Fic: Amour Courtois (Merlin, Uther/Morgana) NC-17
Title: Amour Courtois
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Uther/Morgana
Rating: Porny
Spoilers: Excalibur
Disclaimer: kageygirl is made of evil. (And nougat.)
Summary: Uther is plagued by regrets after his day's trial, and sleep does not come easy. Especially when Morgana looks in on him. 3500 words, post-Excalibur.
Uther takes to his rooms immediately after supper, forgoing his usual meetings with his advisers and his nightly review of reports. Albion can go without his scrutiny for one evening, and he has earned his rest.
If only he could take it.
He has not slept in over a day, yet his mind is too restless to allow him to slumber. Certain death has a way of driving fear from a warrior's soul when he sets foot on the battlefield; it is the only way that any man does what he must. He never expected to walk away from Tristan, yet here he is, and so the fear is slowly ebbing back in. Post-battle sickness, they call it. It has been many years since he last experienced it. Before, the quickest way to quiet the chills and the shakes was to seek release in the depths of a cup or a woman.
It is perhaps the greatest measure of his years that tonight, he simply wishes to sleep.
Instead, his mind races with deep regrets and trivial matters both. He thinks of Nimueh and Igraine, and the mistakes that nearly led to Arthur's death. He thinks of Gaius. Not only of the friendship that Uther has come to depend on, but also the way the man pricks constantly at his soul like nothing so much a single nettle trapped in a pillow's down. Then there is Morgana, who worries him nearly as much as his son, and then there is Arthur himself, who has become more than Uther could ever hope for. More than he himself could ever be.
He thinks for a moment on the marvelous sword that he used this afternoon, and that leads him to ponder the man responsible for its making: Merlin. Arthur's manservant is not quite right in many ways--touched, even--but his devotion to Arthur is clear.
Uther's eyes slip closed while his mind worries at the question of how much Arthur cares for Merlin, and whether that it is a good or a bad thing. Either way, it is a light enough thought that it finally allows him to sleep.
He wakes at the sound of the chamber door opening.
Few would dare to enter the king's quarters without announcing themselves first, and even fewer at night. He quiets his breath, guarding himself against the possibility of an intruder. His personal servants know better than to intrude without being summoned. Gaius could never be so stealthy, even at his most careful, and Arthur would not bother.
He curls his fingers into the coverlet when the sound of soft-slippered steps gives him the answer: Morgana.
Some impulse keeps him still. The room is dark but for the thin moonlight that pierces the shutters; he snuffed all the candles himself earlier in a quest for peace, and he hadn't asked for a fire to be laid. She is a shadow as she draws near, and he himself must be nearly invisible.
Morgana gasps; he guesses she must have noticed his open eyes.
"I am sorry, my lord," she whispers. There is movement in front of her chest, probably some conciliatory gesture. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Uther shifts so he is not quite so vulnerably recumbant. "Then what, pray tell, did you intend?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she steps forward just enough so that the moonlight catches her face. He can make out her wringing hands and her teeth perched over her lower lip. "I wanted to make sure you are all right."
Uther sighs. He levers himself up into a full sitting position, ignoring the aches and twinges that come with the movement in favor of keeping his dignity. "I am fine, Morgana. Barely even a scratch, and Gaius has tended to that. You may rest free of worries for my old bones."
Instead of nodding and begging pardon--as a good ward would do--Morgana sits down on the edge of the bed. She stares down at her hands folded in her lap, and he can see her shoulders rise with two quick breaths. "What you did today was foolish," she says, as always unafraid to challenge him. "You could have been killed."
"Protecting my son from certain death was foolish? Do not try to convince me of that, my dear, or you will be the foolish one."
"Arthur is the better warrior." Morgana raises her head. Her eyes shine defiant, more clearly so in the dark. She would be completely magnificent if not for the fact that she is so dead set on needling his pride. "If you could defeat the wraith, then surely it would have been no contest for him."
"Your logic has gone terribly wrong somewhere, but I do not have the energy to argue with you tonight." Uther raises his hand to rub at his sleep-weary eyes before he remembers the ache it will bring, and swallows a groan for his effort. "I did what I had to do, Morgana, and it cannot be undone--even if I wished it to be so. Which I do not."
