attack of amnesia. It’s not part of the symphonic canon.”
Morgana smirks down at him, then looks over to where Uther is on the phone to someone, probably Catrina in the Camelot Arts Office. “You worry about getting your piece finished in time, I’ll worry about the maestro.”
“I’m doomed,” Merlin realizes.
Morgana looks from Uther, who she barely speaks to most days, to Arthur, who’s trying to pretend he isn’t hurt that Morgana seems to be taking Merlin’s side, to Gwaine, who catches her eye from where he’s trying to cajole Arthur into a smile and gives her a helpless shrug. “Well,” she says, “at least we’re all on the same page.”
*
“Merlin has taken over my entire flat with his computer and several metric fucktons of manuscript paper. Why do I feel like you’re behind this?”
Morgana laughs and pries her eyes open to check the clock by her bed. Gwaine is up early. “Probably because I am.”
“Do I want to know more?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“In that case, there was a point to this phone call. And that point is that I can’t stay in my flat while Merlin is sitting in there tearing his hair out and muttering vicious slander about the second violins.”
“Are you wrangling for an invitation?”
“Obviously. I’m five minutes away, and you mentioned bondage last night. Did you think I wasn’t going to take you up on it as soon as possible?” Morgana winces, but it’s not like anyone in the neighbourhood is going to know who he’s talking to, or who he is, even. “Do you have any big plans for today?”
“Being tied up, apparently.” She looks at the clock again. It still says it’s just barely after eight thirty. “Honestly, who is that kinky before nine in the morning?”
“Like you aren’t getting hot thinking about it,” says Gwaine, not even talking dirty, just making conversation. “And anyway, you said I get to choose who gets tied up. Who says it’s going to be you?”
Morgana covers the mouthpiece on her phone so he can’t hear her take a shaky breath, but from his smug chuckle her silence is answer enough to that. “I stand corrected, and now I’m going to hang up so I can find equipment and clean my teeth before you get here.”
“See you in a few minutes,” he replies, leer clear in his voice, and hangs up before she can get the last word in.
It takes three minutes to clean her teeth, put on something sexier than track pants and one of Arthur’s old t-shirts, and find the white silk scarves she won at a bachelorette party. Gwaine buzzes her less than thirty seconds later, and she lets him up and opens the door before he can disturb her neighbours by pounding on it. “You really have nothing better to do on a Wednesday morning than booty call me?” she asks, mostly for form’s sake.
“Practice with Elyan and Freya later, but nothing this morning.”
“So I don’t get you all day?”
Gwaine steps past her into the flat and shrugs his jacket off onto the rack she has by the door. “Oh, I don’t know. That depends. I could be convinced to call Elyan and tell him I’m all … tied up.”
“Would you mind if we had breakfast before I have my wicked way with you? I imagine I’ll be hungry by lunch and it would be a shame to have to leave you all tied up while I put something together in the kitchen.”
At that, Gwaine rubs his hands together. “So I finally get to see how you like your eggs in the morning.”
Just for that, she makes toast instead.
After, she puts her phone on silent, filches Gwaine’s and stuffs it in his coat pocket, and puts all the locks on her door just in case Merlin or Arthur gets a bright idea about stopping by to mope. Gwaine just laughs at her and smacks her on the rear to move her towards the bedroom when she surveys her flat looking for other potential interruptions.
When they get to her room, Gwaine just looks around for a few seconds, eyebrows raised, and it occurs to Morgana that he hasn’t been in it before. He’s been in her flat, definitely, along with the rest of her friends, but since they started having sex it’s always been at his. Past time for her to host, then, she decides, and shoves him at the bed. “Trust you to have an actual four-poster you can tie me to,” he mutters, but he goes, picking up her ties on the way and collapsing on his back with no grace whatsoever.
“Shirt off,” she orders. “It’s not coming off otherwise, not if I’m tying your wrists.”
He takes it off, still grinning at the ceiling like he’s having the best day ever, and Morgana goes to work on the button of his jeans while reflecting how much she hates starting things like this up. Having someone all tied up for her, or even being tied up, is always amazing, but the logistics of getting there are another thing entirely.
She undresses him, mostly for something to do while she figures out the knots and what she’s going to do with him while she has him at her mercy because of course Gwaine fucking calls her for sex when her brain isn’t engaged yet, then snatches the white silk out of his hands. “You sure about this?” she asks. Neither of them has backed down from a challenge yet, but they still ask.
“More than. And I can always do it to you later.”
“Good.” She runs one of the strips of cloth between her fingers and moves to straddle Gwaine’s chest. “Wrists together or apart?”
“Apart.”
Morgana catches Gwaine’s left wrist and ties one of the scarves around it, testing the knot to make sure it won’t cut into him, then leashes the other end around her bedpost, pulling it taut. “Will that hurt?” He pulls at it, and there’s just enough give for him to bend his elbows a bit. He shakes his head, and Morgana moves to the other wrist, repeating the process. “Okay. Any strain?” Another shake of the head. This one comes with a smirk, and she pinches him. “Tell me to stop if it hurts more than you want it to.”
“Don’t worry, I can take it.” She pinches again, harder, and he laughs. “Fine, fine, if it’s too much I’ll tell you.”
“Good.” There are four scarves, but she doesn’t really want to bind his ankles, so she tosses the other two off the bed and bends down to kiss him. Gwaine shifts, leaning to try to follow her when she backs off a bit, and she feels the hitch in his breath when he realizes he can’t move that far. Just for that, she kisses him harder, pressing him back into the pillows and grabbing onto one of his hands, feeling around at the silk binding his wrist and tugging it just because it makes him bite her lip. He grabs back, twisting his hand around until the silk is looped awkwardly around her wrist too, binding them together even though it’s got to be straining his shoulder worse. “If you keep me here, I can’t blow you,” she whispers into his mouth, only half worrying if he can hear her.
“I can still fuck you,” he points out, moving his lips to her jaw, then her neck. She shoves his head back gently; if he strains his neck she’s never going to hear the end of it and Merlin is going to look mortified forever.
“Not without a condom you can’t.” She squirms against his erection, which is growing by the second. “So let me free for a minute to get one, would you?” He releases the loops and relaxes back into the headboard while she looks in the bedside drawer, ignoring Gwaine’s snort when she rifles past her vibrator. She makes a note to take it out sometime when he’s over and finally seizes a condom that isn’t out of date.
