Morgana pulls her knees up to her stomach with a humphruh sound, and buries her face, as best she can, into a pillow that feels significantly not like her own, and smells an inordinate amount like the horrifying quantity of chocolate that she vaguely recalls having consumed the night before; she's been wallowing. With justification. Morgana buries her face a little further, adds something along the lines of uuungf to her early-morning vocabulary, and just lays there, doing her very best to keep her brain blank.
"Bubs," says Gwen's voice, annoyingly awake already – except, not really annoyingly, seeing as Gwen's voice is pretty much physically capable of being annoying, and doubly so when she's wielding one of the preposterous endearments that only she, and she alone, can actually utter in Morgana's direction and live to tell the tale about.
There's the soft pat of Gwen's hand against Morgana's knee, presumably as an encouraging gesture, and Gwen adds, "You really have to get up soon, you know."
"Unghhhuh," says Morgana eloquently, because, of course, eloquent is what she does – sometimes she'd like to use similarly brilliant wording in her Thesis Of Doom, just to see what Professor Monmouth would make of it.
Gwen is pulling open the curtains now, though, in a bothersomely no-nonsense way. Morgana can tell when she's lost a battle – which isn't at all the same as conceding defeat, it is important to note – and so she rolls onto her back, presses both her hands against her face, and asks, "Nnnf?"
And then is somewhat distracted by a well-worn copy of Chaucer's Collected Works (edited by so-and-so in such-a-year, thank you kindly) poking at her thigh like a particularly annoying, and eminently delusional, ex-boyfriend. Because, you know, not only is Morgana suffering in this stupid hotel room, in this stupid part of the countryside, but she's also been cursed with a seriously studious girlfriend, who deliberately likes to make her look bad by studying in bed whilst Morgana is whinging and eating her way through all the chocolates in the mini bar.
Morgana growls at the book, tugging it from the sheets and casting increasingly coherent aspersions upon its mother's manner of employment.
She only shoves it onto the bedside table because she realises that Gwen is simply laughing at her.
"Classy, Morgana, really classy," Gwen's saying.
Morgana would give her a taste of her patented death glare, but it doesn't really work so well at this time of the morning. Or, frankly, pretty much ever, when it comes to Gwen. Instead, Morgana settles for frowning sourly, and complaining, "You'd be classy too, if you had to crawl out of bed on a perfectly good Sunday morning, after having spent five interminable hours yesterday listening to your step-father's boring business associates giving insanely stuffy speeches, just because... well, fuck, I don't even know why."
Gwen grins, and comes to sit on the bed beside Morgana. She'd arrived after the speeches, because her classes had run later, and Morgana has never resented their differing schedules more. Still, as Gwen stretches slightly, Morgana's sleep-addled brain finally catches up to the fact that her girlfriend is wearing nothing but a hotel dressing-gown, with the smooth curve of her shoulder slipping into view as she lets her hands rest back down against the sheets.
"You know Uther thinks that having a pretty face around will simply go a ways to keeping the mood lighter. Or, at the very least, work as a slight distraction," Gwen is saying.
"He could at least compensate me for it."
Gwen shrugs. "Well, he let you bring me? Without even arguing about it? Or looking at me disdainfully? And he even remembered what my name was, this time, without being prompted?"
Morgana finds it obnoxiously difficult to stay cranky in the face of Gwen's horribly accurate logic. She doesn't mind quite as much as she could, though, particularly not when Gwen's sleeve is slipping even further, and presenting Morgana with the gentle curve of a really rather lovely breast.
"I guess that's true," Morgana mumbles. She pulls Gwen in towards her, taking hold of her shoulders, and kisses her with the highly agreeable knowledge that this, in fact, will make them more than a little late.
Gwen, because she's sneaky when it comes to knowing exactly what Morgana is thinking, simply laughs, slides her hands into the mess that is Morgana's hair, and licks her way into Morgana's mouth.
It is an established fact that Morgana really likes doing it with Gwen. She likes it in their horrid little kitchenette, back home – because Gwen is stubborn, and refuses to move into the perfectly good flat that Uther is renting for Morgana somewhere or other. She likes it on the sofa, lazy and slow, with re-runs of NCIS playing in the background. She likes it at the table, Gwen's hands gripping at textbooks she's lost sight of, with Morgana kneeling on the floor between Gwen's knees. She likes it in their bed, and their bathroom, and that one time up against the living room window, with all the lights turned off, and the blind up, and London gleaming in across curves and tightened nipples. Morgana particularly likes doing it with Gwen in the morning, though, in the sheets; tangled, lazy, half awake, half not; the muddled sour-sweet of morning kisses; the press of limbs that aren't quite working yet. This morning, Gwen has the unfair advantage in that she's clearly been up long enough to shower, and therefore to wake properly. Her hair is slightly damp, the weight of it pulling her curls just a little straighter against her shoulders. Morgana runs her mouth between Gwen's breasts, says, "God, you taste good", and Gwen pushes her down into the sheets, down against hotel pillows, laughs, and murmurs, "You smell like Cadburys." Gwen does something obscene and wonderful with her fingers beneath the sheets, rucking their bodies together, and Morgana is still warm and soft from waking, body not yet tugged into place, and Gwen's fingers slide inside, deep and easy, curling, curving. She drags her body down Morgana's, kissing into the up and up of Morgana's rocking hips, pulling the sheets down as she goes, until she joins her mouth with her hand, kissing and licking. Morgana's insides shudder and tick, and she buries her head sideways into the pillow for a delightfully different reason, wonders vaguely how thin the hotel walls really are, and then decides that she honestly doesn't care – groans, and drags out the syllables of Gwen's whole name from some place beneath her tongue, and worships the way that Gwen's thighs tighten against her in response. Morgana likes the way that Gwen likes to hear her; likes to her her moan and mumble as she clenches around Gwen, as she pushes her hips with a beat that falls into stuttering; as she reels away into that space of colour and white where she lets her muscles do whatever they want, and her face can look ridiculous, and she really doesn't care, because she's lost all hold on herself, lost all hold on everything except Gwen, and Gwen, and Morgana simply loses and wins in every way possible, and Gwen, and oh.
When Morgana's legs decide they've regained enough awareness to be able to drop back down against the sheets, satisfied, Morgana shifts a little higher amongst the pillows; says, "C'mere, sweetheart," and Gwen comes to her, comes to her with kisses that taste of Morgana herself, and Morgana watches as Gwen fucks herself on Morgana's fingers, sitting straddled on Morgana's lap. Morgana thinks a woman could come at that sight alone, if only she had any sense left in her body. "Love you, love you," Gwen moans, as her head lolls forwards, swimmingly, face flushed, then jerks back again with the curve of her spine, and her hands shaking madly. Morgana breathes in time with Gwen's gasping, holds her steady, holds her always, and, when Gwen's collapsed, so softly, the hotel gown somewhere amongst the sheets and their bodies warm against each other, Morgana whispers, "Me too."
On the bright side, the en suite shower has awesome water pressure, and there's just enough space for two.
Particularly two who don't mind fumbling and kissing beneath the stinging spray.
Respectable, and dressed, and smirking with distinct satisfaction at the mirror on her way out, Morgana warns, "I'm telling you, though, if another dumpy little man tries to squeeze my arse, seriously, I'll have to—"
"Have to what?"
Morgana grins wickedly. "Well, I could make out with you, for a start. That would really distract them, don't you think?"
"Uther would kill you," Gwen laughs.
Morgana thinks she'd like to see him try.