"You could have died."
"Yet I did not." Morgana doesn't look comforted by that, so he reaches out, hoping that the warrior's grace that served him today does not fail him in this small thing. Her hand is small, chilled by the night and her worry, and his fingers feel rough as sand in comparison to her delicate skin. "I am fine. Truly, Morgana. Do not worry for me."
"I dreamed of you." Her voice is so strangled that he can barely hear her. "I dreamed of you dead."
Uther knows the power of dreams, knows how they can twist reality and memory and fear of what might be until nothing is certain. He has had few truly restful nights since Igraine's death. He leans forward, intending to embrace her, but his back seizes up and he can't hold back a gasp.
"My lord?" Morgana clutches at his shoulder. "You are hurt, aren't you?"
He isn't sure whether he grimaces or smiles. "Just a bit of strain, that is all. It was not the easiest fight I've ever had."
She cocks her head to the side, and even in the faint light he can clearly read her no-nonsense frown. "And here I was under the impression that you were simply relieving your typical afternoon boredom with a spot of play."
"I certainly wasn't bored, that is true." Uther fumbles for the bottle of ointment Gaius left for his aches. It will be difficult to apply it himself, but he doesn't feel like waiting for a servant to fetch Gaius.
His hand meets glass and Morgana's hand at the same moment.
"Allow me to assist you, my lord." Her fingers curl around the bottle, forcing his own away. Against his better judgment, he lets her take it.
"It is not necessary," he says, without much force. It is far from appropriate to allow her to help him, but the muscles in his back are throbbing for a soothing touch. And Morgana has a way of sidestepping that which is appropriate when she thinks it is the right thing to do. Propriety does not always stand between them.
"Take off your shirt," she commands, and he thinks not for the first time that she would make a marvelous queen. Uther follows her instruction without hesitation, though his arms do protest. "Lie on your front."
The air is chill on his naked back, which is why he hisses when her slick hands land. They had felt cold to his fingers a moment ago, yet now they are hot like burning coals as she strokes across his skin. She doesn't have Gaius's practiced skill, but she moves surely, with strength. She smooths the oil into his skin, all the way down to the edge of his sleeping pants, and he's suddenly struck by how truly inappropriate this is. He should thank her and tell her he needs his rest, order her away if need be--but her thumb trips over a tight band just above his buttocks and he groans instead. She returns to the spot, over and over, until he's not sure whether it is pain or pleasure he feels, but it is most definitely bliss.
After some long minutes, Morgana finally stops rubbing, but she doesn't remove her hands. Uther breathes slowly, caught between pleasure and embarrassment. He has been writhing under her ministrations like a young knight in heat, and his body isn't all that sure it knows the difference between the two situations.
"Turn over." Her voice is still full of command. "I need to do your chest."
"Morgana, I--"
"Turn. Over." She prods at his side with firm fingers, and he's forced to roll or strain something in an attempt to avoid the attack on his ribs. He clutches the sheets tight to his waist as he does so, but he still feels far too exposed. Morgana pours more ointment on her hands while he settles into place, and then she begins to work just below his collar bones. She covers his skin with sweeping strokes, and he tries not to react as she skims across his nipples. Uther closes his eyes, blocking out the way her hair frames her face or how the skin of her throat seems luminescent.
He dares to open them again when she moves on to his upper arms. The weight of the wraith's strikes was concentrated there, yet the ache he feels comes from her touch. She does not linger long before she draws her hands away. Uther lets out a deep sigh, thinking that his second trial of the day has come to an end. But then she strokes down his chest, moving purposefully towards his belly, and he is forced to grab her wrist.
"Yes, thank you, that was most helpful." He knows he sounds like a wit-addled motley fool, but eloquence is the least of his concerns at the moment. "You may go now."
She rolls her wrist against his grip, and he lets her, thinking she is trying to stand. Instead, she curls her fingers around his forearm and uses her grip to pull herself forward, so that her face is not a span from his.
"Do not send me away, my lord."