Morgana doesn’t settle onto him the second the condom is rolled on like she normally would. Instead, she goes back to kissing him, taking his hand again so he can lace their fingers together, though he doesn’t bother looping her back into the binding. She grinds up against him, doing the work for herself that he would normally do with his hands or his mouth, until she’s ready to take him, and then she moves down his body until she can sink down on his cock.
Even tied up and unable to grab her hips, Gwaine is pushy. He snaps his body up into hers, bracing with his legs and straining against her headboard, which starts creaking with every thrust, making her feel as if she’s back in university and pounding on the wall to shut up her neighbours. Morgana doesn’t let him go too fast, though. They’ve got all morning, and they were interrupted the last time they tried to have sex, so she keeps the pace slow and steady, letting her blood pick up bit by bit instead of all at once.
Morgana comes first, using her free hand to reach between them and make it happen because she can see how close Gwaine is, and she rides it out, letting him drive deep as he comes, taking all his weight on his arms for a second while he groans. She puts her face to his chest as they both pant it out.
When they’ve both recovered, Morgana levers herself off him, both of them making faces as he slips out of her and she pulls off the condom and ties it off, tossing it neatly in the wastebasket by the bed. That done, the unties the knots at his wrists and starts moving them around. “So soon?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “I was expecting you to want another round.”
“You’ll be no use at practice later with sore shoulders,” says Morgana, prodding him. “Now turn over and I’ll give you a massage, and if you’re very good, I’ll let you tie me up next.”
Part Two
Wordcount: ~17,500
Summary: In which Gwaine and Morgana are friends with a generous benefits package, Arthur and Merlin might be breaking up, and everyone is in the Camelot Symphony Orchestra.
Content notices: some brief light bondage in one of the sex scenes
Fic Notes: Written for this prompt on the meme, because I was waiting for the influx of Gwaine/Morgana after that one picture (non-spoilery!) and ended up deciding to be proactive.
Music Notes: 1. The orchestra plays Faure's Pelleas and Melisande (that link goes to the first part of it, but the other three parts are right in the sidebar if you want to keep listening along). Morgana and Gwaine play the first movement of Bach's Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor.
2. I have played in an orchestra, but it's been a while! I do not claim that this is how most orchestras are actually run (though it's certainly how the practices go).
3. The Suzuki method is mocked with love.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any of the music performed in this fic.
Morgana wakes up in the wet spot.
Actually, she discovers when she flails a hand out to find safe ground to move to, that is not entirely accurate. The entire bed is the wet spot. “Fuck you,” she mumbles into the pillow, because Gwaine isn’t next to her but the shower isn’t on so he’s lurking somewhere nearby. “I told you that was an unnecessary amount of lube.”
“You were the one who kept licking it off everything.”
“You managed to find flavoured lube that doesn’t taste horrible.” Morgana shoves her face out of the pillow and glances around. Gwaine’s bedroom is a complete mess, all the covers got shoved off the bed in the night, and she’s pretty sure her panties landed on the windowsill. Unless Gwaine is fond of green lace, which wouldn’t be terribly surprising. It’s generally best not to ask what Gwaine gets up to in his spare time. “Fucking ouch. I think I have a sex hangover.”
She finally locates Gwaine, who is lounging in the doorway to his bedroom wearing a dressing gown he hasn’t bothered to tie and leering at her. “I am going to petition the maestro to have at least one piece by a Russian per concert.”
Morgana doesn’t dignify that with an answer, because he enjoys mocking her for how she gets after the orchestra does Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky or Rachmaninov, especially now that he reaps the benefits. Instead, she levers herself to a sitting position and stretches the kinks out of her back. “What time is it?”
Gwaine squints around until he finds the alarm clock. Which is on the floor. Morgana tries to remember which one of them kicked it this time. They don’t even have alcohol as an excuse, this is just pitiful. “Ten,” he decides eventually, after twisting his head around to see the display properly.
“Shit.” Morgana struggles off the bed and tries not to touch anything, as she’s incredibly sticky and in desperate need of a shower she doesn’t have time to take at Gwaine’s, since if she showers at his place he always joins her even if he’s already showered on his own. “Mordred’s coming to my place at eleven thirty for his lesson, and he always gives me these looks when I smell like sex. Am I wrong in thinking eight-year-olds shouldn’t know things like that?”
“Mordred is a deeply creepy child.”
“Oh, hush, he’s a love and you know it.” Morgana snags her panties off the windowsill and decides that considering they didn’t come off for quite some time into last night’s proceedings, she isn’t going to put them on again. She really needs to start keeping a change of clothes at Gwaine’s place, except that would make everyone ask really uncomfortable questions and all of her happily-in-long-term-relationships friends will be so disappointed when they figure out what she and Gwaine are doing. “Where’s my dress?”
Gwaine picks it up off the floor and brandishes it at her. It’s too short and sparkly to be anything but a walk-of-shame dress and all of London will know it, but she’s worn his clothes before and it’s generally even worse, so she’ll put up with it. “Someday Mordred is going to kidnap you and keep you in his closet until you get Stockholm Syndrome and agree to marry him when he turns sixteen.”
“If he keeps playing Boccherini as beautifully as he does perhaps I won’t object.” At that, Gwaine’s face is a picture. Morgana rolls her eyes and tugs her dress on over her head, pulling it down until she’s sure nobody on the Tube is going to get an eyeful. “Really, Gwaine, do you think I would? If nothing else, his mother is a nightmare. Nimueh is the worst backstage parent I’ve ever run across. Just because she couldn’t make the Orchestra when she was younger …”
“Do you want some breakfast?” Gwaine interrupts before she can get properly going.
“No, my mouth tastes of sex and body frosting, I need my toothbrush before I go anywhere near food.” Morgana dangles her panties from her hand. “Where’s my purse? I really can’t walk around carrying these without looking like a complete slag.” There’s a pause while Gwaine eyes her post-concert clubbing wear. “My purse, Gwaine,” she repeats, because there’s not much reply she can make to that.
“On the table, same place you always put it.” He yawns. “I need to get a second bed just for us to have sex on, so I can take post-hook-up naps without changing my sheets.”
