gnimaerd | Fic: Five Dates Arthur and Morgana Never Went On

Title: Five dates Arthur and Morgana never went on
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana
Warnings: nudity, sex etc
Summary: Modern day AU; Arthur and Morgana are the son and adopted daughter of business tycoon Uther Pendragon who makes up for his frequent absences by leaving them with his credit cards when he's away. This is the story of their burgeoning romance.

Notes: Beta-ed, as always, by the lovely clanne. Written for the

merlin_rarepair 'five things' challenge. Enjoy!

Five Dates Arthur and Morgana Never Went On

Looking back, Arthur was never really certain what qualified as a ‘date’ and what didn’t – so couldn’t precisely pinpoint their first one.

That was the problem with getting into bed with someone you’d grown up with – they’d been loads of places together, just the two of them. But those weren’t dates. They weren’t ‘going out’ – they were just going out, because dad had been off on yet another business trip and they had his credit card by way of compensation for his absence. They’d been to football matches and museums and rock concerts and West End musicals. Once they’d been to Blackpool and spent a day in the arcades. Once they’d been to Wimbledon and watched the men’s final.

Having Uther Pendragon for a father would do that for you.

So what really qualified as a ‘date’, given that?

It wasn’t like there was a point during those days when he hadn’t fancied her. He couldn’t ever remember not harbouring some kind of attraction – even if at first it was just the kind of awe a nine year old has for a ten year old who acts like a twenty year old.

But had she fancied him back then? Had she ever really looked at him like he was anything but her little brother before he’d gone off to uni?

She’d stayed living with Uther – attending the city college of art. Arthur had gone off to Oxford to read law – because that was what dad had told him to do (and it was an excuse to get out of the house). He’d wanted Morgana to read law too (or medicine – she’d had the grades for medicine), but Morgana didn’t want to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a dentist, or an entrepreneur, or a professor of some kind. She wanted to knit scarves depicting scenes from the Iraq war and paint portraits of the queen with her head on the wrong way up.

That was just how she was.

And Uther had threatened to throw her out for throwing her life away, but of course he hadn’t had the balls to go through with it.

Anyway, if asked to pick out a point where his and Morgana’s relationship had properly kicked into high-gear, he probably would have settled on that Saturday, a month after he got back from his second year at uni for the summer. Sophia had just dumped him and he’d spent the past four weeks in his room, watching porn and eating takeaway pizza.

Morgana had placed herself into his doorway and told him to brush his teeth and comb his hair – she was taking him out.

He hadn’t really looked at her since getting back the month before. She was wearing less makeup and more clothes than he remembered from Christmas, but seemed otherwise much herself – waifish and impish and wolfish and hot but in the usual, unobtainable, wet-dream sort of way.

She’d chivvied him into her car – the silver BMW that had been her seventeenth birthday present from Uther – and driven him down to a club she knew, made him sing along to Lady Gaga on the radio on the way.

The club had not been what he had thought it would be. Knowing Morgana, he was expecting some kind of basement goth club, all leather-clad, whip-bearing babes with metal in their faces and guys with Mohicans that could put somebody’s eye out.

But it was a fairly mainstream sort of place. Lots of people, decent music, plenty of noise to sink beneath. Morgana apparently knew one of the people behind the bar – she dragged him over to say hi and got them half price vodkas and cokes. Arthur downed his quickly then got another – he hadn’t been drunk anywhere but in his room since Sophia had dumped him and suddenly he wanted to forget her.

Somewhere between his third and forth vodka and coke Morgana wormed her way between him and the bar, settling confidently against his chest and sucking up jelly shots like it was going out of style. Arthur was aware that everyone around them (most of whom Morgana seemed to know) were presuming that they were together, which he found not in the least bit bothersome. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she giggled and elbowed him in the ribs but didn’t force him to let her go.

Sometime later (as the world was happily sloshing around his brain with the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed), Morgana got up onto the bar to dance and most of the club stopped to watch.