Uther swallows down his panic. When Morgana betrayed him by hiding the Druid boy, something broke between them. He had thought it was trust. Now, with her ample bosom pressed against his chest, he realizes it was something far more fragile: his ability to see her as an innocent child. She is no longer a young girl who needs his protection. Rather, she is a grown woman with a will as strong as any man's. A will as strong as his own.
"Go, Morgana," he rasps. "Leave an old man to his rest."
Her smile is wistful, and too knowing for his comfort. "You are not old. As you very well proved today."
Her hair smells of lavender and rose. It surrounds him as she leans forward, separating them from the world and his own common sense. The kiss is light. It could almost be brushed aside as an affectionate buss, if not for the way she lingers over him, letting her breath mingle with his own. Their arms are still clasped together, trapped between their bodies, and he can feel the heat of her skin through her thin nightdress.
"Go," he pleads. His lips nearly brush hers when he speaks. "Do not tempt me this way, Morgana."
"I dreamt you dead." Her voice shakes with the strength of her need. "Please, I beg of you. Do not send me away."
Uther closes his eyes. At some point his free hand found its way into her hair. He stills his stroking and tries again. "Arthur--"
"Arthur has never been the Pendragon I have had eyes for." She runs her finger over the scar on his forehead, the one that nearly ended his tournament days before they ever began. "And Arthur's eyes... He sees me as a sister. You know that."
He does. He also knows that Morgana always knows what she wants and never hesitates to go after it. That is the only reason he allows himself to tighten his grip and pull her forward into a bruising kiss. She doesn't protest his roughness. She opens to him, returning the kiss with equal fire. He frees his hand so he can wrap both arms around her and tumble them to the side. He is half-trapped by the bedclothes, and she by her nightdress. It matters little, with her body tucked in close to his own.
In the years following Igraine's death, he had taken serving wenches and the occasional noblewoman to bed to slake his need, but the habit had left him of late. Too many memories haunting him, too many fears heavy in his mind while Arthur neared his majority, for him to pay more than a moment's notice to desire.
But Morgana--
Morgana is ever so much like Igraine. Dark-haired where Igraine had been golden like the sun, petite where Igraine had been as tall as he. Yet they both share the same fiery spirit. It lights Morgana up from within, turning prettiness into a beauty to inspire bards.
Uther could lose his heart to Morgana, if he is not careful.
Her hand is on his chest again, playful now. He slips one hand under her buttocks and lifts her, stripping the coverlet away from the bed with the other hand. They will make their own heat to fight off the night's chill. He reaches for her again, but she is staring down, at where his sleeping pants do little to hide his eagerness. She looks up again, over his shoulder, and in that instant he knows that she is not nearly as experienced as this little seduction led him to believe.
So help him, that excites him more.
"Have you changed your mind, Morgana?"
She jerks her eyes back to his, and she is fierce once again. "Never. You are not rid of me that easily, my lord."
"You presume that I would let you go if you had."
He is not certain if she believes the implicit threat or not, but she does not back down. Her inexperience doesn't show as she holds his gaze and reaches out. Her hand on his waist sends shudders through his belly--and he cannot wait any longer. Uther kisses her once, twice, then presses her shoulders back into the pillows. He grabs a handful of her dress and pulls upward with little finesse. She raises her hips enough for the cloth to pass, and then she curls forward so he can drag it up over her arms.
She lies back, completely bare to his gaze, and Uther can barely breathe from her beauty offered up to him like this. Igraine had been as beautiful, but age has brought an appreciation that was lost in the impatience of his youth. Morgana is as perfect as if a sculptor drew her forth from the finest marble--yet she lives and breathes, and stirs before him with lust. Lust for him.
Uther dips his head and breathes into her navel, enjoying the way she squirms. Her hands find his head, petting him with an undirected restlessness that speaks to her unknowing desire. He moves upward slowly, mouth hovering just above her body, until he reaches her breast. She pushes her chest up, not offering but begging, so he takes in her nipple with a quick snap, barely gentling his teeth. She cries out and pulls him closer.
Magnificent is not a strong enough word.