Morgana wanders out of the bedroom in search of her boots, which probably got left in the hallway. “You’re just lazy. You even have a laundry room in your building, not all of us are that lucky.” Miraculously, her stockings are right next to her boots, so she picks everything up and sits in one of Gwaine’s mismatched kitchen chairs to pull them on. “Are the Wanderers playing the pub tonight? Merlin asked last night, but you weren’t around to ask.”
“Yeah, we’re playing a set. You coming?”
“To watch you waste your potential and doom yourself to staying with the second violinists forever? Wouldn’t dream of missing.” She tugs on the zipper of her right boot, which keeps on sticking. “Besides, everyone else will be there having a post-concert drink and I haven’t talked to anyone properly in weeks. For all I know Lancelot could finally have got off his arse and proposed. Though I think Gwen would have squealed loud enough for the whole continent to hear in that case.”
Gwaine punches a few buttons on his coffeemaker. “From what I’ve heard, you haven’t missed much. Merlin tells me everything, and he gossips worse than an old woman, so I would have heard anything interesting.”
“Unless Merlin and Arthur are having another honeymoon phase, they’re about due one.” She stuffs her panties in her purse and tries not to have flashbacks to university. “Especially with Merlin writing his great symphony, we all know there are going to be some virtuosic cello parts.”
“We’ll see if Uther lets the orchestra perform it. Arthur will obviously lobby quite hard for it.” And there’s all her things. “I’ll see you at the pub to watch you wasting your talent and your gorgeous instrument on fiddling, yes? Have a lovely day.”
“Call me if Mordred tries to abduct you,” Gwaine returns, never looking up from his coffeemaker, and Morgana breezes out of his flat.
*
The pubs Gwaine and his little band play in invariably smell of pipe smoke and grease, and Morgana always wants to snatch away the instruments from all of them before they get damaged by the atmosphere. Tonight, Gwaine’s slouched in the corner of The Dragon’s Head with the sort of posture that would make his first violin teacher roll in her grave, with Elyan nodding over his guitar and Freya perched on a stool with an assortment of whistles scattered around her.
The usual patrons of the seedy little bar seem rather confused to have it invaded by a bunch of musicians, some of whom order things that aren’t beer and all of whom sprawl over several tables and cheerfully heckle the band. They’re all a little giddy even after last night’s clubbing, relieved to be done with a concert that involved no less than three soloists from outside that could have been done much better by members of the Camelot Symphony Orchestra. Morgana included. But she’s trying very hard not to be bitter about that.
“What are you looking so serious about?” Merlin asks, jolting Morgana out of staring into space. “We’re meant to be relaxing.”
And everyone certainly is, or at least most of them. Gwen is blushing at something Lancelot’s said because he turns her into a fifteen-year-old girl even though they’ve been dating forever, Vivian is trying to talk Elena into being her wing-woman even though it’s pretty clear all Elena wants to do is stare soulfully at Leon, Percival is talking to Lancelot when Lance isn’t talking to Gwen, and Arthur and Merlin are pretending to have a great deal of fun and not talking to each other very much, even to tease. Morgana’s doing her best not to get involved in that, because it’s rare a month goes by when they don’t fight and all of them have learned to stay clear of the explosions by now. “I am relaxing,” she says over the noise of Gwaine and the band crashing into a close on one of their tunes. “I was just thinking about Mordred, Nimueh wants to start him on Vivaldi but I don’t really think he’s old enough for it yet. Just because those Suzuki children start him young doesn’t mean-”
“Yes, yes, we all know your feelings on Suzuki,” says Arthur with a roll of his eyes, just a little too brightly. “Honestly, Morgana, you are such a snob. Can you stop worrying about your little prodigy for a few hours and relax? God, you need to get laid, and you know it’s bad if I’m saying that.”
“Yes, Arthur, obviously sex will solve all of my problems. Why didn’t I think of that before?” She very carefully doesn’t look at Gwaine. “I’ll just run right off to the bar and pull one of the ancient men with bad teeth, shall I? I imagine they’re animals in bed.”
That distracts Arthur neatly, but Merlin is still looking at her, not laughing or making faces. Morgana looks back, raising her eyebrows. She and Merlin are too much alike to be too close, but it also means he understands her better than most of her friends. If Arthur and Gwaine didn’t adore him so much, she would probably hate him. “You just need to listen to less angry music,” says Merlin at last, breaking eye contact. “All those Russians and Italians can’t be good for you. Try some Brahms, or something.”
Morgana makes a face, since everyone knows her opinion on the Romantics. “Arthur thinks I need sex, you think I need Brahms-”
“And I think you need to come and sing ‘Danny Boy’ with us,” says Gwaine, who’s snuck up behind her like a complete arsehole. She smacks him without even bothering to look at him.
“In your dreams.”
He leans over her shoulder to give her his best soulful look, which stopped working on her approximately half an hour after she met him. “Definitely. In my very best, dirty dreams, there you are like an Irish queen, singing ‘Danny Boy’ while riding me into-”
“Disgusting!” Vivian interjects, flapping her hands about like she isn’t sure whether she’d rather put them over her mouth to keep from retching or her ears to keep her from hearing more. Percival lets out a pained grunt of agreement. “Why do we let you anywhere near us?”
“Because his eternal quest to get into Morgana’s pants is both hilarious and slightly sad,” says Arthur, and gives Gwaine a very serious look. “For your own good, mate, give up. I’m pretty sure she’s like a praying mantis in bed. Do you want to get your head ripped off?”
Gwaine’s hand tightens momentarily on her shoulder, but he’s grinning when he answers. “Depends on how euphemistic that is.”
Every man at the table makes a horrified face. “Masochist,” Vivian sniffs at last, and goes back to wheedling Elena into helping her with the man she’s got her eye on.
“Shrew,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin elbows him, but he’s looking at Morgana again. She keeps her face as impassive as possible, because while neither she nor Gwaine has told anyone what they’ve been doing for the last few months, if anyone figures it out, it’s going to be Merlin.
“Be gone, Gwaine,” says Morgana before anything more can be said. “The adults want to have a conversation.”
“Your cruelty breaks my heart, really.” Gwaine pats her on the head (and she is going to have to kill him if he messed up her hair) and wanders back towards Elyan and Freya, humming ‘Danny Boy’ as he goes. The band sits and chats for a few minutes, probably working out what medleys to play next while Gwaine does something with his phone.
