Title: Singing for Supper
Rating: Look at Morgana. Now look at Gwaine. Now look at Morgana. Now look at Gwaine. Now you tell me what you think the rating is.
Summary: It's a fine line between hate and, well, other things, and they've just erased it completely.
Disclaimer: I'd like to let Gwaine help me break some beds (Morgana too) but alas, I own nothing.
Gwaine sees Morgana watching him.
He's not an idiot. He knows that she wants him dead. She's waiting for the day he's too tired, too hungry, too overwhelmed and he goes down. Elyan and Gaius will be doomed for certain when that day comes, and while he knows he can't hold it off forever he's going to do his damned best to stretch his luck as far as it will go. Every day she watches him, like a hawk watches a mouse in a field, and he knows that it's only a matter of time before his head is separated from his shoulders.
He watches her, too.
He keeps one eye on her while he fights, wondering if she'll use magic to trip him up, tip the battle in the other fighter's favor. She never does, but he sees her flush as she watches. The frozen cream of her skin warms slightly, and her chest expands and pushes against the confining dresses she insists on wearing, like she's still a lady of the court. Her eyes glitter as she watches him, her lips slightly parted, legs spread so that one of them hooks over the arm of the chair, her skirts pooling in between. He's seen that look plenty of times, knows its many forms, and he begins to wonder—when she watches him, how much of Morgana is the predator and how much of her is the woman.
Then one day he comes in and the throne room is empty.
Well, not completely. There are the two guards that dragged him in here, now flanking him, and Morgana is seated on the throne as usual. Upon his arrival she stands, striding sinuously over to them, a snake approaching its meal. She looks right up into Gwaine's eyes, and he can't read her expression.
"Bind him," she instructs.
The guards waste no time in cuffing his hands together, and they aren't all that gentle about it.
"Leave us," Morgana commands, and the guards obey, locking the doors behind them. She tilts her chin upward, gazing into his face. "They are under orders to let no one in or out, no matter what they hear, save I give the word."
"Am I to fight you today?" He asks, infusing his voice with as much scorn as he dares.
Morgana's smile is chilling, but he can't deny the thin coil of heat that spirals down to his cock. She is deadly, and possibly insane, but she is undeniably beautiful. "I had something else in mind."
"You're going to just give us our supper," he hazards.
"Oh, no." She places a hand on his chest—it's bare, and has been ever since one of his opponents tore his shirt to shreds and no one saw fit to replace it—and he fights the urge to twitch. Whether it's to move closer or farther away, he couldn't say. "You're still earning your keep."
"Singing for my supper," he says, repeating her acidic words from a few weeks ago, when this whole thing started.
"Yes." Morgana smiles fully, showing off her gleaming white teeth.
Her eyes flash gold and he is lifted off the ground, pushed toward the throne and twisted so that he slams back down onto the floor, belly up. His arms are moved against his will, made to go above his head, where they are pinned down by her magic. All of his body is pinned to the ground now, as surely as if there were ropes and chains holding him in place. Morgana advances slowly, watching with undisguised lust as he tries to fight free.
"This will be such fun," she purrs, placing a hand in the center of his chest again. He goes still, trying not to let her see the effect she has on him. He hates his body for betraying him so, but she is a woman—a woman that knights would die for, one that bards would spend hours dedicating songs to, singing of the curve of her breast and the flash of her eyes—and he is a man not used to ignoring his desires.
Morgana trails her hand lower, smirking. "You do not submit easily, Sir Gwaine," she murmurs, her fingers toying with the hem of his trousers. "But perhaps I was using the wrong tactics."
"Release me," he growls, unsure of who he hates more—her for forcing this onto him, or himself for wanting it.
Her hand slides underneath the fabric and finds him, cupping him. He hears her hiss of triumph as she feels how hard he has become and his eyes roll back into his head at the heat of her hand. "And leave you like this?" Morgana clucks her tongue. "I am not one of those ladies who leave men wanting."
She uses magic then, she must have, because between one heaving breath and the next he finds his few remaining clothes shoved down to his knees and her skirts lifted up as she moves to straddle him, rocking them together. He clenches his teeth, holding back his moans. She is wet, dripping wet, and he imagines her sitting there on her throne every time he fought, wet and aching but simply sitting there, watching him, watching and waiting.
"Yes," Morgana hisses. She slides her hands up and down his body, kneading the flesh, heating him up like a sword in the fire of the forge. "Tell me you do not want this." Her eyes are miniature lightning storms, flashing and roiling, every color and yet none at all. "I dare you to lie to me, Sir. Tell me you do not want this."
He starts to answer and chokes instead when he feels her take the tip, just the tip of him inside of her. "Yes," he grits out, anger and shame warring with his desire. "Yes, I want this."
"Such a good boy," Morgana teases. He growls at her disdainful words, but then she sinks down on him, taking all of him at once and his eyes roll back into his head at the sensation. She must have prepared herself beforehand to be able to do that, and he has an image of her lying on her bed, dirtying the silken sheets as she slides her fingers in and out, readying herself to claim him.
He is aware that this is nothing short of total humiliation. She is making him her entertainment, her slave. The only thing missing is a collar to go around his neck. But it's hard for him to care when she is riding him so furiously, her nails raking down his chest, moaning as her hips roll like a ship in a storm. He thrashes, trying to break the magical hold keeping him pinned, but it's no use. He is trapped, held down and used for her pleasure, and he can't even begin to understand why it makes the flames of lust rise even higher. He hates her more than he even thought himself capable of hating but he wants those moans, those nail marks on his chest, that tight, dripping channel to thrust into.