He works her breasts--one with his mouth, the other with his hand--until he can feel her shaking beneath him. Then he moves downwards, his own need driving him possibly too fast. But she spreads her legs for him without prompting. He starts at her knees. Just the lightest touch, enough to have her jerking away and then pressing back towards him. He drags his palms up the inside of her thighs, coaxing her to open more for him. Her scent is strong. Ready and wanting.
He strokes her mound, teasing through her curls to see if she displays any hesitance. Morgana doesn't flinch at all, so he parts her, wanting to see all of her. And then he dips his head and does what he has not done in over twenty years: taste a woman on his tongue.
This is true magic. Not the evil sorcery he's fought for so long. Sorcery twists the natural world until only destruction is left behind. This, what is between man and woman in all its splendid forms, is all that humankind should seek. He should have trusted in it, in Igraine and himself, and not let his fear and ambition turn him to Nimueh.
Uther delves deep, seeking absolution he can never have in Morgana's cries. His jaw begins to ache; yelling at his advisors is not equal to this. He doesn't slacken in his quest, however. He slips two fingers inside her, marveling at how tightly she grips them, and speeds his tongue. She shudders, muscles quivering around him, and yells out loud enough that he fears his guards might rush in.
There is no point in waiting for them to put in an appearance, however. If they do show up, the sight of their king's naked arse should send them packing without a word. Uther sits back on his heels, wipes a hand over his very wet mouth, and shoves his pants down to his thighs.
"Raise your knees for me." He coaxes one knee into position, guiding her so that her hips are tilted upwards. Then he takes himself in hand and presses forward, slow at first, and then with a quick thrust. He feels her barrier breech an instant before she gasps.
"Shhh, there now," he croons. Her hands are locked tight on his upper arms, her eyes wide and surprised. "It will pass."
"I hadn't realized." She licks her lips, looking uncertain for the first time tonight. "Is it always--"
"Just this once, I promise you." That is all it takes for her to breathe deep again, for her fingers to loosen and her body's grip to ease. She doesn't release his arms, but her touch changes from warding to welcoming.
Uther moves.
She sucks in a ragged breath. He figures she is unsure whether what she is feeling is pleasurable or not, but the time for going easy has passed. He keeps moving, building speed steadily until her gasps have changed to whimpers have changed to groans. Then he closes his eyes, certain he has done his best by her, and seeks his own release.
When he finds it, the sun blooms behind his eyelids. He sees Igraine, resplendant in her wedding dress, smiling at him with such tenderness he wants to sob. The vision lasts as long as he continues to spill his seed. When it fades, so does the strength in his arms and the desire that kept him moving. He pulls out of Morgana and drops to the side, his chest aching with the need for air and every bone in his body remembering the earlier duel.
He stares up at the dark canopy above him as he fights to steady his breath. His body chills quickly, but not from the air. He doesn't bother to reach for the bedclothes. Such comfort is for the marital bed, not for lecherous unions in the hollow of the night.
Morgana edges closer, slowly easing her body against his until she is half-draped across him. He lets her, knowing that he owes her at least that much comfort. Some unfightable instinct has him curling his arm around her, drawing her head down to his shoulder.
After a minute, he realizes the wetness on his chest is from more than sweat.
"You're crying," he says, apalled. He lifts his head, trying to see her face, but she presses her cheek more tightly into his skin. "Did I hurt you that badly?"
She shakes her head. "No. That is not it at all. You were more than I hoped for."
"Then what?"
Morgana draws a great breath. He can hear it shake in her throat as she steadies her nerves, and once again he is reminded of how much he admires her. He touches her cheek, just like he would have a day ago, and she cups her hand around his. "I fear that I have already lost you, my lord."
"Lost me?" Uther tries to come up with a reassuring promise, but if what she wants is for this to happen between them again, he knows he cannot.
"No matter what I do..." She shakes her head. "I fear for the future, my lord."
Aah. This, this he can deal with. "The future is what it is," he says, tightening his embrace. "We can only do our best to see that it is what we want it to be, and nothing more. I will die someday, even I know that. But I promise you, Morgana. You are not rid of me yet."
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She breathes raggedly once more, but then she relaxes against him. Her breath evens out towards sleep. He will need to see her off to her quarters soon, before they have no hope of escaping court gossip. For the moment, however, he holds her close, and thinks of the past.