She was so staggeringly beautiful – Arthur had to sit down rather quickly on the floor to keep from being knocked off balance by her overwhelming gorgeousness. He found himself grinning like an idiot and telling the guy standing next to him – I had a bath with her once!

He neglected to bring up the fact that they’d both been about five at the time, and his neighbour seemed suitably impressed.

But then someone else was climbing up onto the bar – a big bloke, way too old to be somewhere like this – and Morgana was shouting at him because he was trying to touch her in a way she didn’t like. And half the club were cheering the guy on and half the club were trying to persuade him off the bar – and Arthur caught sight of the angry, helpless look in Morgana’s eye and something ugly in him scrambled to assert itself.

Four years as the star of Eton’s rugby team promptly made themselves useful as Arthur took a flying leap at the bar, succeeding in pulling off a tackle that would have done his old coach proud – the magnificence of which was somewhat lost on his victim, who was brought crashing down with him behind the bar.

And Arthur was a bit shorter and lighter than him, but he was throwing punches anyway, and Morgana was yelling at him and suddenly the music had gone off and several someones were trying to drag him off his target.

Eventually three bouncers the approximate size of mountain gorillas arrived to split them up – Arthur was tossed out one exit and his victim the other. Morgana trailed after Arthur, looking non-too-pleased.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” she’d informed him, as he sagged next to the bins in a cold dark ally round the back of the club.

“I wath defending your honour!” Arthur slurred, coughing around a split lip and swollen tongue and an awful lot of alcohol, still.

Morgana snorted, “you’re an idiot.” And then she kissed him.

She got blood all over him – smeared it from his mouth and nose across one cheek and down his chin. Her tongue was hot and soft and stubborn as it grazed his teeth – the roof of his mouth.

“You’re drunk,” he pointed out, a moment later, in the scant gap between their mouths.

“So’re you,” she retorted, quite accurately.

She then proceeded to push him back onto a stack of old, wet carpets and climb into his lap and kiss him again and again and again until he found himself struggling to remember to breathe around the attention.

And fuck he had a hard-on already and there was no way she didn’t feel that. She was giggling into his mouth – she smelled really, really good – and she was fumbling between them with his belt buckle.

Here? Now? She wanted to –

Jesus Christ! It happened so fast he didn’t really have time to process what she was doing to him before she had his fly open and was freeing his erection from his boxers – ducking down and promptly pushing him into her mouth.

It felt good – it felt so, incredibly good – and maybe it was partly that he was drunk and partly the adrenalin and partly just that it was her – but he had never felt anything so utterly fantastic in his entire life. She sucked, hard, and he came apart in less time than it took to blink, his body shuddering, his blood roaring in his ears.

Morgana was giggling again, spitting into the ally and then putting him away, zipping him up. She climbed back into his lap and kissed him, her open mouth tasting like vodka and his cum.

He didn’t really remember much beyond that point (and even those details – the fight, the ally, the drunken blow job – were rather hazy). He woke up the next morning, fully clothed, in the living room, and staggered out to find Morgana, fresh as a daisy, making them both scrambled eggs in the kitchen – asking whether he wanted toast.

She didn’t say anything about the night before so he decided not to mention it.

But if you could call that entire incident a ‘date’ – then Arthur would count it as their first one.

Without dad around – because Uther Pendragon was still in the States on some conference or other – it was kind of inevitable that they were going to have to talk to each other at some point.

They studiously avoided each other for a couple of weeks after the nightclub incident – but then Morgana mentioned that she’d yet to see the new Star Trek film and it couldn’t possibly stay in the cinema much longer. So Arthur said – “Well… we could go, if you want.”

So they had.

Only he forgot his wallet so she ended up paying for everything, which was kind of embarrassing.

They sat in the back row and added their own commentary to all the trailers – ate the vast majority of their popcorn before the film started and continued to giggle like little kids throughout most of the first half. Maybe a third of the way in, Morgana nipped out to go to the toilet, and when she came back – confronted with the idea of having to climb back over all these people to get back to her seat, didn’t bother going the whole way but simply stopped in Arthur’s lap.