Her dress is obviously confining her, and he can see the sweat run in tiny streams down her hairline and neck, pooling and sliding in between her breasts. He wants to touch, to taste, and he tries to reach but his hands are stuck fast to the floor. "Something—you—something you want?" Morgana asks. She smiles as if to let him know that she's already seen his mind. She knows what he wants.
He shakes his head, refusing to beg, and she laughs breathily, panting as she keeps up her ferocious pace. "You can't touch," she informs him. "But you can watch."
With a flick of her wrist her bodice is undone and her breasts spill free. Her hands slide up her own body, cupping her breasts, her fingers tweaking and rolling her nipples. Her head falls back as she takes her own pleasure, stealing it from her hands and his cock. The sight is too much and he feels it coming, the pleasure burning white hot in the back of his throat. He tries to stave it off, tries to spare himself this final embarrassment, this irrefutable proof of his enjoyment.
"Yes," Morgana moans. She raises her head again, staring him down, hypnotizing him. "Give it to me, all of it, I want you to surrender completely."
And Heaven help him, he does.
He shouts loud enough for the guards to hear it, but it's got nothing on the wild laughing scream Morgana gives. She clenches around him over and over again, drawing all of his spend out of him, and taking his dignity with it.
He collapses on the floor, no longer needing the magic to hold him there, his limbs aching. He turns his face away and tries to bury it into his shoulder, to pretend that he received no pleasure from this.
"Oh, Sir Gwaine," Morgana coos teasingly, taking his chin in her fingers. She tilts his face up to meet hers and she kisses him, hot and dirty, her tongue sliding in and out of his mouth just as his cock slid in and out of her. "We're going to have so much more fun together."
She stands up, adjusting her skirts back into place, and he swallows at the realization that underneath the demur fabric, his seed is sliding down the inside of her thighs. It makes him half hard just to think of it, and his face burns with the knowledge.
And then he realizes that her magic is no longer holding him down.
Morgana is walking away toward the door, ready to call the guards and have him thrown back into the cell, and her guard is down. He takes her by surprise, throwing his still-bound hands over her head to seize her by the waist, picking her up and throwing her against the nearest wall. Morgana gasps and starts to chant something but he kisses her, biting and licking savagely into her mouth. Her incantation turns into a moan and her legs part easily, allowing him to slide in between.
If she's going to claim him, then he's going to claim her right back.
He sucks and bites lightly at her neck, lifting up her skirts and bunching them at her waist. "N-no, no, don't," she hisses, shoving at him. His hand searches until it finds the right spot, his thumb pressing down. "Don't, no—oh." She gasps and makes a sound of pleasure in the back of her throat. He is ruthless, rolling and pinching at the little bundle of nerves, and she clutches at his shoulders, panting and whining in time with his movements. He uses his other hand to fondle her breasts, and his mouth runs everywhere, leaving teeth marks and bruises on her perfect skin.
Even though they just went he makes sure to fill her with his fingers beforehand, to ensure she won't get too hurt. He ends up with three fingers coated in her juices and his own come from before, and when he withdraws them he looks at them contemplatively. He's careful to use his hips to keep her pinned to the wall and uses his clean hand to seize her chin. She stares at him defiantly, as if daring him to go through with it, and he feels himself harden to the point of pain under her fiery gaze. He pinches her chin and forces it down, watching as her cheeks flush with embarrassment. He slides his three coated fingers into her mouth, taking care not to choke her, and she sucks and licks at them, cleaning them. He thrusts his hips slowly, mimicking the movement with his fingers, and she makes tiny pleased noises as she sucks. She glares at him hatefully, and he knows that she is in the same predicament he was moments before—loving it and hating herself (and him) for it.
Finally he withdraws his fingers and grabs her hips, hoisting her higher and lining himself up. He's not gentle going in and she hisses, arching against him. He wastes no time, barely even letting her adjust to him before slamming into her again and again. It's savage, the opposite of all he's ever done. He's got a girl in every tavern, as Merlin was fond of saying, but he's always prided himself on being noble about it. Now he's throwing every self-imposed rule and courtesy out the window, determined to fuck Morgana blind.
Not that she seems to mind. She's clawing at him like a cat, biting at his neck, letting him kiss her sloppily and desperately as she screams. And oh, does she scream. She's crying, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes and streaming down her face as she sobs, crying out for him to please please please take her harder, faster, she wants to leave a hole in the wall. He does his best to comply with her wishes, thrusting wildly until his legs burn and he can only grunt with the rhythm of his hips, until fills her up once again and his muscles give out on him. He shouts again, despite his previous determination not to, and Morgana shrieks so loudly some of the windows burst and shower the room with glittering shards.
They collapse on top of each other, their bodies giving out and calling a truce even if their minds don't feel like it. His pants are utterly ruined, and he knows her dress isn't much better. They lie there in silence for a few minutes, getting their breathing back. Morgana is the first to stand.
"Guards!" She calls.
Immediately the guards return and haul Gwaine to his feet, oblivious to or choosing to ignore his condition. Morgana smiles at Gwaine, like the cat that got the cream.
"Please be so kind as to take Sir Elyan and Gaius their supper," she informs the guards. "And take Sir Gwaine to my chambers. Be sure to tie him securely—to the bedpost, I think."
Gwaine feels his mouth drop open and Morgana's smile grows. She sidles up to him, leaning in until her mouth brushes against his ear. "You didn't think I'd let you off so easily, did you? I'm going to make you beg for me."
He grits his teeth and ignores the twitching in his cock. "Never."
Something—a strange heat both like and unlike the touch of a hand—wraps around him and squeezes, making him breathless. "Magic can be used for a great many things," Morgana reminds him. "We have only just begun."
She steps back, waves her hand and the guards drag him from the room, Morgana smirking at him the entire time like she's won. But she hasn't. Not yet. Two can play this game, and he's got his own tricks up his sleeve.
Let the fun begin.