Of Igraine.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Uther/Morgana
Rating: Porny
Spoilers: Excalibur
Disclaimer: kageygirl is made of evil. (And nougat.)
Summary: Uther is plagued by regrets after his day's trial, and sleep does not come easy. Especially when Morgana looks in on him. 3500 words, post-Excalibur.
Uther takes to his rooms immediately after supper, forgoing his usual meetings with his advisers and his nightly review of reports. Albion can go without his scrutiny for one evening, and he has earned his rest.
If only he could take it.
He has not slept in over a day, yet his mind is too restless to allow him to slumber. Certain death has a way of driving fear from a warrior's soul when he sets foot on the battlefield; it is the only way that any man does what he must. He never expected to walk away from Tristan, yet here he is, and so the fear is slowly ebbing back in. Post-battle sickness, they call it. It has been many years since he last experienced it. Before, the quickest way to quiet the chills and the shakes was to seek release in the depths of a cup or a woman.
It is perhaps the greatest measure of his years that tonight, he simply wishes to sleep.
Instead, his mind races with deep regrets and trivial matters both. He thinks of Nimueh and Igraine, and the mistakes that nearly led to Arthur's death. He thinks of Gaius. Not only of the friendship that Uther has come to depend on, but also the way the man pricks constantly at his soul like nothing so much a single nettle trapped in a pillow's down. Then there is Morgana, who worries him nearly as much as his son, and then there is Arthur himself, who has become more than Uther could ever hope for. More than he himself could ever be.
He thinks for a moment on the marvelous sword that he used this afternoon, and that leads him to ponder the man responsible for its making: Merlin. Arthur's manservant is not quite right in many ways--touched, even--but his devotion to Arthur is clear.
Uther's eyes slip closed while his mind worries at the question of how much Arthur cares for Merlin, and whether that it is a good or a bad thing. Either way, it is a light enough thought that it finally allows him to sleep.
He wakes at the sound of the chamber door opening.
Few would dare to enter the king's quarters without announcing themselves first, and even fewer at night. He quiets his breath, guarding himself against the possibility of an intruder. His personal servants know better than to intrude without being summoned. Gaius could never be so stealthy, even at his most careful, and Arthur would not bother.
He curls his fingers into the coverlet when the sound of soft-slippered steps gives him the answer: Morgana.
Some impulse keeps him still. The room is dark but for the thin moonlight that pierces the shutters; he snuffed all the candles himself earlier in a quest for peace, and he hadn't asked for a fire to be laid. She is a shadow as she draws near, and he himself must be nearly invisible.
Morgana gasps; he guesses she must have noticed his open eyes.
"I am sorry, my lord," she whispers. There is movement in front of her chest, probably some conciliatory gesture. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Uther shifts so he is not quite so vulnerably recumbant. "Then what, pray tell, did you intend?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she steps forward just enough so that the moonlight catches her face. He can make out her wringing hands and her teeth perched over her lower lip. "I wanted to make sure you are all right."
Uther sighs. He levers himself up into a full sitting position, ignoring the aches and twinges that come with the movement in favor of keeping his dignity. "I am fine, Morgana. Barely even a scratch, and Gaius has tended to that. You may rest free of worries for my old bones."
Instead of nodding and begging pardon--as a good ward would do--Morgana sits down on the edge of the bed. She stares down at her hands folded in her lap, and he can see her shoulders rise with two quick breaths. "What you did today was foolish," she says, as always unafraid to challenge him. "You could have been killed."
"Protecting my son from certain death was foolish? Do not try to convince me of that, my dear, or you will be the foolish one."
"Arthur is the better warrior." Morgana raises her head. Her eyes shine defiant, more clearly so in the dark. She would be completely magnificent if not for the fact that she is so dead set on needling his pride. "If you could defeat the wraith, then surely it would have been no contest for him."
"Your logic has gone terribly wrong somewhere, but I do not have the energy to argue with you tonight." Uther raises his hand to rub at his sleep-weary eyes before he remembers the ache it will bring, and swallows a groan for his effort. "I did what I had to do, Morgana, and it cannot be undone--even if I wished it to be so. Which I do not."