Predictably enough, Morgana’s phone vibrates in her pocket just before Gwaine strikes up yet another cheery Irish tune. She doesn’t bother checking it, since judging by his smug grin it’s going to be something she doesn’t want the rest of her friends reading and Merlin keeps darting her glances. Instead, she ignores it in favor of getting in a spirited argument with Leon over whether or not the maestro’s choice of doing Pelleas and Melisande at their next concert is a good one.
Morgana saves the text until she’s home in bed, later than she should be after a few very long days. next time we get together remind me to eat you out kept meaning to last night.
Next time you sext me, use punctuation, she sends back, and goes to sleep smiling.
*
The first orchestra rehearsal after a concert is always something of a joke. They get their first pieces of music, play a few measures of them, and then generally just sit around and gossip until the maestro gives up and sees fit to release them. Tonight, Uther just has his assistants hand out all four movements of Pelleas and Melisande and has them play the first part of the first one.
Morgana tries to keep her face straight while they rehearse-Fauré is better than Brahms and Chopin but not by much, in her opinion, though Gwen must be grateful for the oboe solos. Gwaine pulls faces at her from the second violins and she texts him while the maestro is yelling at the violas to tell him to quit it. He texts her back to inform her that he isn’t wearing pants and she has to slap her phone back into her pocket because Alice is a wonderful stand partner but she’s also rather a prude.
In between measures, she catches up on the gossip from the other violinists and looks around to see what’s going on in the other sections. Vivian’s still with the second violins and looking rebellious about it, with Elena a few rows back in the same section and perfectly content because for best friends they are remarkably different. Gwen is frowning, lip caught between her teeth, as she marks something up on her score because normally the maestro doesn’t feature the woodwinds much and she gets nervous when he does. Percival is with the rest of the percussionists, who look about as pleased about Pelleas and Melisande as Morgana feels (hopefully the rest of the music for the concert will give them something to do, or Percival at least. She may not be interested in dating him, but she doesn’t know a straight woman who dislikes the sight of a muscular man at the timpani). Lancelot and Leon are discussing something seriously from the front of the viola section, and Lancelot darts a glance over at the cellos.
Morgana follows the look automatically, expecting to see Arthur leaning back in his seat saying something sarcastic to Merlin and Merlin laughing at him from a few rows behind while Gaius looked on indulgently from the second chair Arthur ousted him to nearly a year ago now, but it’s not what she finds. Instead, Arthur is staring straight at his music, jaw set in a way she recognizes all too well, and Merlin is watching miserably, hand curled around the neck of his cello while he fingers something on it, probably one of his own compositions. She’s seen them fight-hell, everyone who’s known them for more than a week has seen them fight-but she doesn’t think she’s seen anything quite like this.
Neither of them are looking anywhere near the violins and Arthur hasn’t called her, so Morgana catches Gwen’s eye first, and then Gwaine’s, and once they’ve looked at the cellos and back at her, they exchange mutual looks of what the fucking fuck is going on that neither of them seems able to answer any better than she can.
Before long, all their friends are exchanging a network of looks, telegraphing while the maestro harangues them for not paying attention well enough and then for their train wreck of an attempt at trying the first movement again, since half the orchestra isn’t paying any attention to their scores. Arthur and Merlin aren’t stupid, of course (well, it’s debatable for Arthur, but even he isn’t entirely blind), so within a few minutes both of them have figured out that people are looking at them. Arthur’s response is to glare even more fiercely at his score and play a good deal more angrily than Fauré calls for, while Merlin’s is to duck his head and try to look stoic.
Morgana would almost be sorry for starting it off, since it’s clear neither of them wants to even think about whatever fight they’ve had, but it would have happened anyway. The orchestra gossips like a lot of old biddies, especially on the subject of who is hooking up with whom (yet another reason she and Gwaine aren’t telling anyone they’re sleeping together), and Arthur and Merlin are practically an institution, the couple everyone knows, and even the maestro has stopped glaring at his son for daring to date another (male) cellist instead of a woman who will give him suitably musical grandchildren. A fight that isn’t bickering or one of their periodic explosions with both of them shouting dramatically at every opportunity will be enough to fuel chatter for weeks unless they fix it.
“If you are not going to rehearse, I am not going to waste my time!” the maestro shouts just as Morgana is attempting an elaborate conversation with Elena through eyebrows and mouthed words alone because Elena has forgotten her mobile again and can’t text on the sly like the rest of them. “All of you go home, and if you aren’t paying better attention by next week, there will be consequences!”
Morgana mouths the last few words along with him and sticks her score in her folder to practice later, waiting out the rush to get to instrument cases and go home. Arthur and Merlin, she can’t help but notice, practically dash for the exits as fast as they can carry their instruments, and they don’t go in the same direction.
Gwaine taps her on the shoulder with his bow, startling her and getting a smear of rosin on one of her favorite tops, and she turns around to glare. “I scrounged up a new mafia movie, want to come over and watch?” Morgana mentally extends that evening into a viewing of whatever horrible film he’s found this time and then whatever sort of shag they’re in the mood for, and weighs it against lurking by her phone until Arthur inevitably calls her to complain about whatever it is he and Merlin are fighting about. Gwaine knows her too well, because he rolls his eyes. “Let them sort whatever it is out on their own, they’re grown men for all Arthur doesn’t act like it.”
“Like Merlin isn’t an excellent example of the Peter Pan Syndrome in action,” Morgana says, mostly because she feels like she ought to be on her brother’s side.
“No, that’s me,” replies Gwaine, hauling her to her feet and making her yelp when he almost hits her violin with his bow. “See you lot later,” he calls to Vivian and Elena, who are chatting to Percival. Well, Vivian is chatting to Percival, Elena is edging slowly away. Morgana shrugs off Gwaine’s arm and waves as well, then gives a nod to Gwen, who’s already made a beeline for Lancelot so they can gaze at each other in a truly depressing manner. Leon, standing nearby, looks about as pained as Elena does. Gwaine interrupts before Morgana can debate the merits of rescuing either one of them. “Come on, you can worry about them later, let’s get out of here before everyone invites themselves along to movie night, shall we?”
“Men,” mutters Morgana, but her heart isn’t in it. Gwaine tows her by the elbow towards their cases and she shakes him off because being manhandled is a bit much for her to take. “You are insatiable,” she adds.