Like this was normal.

She put an arm around his shoulders and leant against his chest, and suddenly what had been a perfectly normal trip out together felt alarmingly like something else. Arthur didn’t dare breathe – partly because he was working hard to distract himself, else he was sure he’d end up with another erection. And neither of them were drunk this time so there’d be no way either could feign forgetfulness about the incident.

But God her hair smelled really good.

She seemed completely absorbed by the film – and he ended up being thoroughly absorbed by her. She absently combed her fingers through his hair every once in a while and he finally worked up the courage to put an arm around her waist as they watched Vulcan get sucked into nothingness.

When the final credits rolled she slipped off his lap as if she did so everyday, and led him towards the exit. There was the usual scrum to get out and they ended up hanging back to avoid the worst of the crush. Standing side by side in the twilit theatre, surrounded by mumbling, rumbling bodies, Arthur tentatively stretched out his fingers, to graze the back of Morgana’s hand with his knuckles – taking care not to look at her; being careful that it could be written off as an accident if she wanted it to be one.

He felt her twitch her hand away from his – swallowed the sting of quiet rejection for a moment – before the fine, cool tips of her fingers were suddenly brushing his back again. And then, like magic, they were holding hands in the dark – and Arthur couldn’t keep the big, stupid grin off his face.

She turned up in the games room two days later, whilst he was in the middle of a Halo II session.

“Arthur, I’m hungry.”

“Get the cook to make you something.”

She snorted, “you owe me for the popcorn the other day. And the tickets. Come on – take me out. Buy me chips and we’ll call it even.”

He glanced up, pausing the game for a moment – then promptly decided that the possibilities of being out, alone with her again, maybe somehow working up the courage to say you know that time you sucked me off outside that club? outweighed the possibilities of staying in and trying to finish the game.

“Where do you want to go?”

They ended up going down to that little café that dad used to take them to all the time when they were younger, for ice cream and fish and chips, on special occasions, like when one of them had done well in a test, or after Arthur had finally got his braces off.

They sat in the window and had fish and chips, and she swung her legs across under the table to rest her feet on the edge of his seat, between his knees.

The place was kind of full – plenty of noise – but there was no one really sitting near enough to overhear them. They talked about the exhibition she was trying to organise for her artwork; the rugby; the football; the fact that Uther was away again and once more neither of them had a clear idea of when he was coming back. They talked about whether or not Arthur was really over Sophia yet (he was pretty sure he was); what a prick Morgana’s last boyfriend was; the trouble her best friend – Gwen – was currently having paying her college fees because her dad had just died and she didn’t have any income. Morgana was contemplating finding some way of persuading Uther to help her out without letting Gwen know.

“She’s so talented, Arthur,” her brow creased, “and Uther’s into that kind of thing – you know, generous multi-billionaire being charitable, helping out local artists. It’d appeal to his ego – I bet I could get him to pay the rest of her tuition fees. But she wouldn’t take someone’s money knowingly – it’d have to be anonymous. She can’t admit to being poor, you know – it’s bad enough, her trying to hide the fact she can’t afford to eat more than twice a day while I’m riding round in my BMW, flashing my credit cards. She really disserves a break but she wouldn’t be able to bear knowing it had come from me.”

“Mm,” was Arthur’s rather unhelpful contribution – he was distracted by the way her mouth was working; her fingers curled under her chin. He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t think he had the guts to do it here, now – sweep the plates onto the floor and make some dramatic gesture by lunging at her across the table.

She paused, quirking one eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shit – he’d been staring – “um…” he looked away, hurriedly, “sorry – just – um – thinking of something.”

She rolled her eyes, “if you’re not going to bother paying me any attention, Arthur, I’d rather you tell me in advance so I don’t go rambling on.”

“What? No,” Arthur shook his head, “I was paying attention, I was just – ”

He paused and, oh, fucking hell, he was actually blushing – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed! And she was staring at him like… like she could see exactly what was going on in his head – he glanced away again, staring pointedly at his plate.