"You could have died."
"Yet I did not." Morgana doesn't look comforted by that, so he reaches out, hoping that the warrior's grace that served him today does not fail him in this small thing. Her hand is small, chilled by the night and her worry, and his fingers feel rough as sand in comparison to her delicate skin. "I am fine. Truly, Morgana. Do not worry for me."
"I dreamed of you." Her voice is so strangled that he can barely hear her. "I dreamed of you dead."
Uther knows the power of dreams, knows how they can twist reality and memory and fear of what might be until nothing is certain. He has had few truly restful nights since Igraine's death. He leans forward, intending to embrace her, but his back seizes up and he can't hold back a gasp.
"My lord?" Morgana clutches at his shoulder. "You are hurt, aren't you?"
He isn't sure whether he grimaces or smiles. "Just a bit of strain, that is all. It was not the easiest fight I've ever had."
She cocks her head to the side, and even in the faint light he can clearly read her no-nonsense frown. "And here I was under the impression that you were simply relieving your typical afternoon boredom with a spot of play."
"I certainly wasn't bored, that is true." Uther fumbles for the bottle of ointment Gaius left for his aches. It will be difficult to apply it himself, but he doesn't feel like waiting for a servant to fetch Gaius.
His hand meets glass and Morgana's hand at the same moment.
"Allow me to assist you, my lord." Her fingers curl around the bottle, forcing his own away. Against his better judgment, he lets her take it.
"It is not necessary," he says, without much force. It is far from appropriate to allow her to help him, but the muscles in his back are throbbing for a soothing touch. And Morgana has a way of sidestepping that which is appropriate when she thinks it is the right thing to do. Propriety does not always stand between them.
"Take off your shirt," she commands, and he thinks not for the first time that she would make a marvelous queen. Uther follows her instruction without hesitation, though his arms do protest. "Lie on your front."
The air is chill on his naked back, which is why he hisses when her slick hands land. They had felt cold to his fingers a moment ago, yet now they are hot like burning coals as she strokes across his skin. She doesn't have Gaius's practiced skill, but she moves surely, with strength. She smooths the oil into his skin, all the way down to the edge of his sleeping pants, and he's suddenly struck by how truly inappropriate this is. He should thank her and tell her he needs his rest, order her away if need be--but her thumb trips over a tight band just above his buttocks and he groans instead. She returns to the spot, over and over, until he's not sure whether it is pain or pleasure he feels, but it is most definitely bliss.
After some long minutes, Morgana finally stops rubbing, but she doesn't remove her hands. Uther breathes slowly, caught between pleasure and embarrassment. He has been writhing under her ministrations like a young knight in heat, and his body isn't all that sure it knows the difference between the two situations.
"Turn over." Her voice is still full of command. "I need to do your chest."
"Morgana, I--"
"Turn. Over." She prods at his side with firm fingers, and he's forced to roll or strain something in an attempt to avoid the attack on his ribs. He clutches the sheets tight to his waist as he does so, but he still feels far too exposed. Morgana pours more ointment on her hands while he settles into place, and then she begins to work just below his collar bones. She covers his skin with sweeping strokes, and he tries not to react as she skims across his nipples. Uther closes his eyes, blocking out the way her hair frames her face or how the skin of her throat seems luminescent.
He dares to open them again when she moves on to his upper arms. The weight of the wraith's strikes was concentrated there, yet the ache he feels comes from her touch. She does not linger long before she draws her hands away. Uther lets out a deep sigh, thinking that his second trial of the day has come to an end. But then she strokes down his chest, moving purposefully towards his belly, and he is forced to grab her wrist.
"Yes, thank you, that was most helpful." He knows he sounds like a wit-addled motley fool, but eloquence is the least of his concerns at the moment. "You may go now."
She rolls her wrist against his grip, and he lets her, thinking she is trying to stand. Instead, she curls her fingers around his forearm and uses her grip to pull herself forward, so that her face is not a span from his.
"Do not send me away, my lord."