He just grins at her, utterly unrepentant. “That’s my middle name. Now come on, or I’ll have to carry you, which is difficult with two violins in the mix.”
*
“Hello there,” Gwaine croons into her chest later that night on his couch as the DVD plays its menu music for the sixth or seventh time.
“You have an unhealthy relationship with my breasts.” Morgana flails an arm out and catches the remote, turning the whole damn thing off and cutting everything off abruptly into silence and darkness.
“Hush, we’re having a moment.”
Morgana stares at the ceiling and heaves a long-suffering sigh (Gwaine makes an appreciative noise when her chest moves). “I could have stayed home, you know, and harassed Arthur to figure out what’s going on.”
“You have an unhealthy obsession with your brother’s love life.” He starts mouthing at her breasts through her shirt. “Would you really rather listen to him bitch than have me eat you out? Because nobody’s forcing you to stay.”
For a second, she considers arguing, but he has a point. “It’s not like there’s any other interesting gossip going on that doesn’t involve us,” she says, mostly for form’s sake.
Gwaine lifts his head and grins up at her. “True, I suppose the pool on when Leon figures out Elena is in love with him is getting a bit dull by now.”
“Exactly. That’s why all the interest in Arthur and Merlin.” And the fact that she would quite like to break Merlin’s fingers if he’s broken Arthur’s heart. However, judging by today it’s Arthur who’s done the breaking, and she isn’t sure quite what to do with that.
“It’ll all have blown over by tomorrow and they’ll come to pub night looking horrifyingly fucked out. As we could, if you would stop neglecting me.”
“The things I put up with,” says Morgana, and kisses him. She’s done the friends-with-benefits thing in the past and been told kissing shouldn’t be part of it, but she’s never understood it even if she folds, and she’s glad Gwaine’s never mentioned it, as he’s a really good kisser.
Tonight, it takes all of thirty seconds to figure out that he’s in one of his caveman moods, and while Morgana feels like she should dislike them on feminist principle, they always end up working out well for her, so she just rolls her eyes a bit and lets him lay her out like he wants her. When he goes back to working her over through her top, though, she shoves him away. He gives her a long-suffering look, which is rich. “What?”
“Through the bra, fine, but I like this shirt, and I don’t want it ruined.” She wriggles her way out of it while he takes the piss out of her for caring about clothes in the heat of passion, and takes his off as well because if he’s going to be a caveman she’s going to enjoy the view. “There, go to town.”
Gwaine kisses her on the nose, which she ponders being affronted by, and goes back to manhandling her, since his couch really isn’t large enough for two adults to do anything besides sit quietly on and he seems to have no intention of moving to the bedroom. Morgana mostly lets him, and makes the mistake of laughing when he nips at a ticklish spot on her stomach, since it means they devolve into a tussle of limbs and tickling and the only reason they manage to stay on the couch is because they catch themselves on the coffee table and manage to pull themselves back on, panting and pressed together.
Morgana’s half-expecting them to rub together like a pair of teenagers, considering his mood, or maybe for him to whip a condom out of one of the many mysterious places he seems to keep them in around his flat, but instead he gives her a devilish look, grabs her by the hips, and shoves her up until her ass hits the armrest. She clings to the top of the couch and gives him a glare while he just keeps grinning, working her panties off under her skirt as he goes.
He doesn’t bother much with foreplay, since apparently he’s a man on a mission and she’s been depriving him terribly. He pins her hips to the armrest with one hand, loops his other arm around her so she doesn’t go backwards, and nuzzles his way under her skirt. It’s a shock, from nothing to the wet, insistent press of his mouth in just a second, but she likes it that way, grabs tight to the back of the couch because otherwise she can’t see it ending well.
For all she thought Gwaine was feeling impatient tonight, he seems willing to lavish all his attention on using his mouth on her. He’s endlessly inventive whenever they’re together, about new positions or things to try, but Morgana’s never seen him focus everything in on just one thing like this and God but he gives good head. She’s going to send fucking flowers to whoever trained him. He knows just how to use his tongue, his lips, the gentle scrap of teeth, even, to keep her tense and trembling and right at the edge. It doesn’t take much time until she’s impatient with it, wanting to come, wanting him to fuck her, but no urging, even when she gives in and asks for it, will make him speed up or move his hands so she can at least grind against him.
When he finally lets her come, what seems like ages later, she already feels near-boneless and assumes that he’s going to fuck her, but instead he just keeps on with what he’s doing. “I already came,” she manages when he slides two fingers up inside her and keeps licking around them.
Gwaine pulls out with a sloppy noise. “Yes, and you’re going to again,” he says, and dives back in.
Morgana doesn’t bother analyzing what he’s doing, this time, because she’s tired and trembly and she feels amazing but it hurts, getting pushed this close to the edge again so soon, and he’s still taking his time about it. She moves one hand carefully to balance on his head, pushes down a little so he’ll get on with whatever his plan is for the night, unless it’s to bring her off with his mouth on the couch until they both pass out, which she wouldn’t put past him.
He takes mercy on her and lets her come more quickly this time, and they both stay there panting, his face turned into her thigh, mouthing absently at it while she attempts to piece her brain back together well enough to plan some revenge. She feels taken apart, and it’s hard to do anything but pet vaguely at Gwaine’s head in pitiful thanks and hold on to the couch with everything she has because she suspects the night isn’t over.
Like that’s some sort of cue, there’s the fumble of a key in the lock and before Morgana can do more than freeze and Gwaine can do more than pull his head out from under her skirt, Merlin comes bursting in, looking ready to spit. “Can’t stay with Arthur right now, so I’m sleeping on your couch to-oh my fucking God.”
And that’s the point when Morgana falls off the couch.
*
Ten minutes later, Morgana has a bottle of cold beer held to her head, and everyone is fully dressed and sitting around Gwaine’s kitchen table. Merlin is looking back and forth between them with the distinct air of a tacky dashboard animal, as if he’s not quite sure where to start.
“So, you and Arthur,” says Morgana, because someone’s got to take the initiative and she’s in favor of any initiative that involves not talking about her and Gwaine.