She giggled.

Then she slid her hand across the table carefully eased the fork out of his clenched fist – his hand flopped open, uselessly, on the table top – and she gently spread her fingers over his palm, a silent invitation for him to close his hand about hers.

“What are we doing?” He asked, abruptly.

She shrugged, frowning a little as she pulled her hand away again. “What do you want to be doing?”

“That’s not an answer!” He snapped, more than a little peeved, “for God’s sake, Morgana, a couple of weeks ago we were… down a back ally in the middle of the night – I mean, Jesus Christ!”

He thought, for a moment, that he saw a hint of colour rise in Morgana’s cheeks at that. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, propping her hands beneath her chin and glancing away out of the window, a small, self-conscious smile touching her lips.

“We were just having fun,” she murmured, still not looking at him.

Arthur snorted. “Going to T in the Park is fun; paintballing is fun; getting wildly drunk in a club with good music is fun. What happened that night… was something else.”

“And was it not fun for you?” She gave him a mischievous smile.

Arthur folded his arms. “Well, it wasn’t quite paintballing, now was it?”

“Maybe not,” she conceded, with a wry smile. Her cheeks had coloured again – she met his gaze then glanced away.

At which point, Arthur didn’t quite thrust the plates onto the floor – but he did very carefully move the centre piece on the table to one side before leaning over on his elbows and planting a quick, clumsy kiss on her contrariwise mouth. She kissed him back, before giving him a reproving glance.

“People know us here, Arthur.”

What she meant was that people knew them as brother and sister – without necessarily knowing that Morgana had been adopted by Arthur’s father when she was ten, after her parents (his business partners) had been killed in a car accident.

That was the way the majority of the world knew them, as it happened. Legally speaking, they were siblings – and the subject of her parents’ demise was a painful enough one, still, for Morgana, that she didn’t broadcast the fact that she was unrelated to Arthur and Uther. Mentioning that she had been adopted opened up questions that she rarely felt comfortable talking about. When asked about her accent she would only say that she had been to school in Ireland (which was perfectly true) and they assumed that she’d been at some top-notch boarding school there and picked up the accent as a matter of course.

This… this was going to complicate matters

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested, quietly – and she nodded.

They ended up tumbling into the cafe toilets shortly afterwards, mouths fumbling, hands roaming – Morgana was struggling with the buttons of his shirt even as he undid them for her – let her whip off her black sweatshirt and tight little vest. He fell onto toilet and she climbed on top of him – he taking the invitation to bury his face in her cleavage as she murmured something incredibly filthy into his ear.

The problem was that she barely had to grasp him through his boxers before he came – far too quick and gasping, shaking, feeling his face flush bright red. Morgana laughed – “oh, Arthur…”

He couldn’t bare it. “Sorry,” he sprang to his feet again, hastily pulling up his jeans, “I should – we should – ”

“Arthur – hang on,” Morgana was shaking her head, even as he scrambled for the door, “it happens – Arthur!”

But Arthur really, really needed not to be looking at her, in her sexy black lace underwear with her hair all messed up and that look in her eye – not when he’d just cum all over her jeans.

“Arthur – we can try again!” She followed him to the door and hung herself out into the hallway but, mercifully, pursued him no further – it didn’t help that she still sounded highly amused. “It’s fine – honestly!”

Arthur only continued to bolt for door of the café, intent on getting a taxi home.

He couldn’t look at her for days after that. Made a point of being out whenever she was in and tried hard always to have plans so that he had an excuse to turn her down if she asked him out again.

Mercifully, Uther finally arrived home that weekend and kept the atmosphere in the house from becoming too unbearable. If he sensed anything odd about the way the pair of them were acting – Arthur with continual refusal to speak in anything other than monosyllables to Morgana and Morgana’s barely disguise amusement every time she answered him – he didn’t say anything. He made more than enough conversation for all three of them, and apologised for his absence by buying Arthur a new flat screen TV and renting an original Rembrandt from the national museum for Morgana to hang in her room.