Uther swallows down his panic. When Morgana betrayed him by hiding the Druid boy, something broke between them. He had thought it was trust. Now, with her ample bosom pressed against his chest, he realizes it was something far more fragile: his ability to see her as an innocent child. She is no longer a young girl who needs his protection. Rather, she is a grown woman with a will as strong as any man's. A will as strong as his own.
"Go, Morgana," he rasps. "Leave an old man to his rest."
Her smile is wistful, and too knowing for his comfort. "You are not old. As you very well proved today."
Her hair smells of lavender and rose. It surrounds him as she leans forward, separating them from the world and his own common sense. The kiss is light. It could almost be brushed aside as an affectionate buss, if not for the way she lingers over him, letting her breath mingle with his own. Their arms are still clasped together, trapped between their bodies, and he can feel the heat of her skin through her thin nightdress.
"Go," he pleads. His lips nearly brush hers when he speaks. "Do not tempt me this way, Morgana."
"I dreamt you dead." Her voice shakes with the strength of her need. "Please, I beg of you. Do not send me away."
Uther closes his eyes. At some point his free hand found its way into her hair. He stills his stroking and tries again. "Arthur--"
"Arthur has never been the Pendragon I have had eyes for." She runs her finger over the scar on his forehead, the one that nearly ended his tournament days before they ever began. "And Arthur's eyes... He sees me as a sister. You know that."
He does. He also knows that Morgana always knows what she wants and never hesitates to go after it. That is the only reason he allows himself to tighten his grip and pull her forward into a bruising kiss. She doesn't protest his roughness. She opens to him, returning the kiss with equal fire. He frees his hand so he can wrap both arms around her and tumble them to the side. He is half-trapped by the bedclothes, and she by her nightdress. It matters little, with her body tucked in close to his own.
In the years following Igraine's death, he had taken serving wenches and the occasional noblewoman to bed to slake his need, but the habit had left him of late. Too many memories haunting him, too many fears heavy in his mind while Arthur neared his majority, for him to pay more than a moment's notice to desire.
But Morgana--
Morgana is ever so much like Igraine. Dark-haired where Igraine had been golden like the sun, petite where Igraine had been as tall as he. Yet they both share the same fiery spirit. It lights Morgana up from within, turning prettiness into a beauty to inspire bards.
Uther could lose his heart to Morgana, if he is not careful.
Her hand is on his chest again, playful now. He slips one hand under her buttocks and lifts her, stripping the coverlet away from the bed with the other hand. They will make their own heat to fight off the night's chill. He reaches for her again, but she is staring down, at where his sleeping pants do little to hide his eagerness. She looks up again, over his shoulder, and in that instant he knows that she is not nearly as experienced as this little seduction led him to believe.
So help him, that excites him more.
"Have you changed your mind, Morgana?"
She jerks her eyes back to his, and she is fierce once again. "Never. You are not rid of me that easily, my lord."
"You presume that I would let you go if you had."
He is not certain if she believes the implicit threat or not, but she does not back down. Her inexperience doesn't show as she holds his gaze and reaches out. Her hand on his waist sends shudders through his belly--and he cannot wait any longer. Uther kisses her once, twice, then presses her shoulders back into the pillows. He grabs a handful of her dress and pulls upward with little finesse. She raises her hips enough for the cloth to pass, and then she curls forward so he can drag it up over her arms.
She lies back, completely bare to his gaze, and Uther can barely breathe from her beauty offered up to him like this. Igraine had been as beautiful, but age has brought an appreciation that was lost in the impatience of his youth. Morgana is as perfect as if a sculptor drew her forth from the finest marble--yet she lives and breathes, and stirs before him with lust. Lust for him.
Uther dips his head and breathes into her navel, enjoying the way she squirms. Her hands find his head, petting him with an undirected restlessness that speaks to her unknowing desire. He moves upward slowly, mouth hovering just above her body, until he reaches her breast. She pushes her chest up, not offering but begging, so he takes in her nipple with a quick snap, barely gentling his teeth. She cries out and pulls him closer.
Magnificent is not a strong enough word.
He works her breasts--one with his mouth, the other with his hand--until he can feel her shaking beneath him. Then he moves downwards, his own need driving him possibly too fast. But she spreads her legs for him without prompting. He starts at her knees. Just the lightest touch, enough to have her jerking away and then pressing back towards him. He drags his palms up the inside of her thighs, coaxing her to open more for him. Her scent is strong. Ready and wanting.