“So, you and Gwaine,” Merlin snaps back like he’s been just waiting for her to start. Gwaine rolls his eyes and holds his hands up like he’s preparing to hold them back if they lunge. Morgana leans back and adjusts her grip on the beer because she refuses to get into some sort of hair-pulling match with Merlin. Merlin spends another three seconds glowering before he slumps and mostly just looks tired. “Me and Arthur, but don’t think you two have got out of talking about whatever the hell that was on the couch, which, by the way, you’re sleeping on tonight, Gwaine.”
“You’re fucked either way, mate, Morgana and I have had sex on the bed as well.” Gwaine smirks as Merlin attempts to look pained. “Now, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
Merlin looks at Morgana for a few seconds, mouth pursed, and she tries to look anything but exhausted and annoyed, because she really does know what a complete fool Arthur can be and she’s willing to at least hear what Merlin has to say. “We’re … I don’t think he’s broken up with me, precisely, but he’s also made it clear he doesn’t want me at the flat tonight. Or tomorrow night.”
Morgana makes sure to keep her gaze away from Merlin’s cello in the corner, which he lugged all the way here. That’s more telling than anything he just said. Gwaine, who knows he’s less likely to get Merlin’s hackles up by doing it, gives it a pointed look instead. “So what does he think you’ve done?” Merlin just looks at Morgana again, and Gwaine shifts until he’s blocking her from Merlin’s line of sight. “She isn’t even here, I just can’t let her go until we’re sure she doesn’t have a head injury.” Morgana whacks him with the beer, careful not to crack it, and he just grins before turning back to Merlin. “Now, what is it?”
“I did it. I … it’s sort of a stupid thing that got way out of hand. But I was lying to him because Edwin’s in town and Arthur never liked him so when he found out we’d been for coffee he turned it into this whole thing about cheating and then said he can’t trust me anymore and things have been sort of … frosty.”
Morgana and Gwaine wince in tandem. Gwaine met them in the orchestra, not in university, but everyone knows how Arthur gets about cheating. He was very understanding (for Arthur, which still meant recriminations and awkward dinners in the cafeteria and throwing a pair of Morgana’s designer shoes, damn him) when Gwen broke it off with him for Lancelot, but he gets testy about the thought of it since. For no good reason, as far as Morgana can tell, because he and Merlin are stupid over each other. “Wait, he actually thinks you’re cheating?”
“I don’t know, I asked if he trusts me and he said he thought he did until he found out I was lying and then I might have called him an overprotective, jealous twat, and things sort of devolved from there.”
Gwaine seems a bit stunned by how comprehensively both of them have managed to ruin the best relationship either of them will ever have, or perhaps that’s Morgana projecting. Morgana opens her mouth to tell Merlin so, only to be interrupted by Gwaine, who kicks her before he speaks. “Well, that’s a bit of a train wreck, isn’t it?” Merlin nods miserably, face crumpling. Morgana hands him her beer even though her head still hurts like a bitch. She has no desire to see a grown man cry, especially not over her brother. “You didn’t break up, though.”
“No.” Merlin pops the top off the beer. Morgana’s head hurts more already. “He said he had to think about whether he could trust me again.”
“God, it’s sort of like listening to my parents fight,” says Gwaine, who’s never been very good at comforting people. “Isn’t it, Morgana?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she snaps, and kicks him in the ankle because Merlin is only looking more miserable, then stands up to pull a bag of frozen corn out of his freezer for her head. “Merlin, you know how Arthur gets, he’ll forgive you in a week, you’ll both apologize, and that will be the end of it.”
“I don’t think he will.” Merlin’s eyes get dangerously large and teary, and Morgana exchanges a panicked look with Gwaine when he looks mournfully down at his beer bottle. “You didn’t see his face.”
“Oh, Christ, don’t cry, I have a head injury and a lesson with Mordred where I’ll have to talk Nimueh down from Vivaldi in the morning, I cannot do this.” Morgana pulls her chair over next to Merlin’s and puts her arm around him, patting his shoulder awkwardly while he tries to get himself under control. “Tell anyone I’m doing this and I’ll cut you, just so you know.”
“A group hug sounds like an excellent idea,” says Gwaine, interrupting before Merlin can do more than snort softly, and leaps out of his chair to put his arms around both of them (and grope them both, because he’s Gwaine). Merlin leans into it almost immediately because he and Gwaine are just very large puppies, and Morgana joins with what she hopes comes across as a put-upon sigh a few seconds later. If either of them accuses her of cuddling she’ll just have to kill them.
“So,” Merlin says eventually from where his face has inexplicably become buried in Morgana’s shoulder. “The two of you. I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that maybe tonight wasn’t you giving into temptation at last or something.”
Morgana removes herself from the group hug. “Don’t make this into a romance novel, Merlin. We’re having sex. We have been for a few months now.” And it’s not serious because Gwaine doesn’t do commitment and Morgana has fucked up every relationship she’s ever had.
Merlin makes a series of faces that Morgana wishes she could take pictures of while he fits the last several months of dinners and pub nights and rehearsals into this new frame of reference. “You mean when Arthur was talking about praying mantises you were having sex?”
“Yes,” both of them say at once, Morgana with a great deal more annoyance.
His horrified look is enough to crack Gwaine up. “Okay. I’m not going to say this isn’t deeply disturbing, but it’s really not my problem tonight as long as Gwaine’s got a clean surface somewhere in this flat to sleep on, even if it’s the kitchen table.” Morgana bites her lip and carefully doesn’t look at Gwaine. “I did not want to know that,” Merlin says faintly.
“You asked for it,” says Gwaine.
Merlin rubs his hands over his face. “I guess. Look, you two just keep doing whatever you’re doing, all right? I’m not going to say I’m thrilled, but whatever, you’re adults and I’m not going to tattle.”
Morgana decides a tactical retreat is in order. Merlin probably needs to talk more, but he likely won’t say much with her there, and if he isn’t going to out them to their friends and the gossip of the whole of the orchestra, she owes him one. “Thank you, Merlin. Now, I’ll leave you lads to your gossip and take the Underground home. See you at rehearsal on Tuesday?”
“Yeah,” says Merlin, and pointedly looks away when Gwaine shows her to the door.