Arthur continued to spend as much time as humanly possible either in his room or out of the house. He was still in the habit of sleeping until well past midday anyway.

He was woken up at half one in the afternoon the following Monday by Morgana coming in and opening his curtains.

“Uther’s gone again,” she told him, without waiting for him to readjust to the horrific amount of light currently getting into the room.

“Hrrmph – ” was all Arthur could manage, moaning into his pillows.

“China called,” Morgana went on, “apparently something happened they couldn’t deal with without him.”

Arthur grimaced, realising that she really wasn’t just going to leave him the fuck alone to wake up like a sane person. He struggled to sit up, gingerly scrubbing at his eyes with a fist.

“Great,” he muttered, “fine – what else is new?”

“He left us his credit card again,” Morgana held it up, “well – he left us three. And the gold one only has a £1000 limit on it. Want to go shopping?”

“Not really,” Arthur told her, honestly, “what time is it?”

“Well past breakfast,” she informed him, unsympathetically. “Past lunch, actually – though I’m sure you can get the cook to fix you something if you asked very nicely. Actually, I have an idea for what we can use this credit card for.”

“Mm,” Arthur mumbled, “let’s hear it, then.”

Morgana smiled, something just a little softer touching her lips. “Take me out to dinner tonight.”

“What?” Arthur blinked.

“You heard me,” Morgana offered him the credit card, “order up one of Uther’s cars to take us and wait for us; pick somewhere ridiculously high-class where the wine costs half a house and the steak costs half a village. I’ll wear a gorgeous dress, you wear that expensive aftershave I like – let’s be… civilised, for once.”

Arthur snorted, “because prices like those are civilised.”

“I like the London Ritz,” Morgana gently placed the credit card down on his bedside table, “don’t you, Arthur?”

“Mm, okay, right,” Arthur closed his eyes.

“I’ll be waiting at the front door at eight,” Morgana turned on her heal, closing his bedroom door behind her.

It took a while for what she was proposing to sink in – but as Arthur’s consciousness swam up to meet the day, he found himself clambering out of bed and fumbling with his mobile phone.

“Merlin? Yeah – it’s me – listen – I need you to get me a table at the London Ritz. Go and beat someone up if you have to – just… pull some strings, splash some cash – whatever, okay? I need it for nine. No – half eight. Yes, tonight! …what do you mean ‘unreasonable’?!”

He got up, had a shower, shaved two days worth of scrub off his chin, had another shower, and went stumbling downstairs in his boxers to beg the cook for omelettes and toast and orange juice, and to phone his father’s driver and ask if he couldn’t bring over the Mercedes that night. Oh – and –

“Merlin? Yeah – me again – how’s the table coming? Great – look, I need roses. No – a rose. Red. No – white. No – look, what’s more… uh, civilised? One or twelve? Is twelve overboard? And red or white? Or yellow? Or pink? …what do you – what is she wearing? How would I know? What does that have to do with anything anyway? Oh – Jesus, just go with white. White is classier. One white rose. And it had better be bloody pristine, alright?”

He finished eating, went back to his room, picked out three separate shirts, three separate suits, five pairs of shoes and then spent an hour hunting for a matching pair of socks.

Upon failing to find any, he chose one grey one and one brown one and then picked out the longest pair of trousers available to him in the hope that no one would notice.

At three minutes past eight, he staggered to a halt in the front hall, checked his hair and then made a sedate exit onto the house’s grand front porch, where he found Morgana patiently awaiting him. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a fairytale: utterly resplendent in a gold dress, her dark hair falling in glamorous curls onto bare shoulders, dozens of tiny gold clasps pressed in amongst her silken locks. Blood red lips that only served to make her grey eyes luminous in her face, alabaster skin creamy in the twilight. He tried, and failed, not to be somewhat breath-taken – and then managed to gather himself enough to offer up a cocky grin.