He strokes her mound, teasing through her curls to see if she displays any hesitance. Morgana doesn't flinch at all, so he parts her, wanting to see all of her. And then he dips his head and does what he has not done in over twenty years: taste a woman on his tongue.
This is true magic. Not the evil sorcery he's fought for so long. Sorcery twists the natural world until only destruction is left behind. This, what is between man and woman in all its splendid forms, is all that humankind should seek. He should have trusted in it, in Igraine and himself, and not let his fear and ambition turn him to Nimueh.
Uther delves deep, seeking absolution he can never have in Morgana's cries. His jaw begins to ache; yelling at his advisors is not equal to this. He doesn't slacken in his quest, however. He slips two fingers inside her, marveling at how tightly she grips them, and speeds his tongue. She shudders, muscles quivering around him, and yells out loud enough that he fears his guards might rush in.
There is no point in waiting for them to put in an appearance, however. If they do show up, the sight of their king's naked arse should send them packing without a word. Uther sits back on his heels, wipes a hand over his very wet mouth, and shoves his pants down to his thighs.
"Raise your knees for me." He coaxes one knee into position, guiding her so that her hips are tilted upwards. Then he takes himself in hand and presses forward, slow at first, and then with a quick thrust. He feels her barrier breech an instant before she gasps.
"Shhh, there now," he croons. Her hands are locked tight on his upper arms, her eyes wide and surprised. "It will pass."
"I hadn't realized." She licks her lips, looking uncertain for the first time tonight. "Is it always--"
"Just this once, I promise you." That is all it takes for her to breathe deep again, for her fingers to loosen and her body's grip to ease. She doesn't release his arms, but her touch changes from warding to welcoming.
Uther moves.
She sucks in a ragged breath. He figures she is unsure whether what she is feeling is pleasurable or not, but the time for going easy has passed. He keeps moving, building speed steadily until her gasps have changed to whimpers have changed to groans. Then he closes his eyes, certain he has done his best by her, and seeks his own release.
When he finds it, the sun blooms behind his eyelids. He sees Igraine, resplendant in her wedding dress, smiling at him with such tenderness he wants to sob. The vision lasts as long as he continues to spill his seed. When it fades, so does the strength in his arms and the desire that kept him moving. He pulls out of Morgana and drops to the side, his chest aching with the need for air and every bone in his body remembering the earlier duel.
He stares up at the dark canopy above him as he fights to steady his breath. His body chills quickly, but not from the air. He doesn't bother to reach for the bedclothes. Such comfort is for the marital bed, not for lecherous unions in the hollow of the night.
Morgana edges closer, slowly easing her body against his until she is half-draped across him. He lets her, knowing that he owes her at least that much comfort. Some unfightable instinct has him curling his arm around her, drawing her head down to his shoulder.
After a minute, he realizes the wetness on his chest is from more than sweat.
"You're crying," he says, apalled. He lifts his head, trying to see her face, but she presses her cheek more tightly into his skin. "Did I hurt you that badly?"
She shakes her head. "No. That is not it at all. You were more than I hoped for."
"Then what?"
Morgana draws a great breath. He can hear it shake in her throat as she steadies her nerves, and once again he is reminded of how much he admires her. He touches her cheek, just like he would have a day ago, and she cups her hand around his. "I fear that I have already lost you, my lord."
"Lost me?" Uther tries to come up with a reassuring promise, but if what she wants is for this to happen between them again, he knows he cannot.
"No matter what I do..." She shakes her head. "I fear for the future, my lord."
Aah. This, this he can deal with. "The future is what it is," he says, tightening his embrace. "We can only do our best to see that it is what we want it to be, and nothing more. I will die someday, even I know that. But I promise you, Morgana. You are not rid of me yet."
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She breathes raggedly once more, but then she relaxes against him. Her breath evens out towards sleep. He will need to see her off to her quarters soon, before they have no hope of escaping court gossip. For the moment, however, he holds her close, and thinks of the past.
Of Igraine.