*
The next orchestra rehearsal is excruciating. They’re working on “La Fileuse,” the second movement of Pelleas and Melisande, which is all quick runs of triplets for the violins and the sound of it resembles nothing so much as mud when it ought to be crisp. Morgana grits her teeth and concentrates on the music, trying to drag her section along behind her by sheer force of will, and ignores how Gwaine plays little slips of the phrasing like jigs in short breaks while Uther yells at one section or another. Half the woodwinds seem to have colds, so Gwen is carrying her section while trying to play a piece that features woodwinds for once when the maestro generally prefers the strings or even the brass. And the cellos …
Well. The cello section is like an episode of some American soap opera, only with less long-lost twins. Arthur is ignoring absolutely everyone (which is partly Morgana’s fault for yelling at him for being a jealous git and ruining her night as a result, though she didn’t mention that last part to him), sawing away at his instrument in a way that would fit Beethoven far better than Fauré. Gaius is looking more disapproving than usual, were that possible, and Morgana is starting to wonder if his face will actually stick with one eyebrow raised that high. Gilli in the back row is giving Merlin soulful looks that are even worse than usual, apparently having heard the gossip and wanting to win over his long-time crush. Merlin looks pale and exhausted, not even bothering to give Arthur soulful looks of his own, and whenever the maestro releases the cellos for even thirty seconds, he’s got his pencil in his hand, scribbling something-probably the score for his great symphony, which Gwaine told her the morning after Merlin moved onto his couch is nearly finished.
Something must be done, and obviously no one else is competent enough to do it.
When break comes, Morgana snags Gwaine by the collar before he can rush off to watch Vivian yell at Percival since apparently something’s going on there, because she has bigger fish to fry. “Right, you’re going to distract Arthur and talk about anything but Merlin while I figure out how to fix this, understood?”
Gwaine just arches a brow at her, and Morgana sighs. If she thought anyone else could actually help, she would pick someone who listens to orders. “What do I get if I follow orders, milady?”
Morgana smiles sweetly and pulls him down so she can whisper in his ear. “Then next time you get to choose which one of us gets tied up.”
He laughs, a little bit unsteady, when she releases him. “Consider me convinced. And you happen to be in luck, his team lost at footie last night, that’ll distract him if anything will.” Morgana makes a go-on gesture, and he salutes before he walks off.
Merlin is still scribbling at his score, and Morgana looks around before she goes over, only to catch Elena’s eye. Elena looks between Morgana and Gwaine, brows drawn closer in confusion or suspicion or something close to it, then over at Vivian, then over at the cello section. When she looks at Morgana again, Morgana shakes her head, and hopes that takes care of at least part of it, and since Elena turns to go after Vivian before she goes for Percival’s balls, it works, at least for the time being. Morgana shakes it off and crosses the orchestra set-up, passing Arthur’s outraged look to stand in front of Merlin and plant her hands on her hips.
It takes Merlin a full five seconds to look up at her. “What do you want, Morgana?”
“This is unacceptable. And I thought I could handle the two of you being pathetic sadsacks, but it seems I can’t. So we’re going to fix this.”
Merlin puts his pencil down and crosses his arms defensively over the neck of his cello like he’s afraid Morgana might take it from him. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve called him, I’ve gone to the flat, I’ve sent him fucking Facebook messages, but all he says is that he needs more time.”
“That’s because he’s being stubborn.” She grins. “It’s a family trait, I’m afraid.”
Merlin looks vaguely terrified. Good. “Oh God. What are you going to do?”
Morgana snatches the score off his music stand while he’s still clutching his cello like he’s afraid she’s going to cut the strings or do something equally heinous, as if she would. Not even she’s that evil. Merlin makes a protesting noise, but doesn’t make a scene while she runs through the score at triple-time. Three movements, the last only half-finished, but remarkably good. She hadn’t expected that, but then, she hasn’t heard any of his compositions since university. As she’d expected, there are some lovely parts that feature the cello, ones written not because Merlin’s a cellist himself but because he’s in love with one. She’s not much of a composer, but she does recognize that much. “It’s about Arthur, right?”
“What?”
“You wrote it for Arthur. To play, to listen to, whatever.” She squints at the title in Merlin’s penciled scrawl. “The Dragon Symphony, my God, do you actually think you’re being subtle?” She drops it back on his music stand. “Excellent. You have a week to finish it.”
“What?”
“A week. To finish it and get it put in something electronic and legible and get all the parts printed off properly. We’ll need to get started rehearsing if we want to do it in the same concert as Pelleas, you expect a lot of your instruments.”
“Morgana, I can’t finish this in a week, are you mad? I won’t have time to sleep.”
“With the greatest of sympathy and affection, it’s not like you’re doing anything else right now. You’re sleeping on Gwaine’s couch and applying for teaching positions, which can wait a week. This needs to be finished.”
“What for? The maestro isn’t going to allow this to be performed, in case you’ve suddenly got an attack of amnesia. It’s not part of the symphonic canon.”
Morgana smirks down at him, then looks over to where Uther is on the phone to someone, probably Catrina in the Camelot Arts Office. “You worry about getting your piece finished in time, I’ll worry about the maestro.”
“I’m doomed,” Merlin realizes.
Morgana looks from Uther, who she barely speaks to most days, to Arthur, who’s trying to pretend he isn’t hurt that Morgana seems to be taking Merlin’s side, to Gwaine, who catches her eye from where he’s trying to cajole Arthur into a smile and gives her a helpless shrug. “Well,” she says, “at least we’re all on the same page.”
*
“Merlin has taken over my entire flat with his computer and several metric fucktons of manuscript paper. Why do I feel like you’re behind this?”
Morgana laughs and pries her eyes open to check the clock by her bed. Gwaine is up early. “Probably because I am.”
“Do I want to know more?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“In that case, there was a point to this phone call. And that point is that I can’t stay in my flat while Merlin is sitting in there tearing his hair out and muttering vicious slander about the second violins.”
“Are you wrangling for an invitation?”
“Obviously. I’m five minutes away, and you mentioned bondage last night. Did you think I wasn’t going to take you up on it as soon as possible?” Morgana winces, but it’s not like anyone in the neighbourhood is going to know who he’s talking to, or who he is, even. “Do you have any big plans for today?”
“Being tied up, apparently.” She looks at the clock again. It still says it’s just barely after eight thirty. “Honestly, who is that kinky before nine in the morning?”