“Not worried I’d stand you up, were you?”

She snorted, “please.”

He gave her another long, appreciative glance. “You look nice.”

“You’re not doing too badly yourself – is that the Armani suit?”

“Um…” Arthur feigned nonchalance, “probably.”

Morgana laughed and looked away as the Mercedes swung into view from round the back of the house.

“The Mercedes?”

“Why not?” Arthur shrugged. He opened the passenger door for her and then followed her in, inhaling the comfortingly familiar scent of leather seats and rich velvet interiors.

He was well aware of how much of a spoiled brat he was, but he honestly doubted he’d be able to live without this kind of luxury every once in a while. What was life without its less than simple pleasures?

He had his father’s credit card securely in one pocket, after all. And tonight was going to be good.

The best thing about the London Ritz, however, was that neither of them had been there enough for the proprietors to know who they were. Of course, they knew the Pendragon name – could assume that this was Uther Pendragon’s infamously good looking, rugby-playing son – and that he was here with some equally devastating young thing who he was trying impress. But they had no way of knowing that she was that same girl who Uther Pendragon had adopted some years earlier – weren’t going to report back to their (biological and adoptive, respectively) father about how cosy they’d looked at dinner, or give them odd glances whilst the meal was in progress.

And it was brilliant.

Definitely – completely – the best date that Arthur had ever managed to organise (and he did have a certain amount of experience when it came to attempting to sweep girls off their feet). Merlin had come up trumps and got them a table by a window looking down over London (Arthur made a mental note to add an extra few hundred quid to his bonus that year), and had a single, pristine white rose delivered to the table for Morgana (who seemed genuinely touched by the gesture). She pressed one delicate, silk-slipper clad foot to his beneath the table and Arthur felt something sort of weird happen in his chest.

He remembered to order white wine rather than red so that he wouldn’t stain his teeth, and studiously avoided anything on the menu that looked like it would contain garlic. The service was efficient and discreet; nobody dropped anything or got their orders wrong or tried to make tedious small talk. There wasn’t loud music or drunk gorilla-types or greasy chips or toilets they could very nearly have sex in – just them, and good food and conversation that they both took care to steer away from subjects like blow-jobs and paintballing.

The meal cost nearly £700 – which Morgana apparently found disappointing. “I was hoping we’d finally max-out Uther’s gold card.” She feigned displeasure.

Arthur shrugged and grinned, “the night’s young, you know. If you want, we could go and order some high-class prostitutes and have them do stuff to each other while we watch – bet that would blow a thousand quid in one go.”

She choked on her wine and had to smother her laughter with her napkin.

They wondered out into the street arm in arm – and Arthur offered her his jacket, slipping it over her bare shoulders before she could refuse.

Then they got back into the waiting Mercedes, and Morgana pulled Arthur across the back seat to her side of the car, so that she could fussily smooth down his hair and lay her head down on his shoulder, yawning.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Morgana.”

He put an arm around her shoulders and she laughed, softly, closing her eyes.

They went paintballing – that was what started it.

It wasn’t really a ‘date’ – just an antidote to their ridiculously expensive, ultra-classy night out the day before. Something that allowed them both to work with a little less tension inside the boundaries they’d somehow properly managed to reset at the Ritz.

They took great pleasure in slaughtering gangs of ten year olds and chasing down shrieking teenagers for an hour, before, muddy and paint-splattered, they’d ended up snogging behind the hut where all the safety gear was stored. Morgana’s mouth was hot and wet and insistent and Arthur hoisted her up as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Champions!” She declared, when he stopped kissing her, holding her arms up and throwing her head back – Arthur laughed into her neck.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, have I ever told you that?”

Then they went out for coffee. Then to the national museum, and then they had more coffee in the café there, and then they stopped because Morgana was insistent that she needed to buy something (it turned out to be underwear – which she proceded to flash at him in the car – red bra and panties with little white roses all over them). By which point it was seven in the evening and they were both starving so they found a decent Indian restaurant and spent four hours working their way through everything on the menu.