“Like you aren’t getting hot thinking about it,” says Gwaine, not even talking dirty, just making conversation. “And anyway, you said I get to choose who gets tied up. Who says it’s going to be you?”
Morgana covers the mouthpiece on her phone so he can’t hear her take a shaky breath, but from his smug chuckle her silence is answer enough to that. “I stand corrected, and now I’m going to hang up so I can find equipment and clean my teeth before you get here.”
“See you in a few minutes,” he replies, leer clear in his voice, and hangs up before she can get the last word in.
It takes three minutes to clean her teeth, put on something sexier than track pants and one of Arthur’s old t-shirts, and find the white silk scarves she won at a bachelorette party. Gwaine buzzes her less than thirty seconds later, and she lets him up and opens the door before he can disturb her neighbours by pounding on it. “You really have nothing better to do on a Wednesday morning than booty call me?” she asks, mostly for form’s sake.
“Practice with Elyan and Freya later, but nothing this morning.”
“So I don’t get you all day?”
Gwaine steps past her into the flat and shrugs his jacket off onto the rack she has by the door. “Oh, I don’t know. That depends. I could be convinced to call Elyan and tell him I’m all … tied up.”
“Would you mind if we had breakfast before I have my wicked way with you? I imagine I’ll be hungry by lunch and it would be a shame to have to leave you all tied up while I put something together in the kitchen.”
At that, Gwaine rubs his hands together. “So I finally get to see how you like your eggs in the morning.”
Just for that, she makes toast instead.
After, she puts her phone on silent, filches Gwaine’s and stuffs it in his coat pocket, and puts all the locks on her door just in case Merlin or Arthur gets a bright idea about stopping by to mope. Gwaine just laughs at her and smacks her on the rear to move her towards the bedroom when she surveys her flat looking for other potential interruptions.
When they get to her room, Gwaine just looks around for a few seconds, eyebrows raised, and it occurs to Morgana that he hasn’t been in it before. He’s been in her flat, definitely, along with the rest of her friends, but since they started having sex it’s always been at his. Past time for her to host, then, she decides, and shoves him at the bed. “Trust you to have an actual four-poster you can tie me to,” he mutters, but he goes, picking up her ties on the way and collapsing on his back with no grace whatsoever.
“Shirt off,” she orders. “It’s not coming off otherwise, not if I’m tying your wrists.”
He takes it off, still grinning at the ceiling like he’s having the best day ever, and Morgana goes to work on the button of his jeans while reflecting how much she hates starting things like this up. Having someone all tied up for her, or even being tied up, is always amazing, but the logistics of getting there are another thing entirely.
She undresses him, mostly for something to do while she figures out the knots and what she’s going to do with him while she has him at her mercy because of course Gwaine fucking calls her for sex when her brain isn’t engaged yet, then snatches the white silk out of his hands. “You sure about this?” she asks. Neither of them has backed down from a challenge yet, but they still ask.
“More than. And I can always do it to you later.”
“Good.” She runs one of the strips of cloth between her fingers and moves to straddle Gwaine’s chest. “Wrists together or apart?”
“Apart.”
Morgana catches Gwaine’s left wrist and ties one of the scarves around it, testing the knot to make sure it won’t cut into him, then leashes the other end around her bedpost, pulling it taut. “Will that hurt?” He pulls at it, and there’s just enough give for him to bend his elbows a bit. He shakes his head, and Morgana moves to the other wrist, repeating the process. “Okay. Any strain?” Another shake of the head. This one comes with a smirk, and she pinches him. “Tell me to stop if it hurts more than you want it to.”
“Don’t worry, I can take it.” She pinches again, harder, and he laughs. “Fine, fine, if it’s too much I’ll tell you.”
“Good.” There are four scarves, but she doesn’t really want to bind his ankles, so she tosses the other two off the bed and bends down to kiss him. Gwaine shifts, leaning to try to follow her when she backs off a bit, and she feels the hitch in his breath when he realizes he can’t move that far. Just for that, she kisses him harder, pressing him back into the pillows and grabbing onto one of his hands, feeling around at the silk binding his wrist and tugging it just because it makes him bite her lip. He grabs back, twisting his hand around until the silk is looped awkwardly around her wrist too, binding them together even though it’s got to be straining his shoulder worse. “If you keep me here, I can’t blow you,” she whispers into his mouth, only half worrying if he can hear her.
“I can still fuck you,” he points out, moving his lips to her jaw, then her neck. She shoves his head back gently; if he strains his neck she’s never going to hear the end of it and Merlin is going to look mortified forever.
“Not without a condom you can’t.” She squirms against his erection, which is growing by the second. “So let me free for a minute to get one, would you?” He releases the loops and relaxes back into the headboard while she looks in the bedside drawer, ignoring Gwaine’s snort when she rifles past her vibrator. She makes a note to take it out sometime when he’s over and finally seizes a condom that isn’t out of date.
Morgana doesn’t settle onto him the second the condom is rolled on like she normally would. Instead, she goes back to kissing him, taking his hand again so he can lace their fingers together, though he doesn’t bother looping her back into the binding. She grinds up against him, doing the work for herself that he would normally do with his hands or his mouth, until she’s ready to take him, and then she moves down his body until she can sink down on his cock.
Even tied up and unable to grab her hips, Gwaine is pushy. He snaps his body up into hers, bracing with his legs and straining against her headboard, which starts creaking with every thrust, making her feel as if she’s back in university and pounding on the wall to shut up her neighbours. Morgana doesn’t let him go too fast, though. They’ve got all morning, and they were interrupted the last time they tried to have sex, so she keeps the pace slow and steady, letting her blood pick up bit by bit instead of all at once.
Morgana comes first, using her free hand to reach between them and make it happen because she can see how close Gwaine is, and she rides it out, letting him drive deep as he comes, taking all his weight on his arms for a second while he groans. She puts her face to his chest as they both pant it out.
When they’ve both recovered, Morgana levers herself off him, both of them making faces as he slips out of her and she pulls off the condom and ties it off, tossing it neatly in the wastebasket by the bed. That done, the unties the knots at his wrists and starts moving them around. “So soon?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “I was expecting you to want another round.”
“You’ll be no use at practice later with sore shoulders,” says Morgana, prodding him. “Now turn over and I’ll give you a massage, and if you’re very good, I’ll let you tie me up next.”
Part Two