Then, finally, back home – where they ended up in the games room, on the floor, without pausing to turn the lights on. (There was something quite nice about the dark, actually – just dim streetlight coming in through the window – Morgana’s pale skin glimmering as he exposed it, mouthing his way down her throat, her shoulders, her chest, her stomach; laughter curling in her chest, warm and affectionate…)

They were careful, this time. Morgana didn’t put her hands on him right away; teased and tempted, but distracted him too – made sure he could stick things out for longer. Arthur was careful to think more about her than about himself – tried to focus on making her squirm, and on each individual moment – not on the bigger picture of fuck it’s Morgana; not on his cock as it throbbed and twitched between his legs. He insisted on putting the condom on himself because he knew that letting her do it would definitely have finished him off – and though his hands trembled and he couldn’t really see what he was doing, he got it done.

And when he sank into her, finally – where she was hot, and slick, and tight, and soft – she mumbled his name over and over and laughed and sighed and tugged his ears and kissed him, gently. Arthur rocked against her, letting her dictate his speed, forcing himself to count backwards from fifty as he struggled to keep together – God this was good, this was so – so good –

He got to twenty before he came, and Morgana pushed him onto his side and rolled with him, nestling close to him and brushing her nose against his in the dark, as he slipped out of her, completely spent.

“Tell me we can do that again.”

“Um,” Arthur gasped, his head spinning, his vision still a little blurred, “give me – give me a little while…”

She giggled and kissed him. “Do you need to rest?”

“Mm,” Arthur nodded, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, “just… just for a bit…”

“Okay,” she was stroking his hair, pulling him closer, “okay, then.”

They spent most of the rest of the night in the games room; and then moved to Morgana’s room, because the floor was making them both uncomfortable. Then, they moved to Arthur’s room (to avoid the cleaner who straightened Morgana’s things around midmorning every day), then to Arthur’s bathroom, where great fun was had with his shaving cream.

They ended up, finally, in the library – because Morgana had confessed to having something of a fantasy about this big leather desk chair in there. This was, by Arthur’s reckoning, a good (a very good) 24 hours after the start of this particular ‘date’ and had to be some kind of record as far as date lengths went. Certainly, it was a personal best.

Curled up in his lap, after that last time in the leather desk chair, Morgana kissed him, softly, and slid an arm about his neck.

“Could you do that again?”

Arthur snorted, “oh, God no.”

Morgana giggled, giving his ear an affectionate tweak, “you men, and your lack of staying power.”

“I should think twelve hours is pretty bloody good, Morgana,” Arthur gave her a gentle poke in the ribs.

“Mm – well, I suppose,” Morgana yawned, stretching out her sinewy arms, looking something like a cat – all smug satisfaction.

Arthur leant down, contentedly kissing the smooth plain of flesh beneath her collar bone. He was enjoying the access he suddenly had to her body – how it was now completely acceptable for him to be able to touch her nipples or slip a hand between her thighs.

Morgana was stroking his hair again. “You warm enough?”

Arthur shrugged. They’d wrapped themselves in a cashmere throw, but it was fair to say that Morgana had most of it. Still, her body heat was more than compensating for his lack of material covering.

“I’m fine,” he told her, softly. “I’m… really, really fucking good.”

Morgana laughed, kissing him again, “I bet you are.”

Here they were interrupted, however, by the sound of Uther’s car coming up the drive, and Arthur wrapped his arms about Morgana for a moment, burying his face in her neck.

“I suppose we have to stop now?”

“We can always start again tomorrow.”

Current Mood: accomplished

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From:

i-luv-booth.livejournal.com

oh blimey *fans self* there was me thinking i only had to choose between your other 2 when voting for the best, now I have 3 to choose from! fantastic, i love Arthur/Morgana, but there's not enough out there! look forward to reading your next fic xx

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another weird queer depressive on the internet

Fic: Five Dates Arthur and Morgana Never Went On

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